But well-springs, mortal and immortal, were beginning to bubble up
brightly in Beth, despite the hard conditions of her life. She
sharpened her wits involuntarily on the people about her, she gathered
knowledge where she listed; her further faculty flashed forth fine
rays at unexpected intervals to cheer her, and her hungry heart also
began to seek satisfaction. For Beth was by nature well-balanced;
there was to be no atrophy of one side of her being in order that the
other might be abnormally developed. Her chest was not to be flattened
because her skull bulged with the big brain beneath. Rather the
contrary. For mind and body acted and reacted on each other
favourably, in so far as the conditions of her life were favourable.
Such congenial intellectual pursuits as she was able to follow, by
tranquillising her, helped the development of her physique, while the
healthy condition of her body stimulated her to renewed intellectual
effort--and it was all a pleasure to her.
At this time she had a new experience, an experience for which she was
totally unprepared, but one which helped her a great deal, and
delighted as much as it surprised her.
There were high oak pews in the little church at the end of the road
which the Caldwells attended on Sunday; in the rows on either side of
the main aisle the pews came together in twos, so that when Beth sat
at the end of theirs, as she always did, the person in the next pew
sat beside her with only the wooden partition between. One Sunday,
when she was on her knees, drowsing through the Litany with her cheek
on her prayer-book, she became aware of a boy in the next pew with his
face turned to her in exactly the same attitude. He had bright fair
hair curling crisply, a ruddy fair fat face, and round 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 their prayer-books, and looked in opposite directions. This did not
last long, however. The desire for another look seized them
simultaneously, and they turned their faces to each other, and smiled
again the moment their eyes met. All through the service they kept
looking at each other, and looking away again; and Beth felt a strange
glad glow begin in her chest and spread gradually all over her. It
continued with her the whole day; she was conscious of it throughout
the night; and directly she awoke next morning there it was again; and
she could think of nothing but the apple-cheeked boy, with bright blue
eyes and curly fair hair; and as she dwelt upon his image she smiled
to herself, and kept on smiling. There came upon her also a great
desire to please, with sudden energy which made all effort easy to
her, so that, instead of being tiresome at her lessons, she did them
in a way that astonished her mother--such a wonderful incentive is a
little joy in life. She would not go out when lessons were over,
however, but stood in the drawing-room window watching the people
pass. Harriet came and worried her to help with the dusting.
"Go away, you chattering idiot," said Beth. She had found Harriet out
in many meannesses by this time, and had lost all respect for her.
"Don't you see I'm thinking? If you don't bother me now I'll help you
by-and-by, perhaps."
On the other side of the road, in the same row as the Benyon
dower-house, but well within sight of the window, was the
Mansion-House Collegiate Day and Boarding School for the Sons 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 she was thinking of. She discovered 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 towards 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 going round the corner, where Orchard Row turned off 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 hilarious 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.
"You're fond, too," Beth cried. "We're all fond! The fonder the
better! And I must have something to eat."
"Well, there's nothing for you but bread."
"I must have meat," said 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 _I_ 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 'ungry 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 was
ravenous again, but she was faithful to her vow, and ate no meat.
Harriet scoffed at her for her scrupulousness.
The next day, at the same time, Beth was again in the window, waiting
for her boy to come out of the Mansion-House School. When he appeared,
the most delightful thrill shot through her. Her first impulse was to
fly, but she conquered that and waited, watching him. He made straight
for the window, and stopped in a business-like way; and then they
laughed and looked into each other's faces.
"What are you doing there?" he asked, as if he were accustomed to see
her somewhere else.
"I live here," she said.
"I live in Orchard Row, last house," he rejoined.
"Old Lee's?" Beth inquired.
"Yes, he's my grandfather. I'm Sammy Lee."
"He's a licensed victualler, retired," Beth repeated, drawing upon her
excellent verbal memory.
"Yes," said Sammy. "What's yours?"
"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 officer and a gentleman."
"Oh," said Sammy. "My father's dead too. He was a retired gentleman."
"What's a retired gentleman?" Beth asked.
"Don't you know?" Sammy exclaimed. "I thought everybody knew that!
When you make a fortune you retire from business. Then you're a
retired gentleman."
"But gentlemen don't go into business," Beth objected.
"What do they do then?" Sammy retorted.
"They have professions or property."
"It's all the same," said Sammy.
"It isn't," Beth contradicted.
"Yah! _you_ don't know," said Sammy, laughing; 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 conversation so much as his
appearance that she dwelt upon--his round blue eyes, his bright fair
curly hair, his rosy cheeks. "He is beautiful! he is beautiful!" she
exclaimed; then added upon reflection, "_And I never thought a boy
beautiful before._"
The next day she was making rhymes about him in the acting-room, and
forgot the time, so that she missed 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!" she exclaimed in surprise and delight.
"What's funny?" he demanded, looking about him vaguely.
"You were wanting to see me."
"Who told you so?" Sammy asked suspiciously.
"You did yourself just now," Beth answered, her eyes dancing.
"I didn't."
"You _did_, Sammy."
"You're a liar!" said Sammy Lee.
"Sammy, that's rude," she exclaimed. "And it's not the way to speak to
a young lady, and I won't have it."
"Well, but I did _not_ tell you I wanted to see you at dinner-time,"
Sammy retorted positively.
"Yes, you did, stupid," said Beth. "You asked where I was at
dinner-time, and then I knew you had missed me, and you wouldn't have
missed me if you hadn't wanted to see me."
"But," Sammy repeated with sulky obstinacy, unable to comprehend the
delicate subtilty of Beth's perception,--"But I did not tell you."
"Didn't you want to see me, then?" Beth said coaxingly, waiving the
other point with tact.
But Sammy, feeling shy at the question and vaguely aggrieved, looked
up and down the street and kicked the pavement with his heel instead
of answering.
"I shall go, then," said Beth, after waiting for a little.
"No, don't," he exclaimed, his countenance clearing. "I want to ask
you--only you put it out of my head--gels do talk so."
"Gels!" Beth exclaimed derisively. "I happen to be a girl."
Sammy looked at her with a puzzled expression, and forgot what he was
going to say. She diverted his attention, however, by asking him how
old he was.
"Eleven," Sammy answered promptly.
"So am I. When were you eleven?"
"The twentieth of February."
"Oh, then you're older than me--March, April, May, June--four months.
My birthday's in June. What do you do at school? Let's see your books.
I wish _I_ went to school!"
"Shu!" said 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 boys say so," he declared.
"All boys are silly," said Beth. "What's the use of saying things?
That doesn't make them true. You're as bad as Jim."
"Who's Jim?" Sammy interrupted jealously.
"Jim's my brother."
Sammy, relieved, kicked his heel on the pavement.
"Which is tallest?" he asked presently, "you or me?"
"I'm tallest, I think," Beth answered; "but never mind. You're the
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, turning to leave
the window, discovered Harriet standing in the background, grinning.
"So you've getten a sweetheart!" she exclaimed. "There's nothing like
beginning early."
"So you've been listening again," Beth answered hotly. "Bad luck to
you!"
A few days later Mrs. Caldwell was sitting with Lady Benyon, who was
in the bow-window as usual, looking out.
"If I am not mistaken," said Lady Benyon suddenly, "there is a crowd
collecting at your house."
"What! again?" Mrs. Caldwell groaned, jumping up.
"If I'm not mistaken," Lady Benyon repeated.
Mrs. Caldwell hurried off without even waiting to shake hands. On
getting into the street, however, she was relieved to find that Lady
Benyon had been mistaken. There was no crowd collecting in Orchard
Street, but, as she approached her own house, she became aware of a
small boy at the drawing-room window talking to some one within, whom
she presently discovered to be Beth.
"What are you doing there, Beth?" she demanded severely. "Who is this
boy?"
Beth started. "Sammy Lee," she gasped. "Mr. Lee's grandson at the end
of Orchard Row."
"Why are you talking to him?" her mother asked harshly. "I won't have
you talking to him. Who will you scrape acquaintance 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. Caldwell, "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 a heroic figure in retreat, but Beth, in her indignation, noted
nothing but the insult that had been offered him. For several days,
when her mother was out, she watched and waited for him, anxious to
atone; but Sammy kept to the other side of the road, and only cast
furtive smiles 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 her into trouble; and she beckoned to him again 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 ever written
voluntarily, and she shut herself up in the acting-room to compose it,
in imitation of Aunt Grace Mary, whose beautiful delicate handwriting
she always did her best to copy--with very indifferent success,
however, for the connection between her hand and her head was
imperfect. She could compose verses and phrases long before she could
commit them to paper intelligibly; and it was not the composition of
her note to Sammy that troubled her, but her bad writing. She made a
religious ceremony of the effort, praying fervently, "Lord, let me
write it well." Every day she presented a miscellaneous collection of
petitions to the Lord, offering them up as the necessity arose, being
in constant communication 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 might rain. She begged that she might not be found out when
she went poaching on Uncle James's fields; that she might be allowed
to catch something; that new clothes might be sent her from somewhere,
she felt so ashamed in her dirty old shabby ones. She asked for boots
and shoes and gloves, and for help with her lessons; and, when she had
no special petition to offer, she would ejaculate at intervals, "Lord,
send me good luck!" But, however great the variety of her daily wants,
one prayer went up with the others always, "Lord, let me write well!"
meaning, let me write a good hand; yet her writing did not improve,
and she was much disheartened about it. She took the Lord into her
confidence on the subject very frankly. When she had been naughty, and
was not found out and punished, she thanked Him for His goodness; but
why would He not let her write well? She asked Him the question again
and again, lifting her grey eyes to the grey sky pathetically; and all
the time, though she never suspected it, she 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 do
anything to you. I miss you. I want to tell you things.
Such nice things keep coming to me. They make me feel all
comfortable inside. I looked out of the window in the
dark last night. There was a frost. The sky was dark dark
blue like sailor's suits only bright and the stars looked
like holes bored in the floor 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 light on earth.
Sunshine is more buffy. Do come Sammy I want you so Beth.
P.S. I can't stop right yet; but I'm trying. It seems
rather difficult to stop: but nobody can write without
stops. I always look at stops in books when I read but
sometimes you put a coma and sometimes a semicollon. I
expect you know but I don't so you must teach me. Its so
nice writing things down. Come to the back gait tonight.
When the letter was written in queer, crabbed characters, on one side
of a half-sheet of paper, then folded so that she could write the
address on the other side, because she had no envelope--she wondered
how she should get it delivered. There was a coolness between her and
Harriet. Beth resented the coarse insinuation about having a
sweetheart, and shrank from hearing any more remarks of a like nature
on the subject. And she couldn't send the letter by post because she
had no stamp. Should she lay it on his doorstep. No, somebody else
might get it. How then? She was standing on her own doorstep with the
letter in her pocket when she asked herself the question, and just at
the moment Sammy himself appeared, coming back from school. Quick as
thought, Beth ran across the road, whipped out the letter and gave it
to him. Sammy stood still in astonishment with his mouth open, gazing
at it when he found it in his hand, as if he could not imagine how it
got there.
As soon as it was dark, Beth stationed herself at the back gate, which
looked out into Orchard Street, and waited and waited, but Sammy did
not come. He had not been able to get out; that was it--she was sure
of it; yet still she waited, although the evening was very cold. Her
mother and Aunt Victoria had gone to dine with Lady Benyon. She did
not know what Harriet was doing, but she had disposed of Bernadine
for some time to come by lending her her best picture-book to daub
with paint; so it was pretty safe to wait; and at first the hope of
seeing Sammy come running round the corner was pleasure enough. As the
time went on, however, she became 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 Lees' back-gate, she
became aware of a round thing that looked like a cannon-ball glued to
the top, and her fond heart swelled, for she knew it must be 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.
"Come now. She's out," Beth coaxed.
"So she was the other day," Sammy reminded her.
"But we'll go into the garden. She can't catch us there. It's too
dark."
Sammy, half persuaded, ventured out from the gateway, then hesitated.
"But is it _very_ dark?" he said.
"Not so very, when you're used to it," Beth answered. "But it's nice
when it's dark. You can fancy you see things. Come! run!" She seized
his hand as she spoke, and set off, and Sammy, overborne by the
stronger will, kept pace with her.
"But I don't want to see things," he protested, trying to hold back
when they came to the dark passage which led into the garden.
"Don't be a fool, Sammy," said Beth, dragging him on. "I believe
you're a girl."
"I'm not," said Sammy indignantly.
"Then come and sit on the see-saw."
"Oh, have you a see-saw?" he asked, immediately 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 wood-house. Do you like see-sawing?"
"Yes," said Sammy with animation.
"Catch hold, then," said Beth, tipping up the board at her end. "What
are you doing, butter-fingers?" she cried, as Sammy failed to catch
hold. "I'm sorry I said you were a girl. You're much too clumsy."
She held the board until Sammy 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. Up and down they went, shaking showers of leaves from
the old tree, and an occasional winter pear, which fell with a thud,
being hard and heavy.
"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 trouble.
"Yes. And you _can_ write a letter! My! What a time it must 'a' took
you! But, I say, it's all rot about stops, you know. Stops is things
in books. _You'd_ never learn stops."
"How do you know?" Beth demanded, bridling.
"Men write books," said Sammy, proud of his sex, "not women, let alone
gels!"
"That's all you know about it, then!" cried Beth, better informed.
"Women _do_ write books, and girls too. Jane Austen wrote books, and
Maria Edgeworth wrote books, and Fanny Burney wrote a book when she
was only seventeen, called 'Evelina' and all the great men read it."
"Oh!" said Sammy, 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. You be rude again if you
dare."
"I'll not come near you again, spit-cat," cried Sammy, picking himself
up.
"I know you won't," Beth rejoined. "You daren't. You're afraid."
"Who's afraid?" said Sammy, blustering.
"Sammy Lee," said Beth. "Oh, Sammy Lee's afraid of me, riding the
see-saw under the tree."
"I say, Beth," said Sammy, much impressed, "did you make that
yourself?"
"Make what myself? Make you afraid? Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't," said Sammy, plucking up spirit. "I'm not afraid."
"Then don't be a fool," said Beth.
"Fool yourself," Sammy muttered, but not very valiantly.
The church-clock struck nine. They were standing about, Beth not
knowing what to do next, and Sammy waiting for her to suggest
something; and in the meantime the night became colder and the
darkness more intense.
"I think I'd better take you home," Beth said at last. "Here, give me
your hand."
She dragged him out of the garden in her impetuous way, and they
scampered off together to Orchard Row, 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.
"I'll come again," said Sammy.
"Do!" said Beth, giving him a great push that sent him sprawling up
the passage. This was the kind of attention he understood, 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 intellectual
pursuits, no games to take them out of themselves, nothing to expand
their hearts as a community. There were the races, the fair, and the
hirings for excitement, but of pleasure such as satisfies because it
is soul-sustaining and continuous enough to be part of their lives,
they knew nothing. The upper classes were idle, self-satisfied,
selfish, and sensual; the lower were industrious enough, but ignorant,
superstitious, and depressed. The gentry gave themselves airs of
superiority, really as if their characters were as good as their
manners; but 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, but was ready to cringe when it
suited its own convenience, the workers for employment, and the gentry
for political purposes. But human beings are too dependent on each
other for such differences to exist without detriment to the whole
community. Society must cohere if it is to prosper; individuals help
themselves most, in the long run, when they consider each other's
interests. At Rainharbour nothing was done to promote general good
fellowship; the kind of Christianity that was preached there made no
mention of the matter, and society was disintegrated, and would have
gone to pieces altogether but for the one great interest in life--the
great primitive interest which consists in the attraction of sex to
sex. The subject of sweethearts was always in the air. The minds of
boys and girls, youths and maidens, men and women were all full of it;
but it was not often openly discussed as a pleasant topic--in fact,
not much mentioned at all except for fault-finding purposes; for it
was the custom to be censorious on the subject, and naturally those
were most so who knew most about it, like the vicar, who had married
four times. He was so rabid that he almost went the length of
denouncing men and maidens by name from the pulpit if he caught them
strolling about together in pairs. His 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 incessant pursuit of each other.
It was the grown-up people who were so nasty on the subject of
sweethearts; the boys and girls never could understand why. Their own
inclination was to go about together openly in the most public places;
that was how they understood sweethearting; part of the pleasure of it
consisted in other people seeing them, and knowing that they were
sweethearts, and smiling upon them sympathetically. This, however, the
grown-up people never did; on the contrary, they frowned and jeered;
and so the boys and girls kept out of their way, and sought secret
sympathy from each other.
Any little boy at the Mansion-House School who secured a sweetheart
enjoyed a proud distinction, and Sammy soon found that his
acquaintance with Beth placed him in quite an enviable position. He
therefore let his fear of Mrs. Caldwell lapse, and did his best to be
seen with Beth as much as possible. And to her it was a surprise as
well as a joy to find him hanging about, waiting to have a word with
her. Her mother's treatment of her had so damaged her self-respect
that she had never expected anybody to care for her particularly, and
Sammy's attentions, therefore, were peculiarly sweet. She did not
consider the position at all, however. There are subjects about which
we think, and subjects upon which we feel, and the two are quite
distinct and different. Beth felt on the subject of Sammy. The fact of
his having a cherubic face made her feel nice inside her chest--set up
a glow there which warmed and brightened her whole existence--a glow
which never flickered day or night, except in Sammy's presence, when
it went out altogether more often than not; only to revive, however,
when the real Sammy had gone and the ideal Sammy returned to his place
in her bosom. For Sammy adored at a distance and Sammy within range of
criticism were two very different people. Sammy adored at a distance
was all-ready response to Beth's fine flights of imagination; but
Sammy on the spot was dull. He was seldom on the spot, however, so
that Beth had ample leisure to live on her love undisturbed, and her
mind became extraordinarily active. Verse came to her like a
recollection. On half-holidays they sometimes went for a walk together
over the wild wide waste of sand when the tide was out, and she would
rhyme to herself the whole time; but she seldom said anything to
Sammy. So long as he was silent he was a source of inspiration--that
is to say, her feeling for him was inspiring; but when she tried to
get anything out of him, they generally squabbled.
Beth lived her own life at this time almost entirely. Since that
startling threat of rebellion, her mother had been afraid to beat her
lest she should strike back; scolding only made her voluble, and Mrs.
Caldwell never thought of trying to manage her in the only way
possible, by reasoning with her and appealing to her better nature.
There was, therefore, but one thing for her mother to do in order to
preserve her own dignity, and that was to ignore Beth. Accordingly,
when the perfunctory lessons were over in the morning, Beth had her
day to herself. She began it generally by practising for at least an
hour by the church-clock, and after that she had a variety of pursuits
which she preferred to follow alone if Sammy were at school, because
then there was no one to interrupt her thoughts. When the larder was
empty, she became Loyal Heart the Trapper, and would wander off to
Fairholm to set snares or catapult anything she could get near. The
gun she had found impracticable, because she was certain to have been
seen out with it; her snares, if they were found, were supposed to
have been set by poachers. She herself was known to every one on the
estate, and was therefore sure of respect, no matter who saw her; even
Uncle James himself would have let her alone had they met, as he was
of her mother's opinion, that it was safer to ignore her than to
attempt to control her. The snares, although of the most primitive
kind, answered the purpose. The great difficulty was how to get the
game home; but that she also managed successfully, generally by
returning after dark. Her mother, concluding that she owed whatever
came to Aunt Grace Mary's surreptitious kindness, said nothing on the
subject except to Beth, whom she supposed to be Aunt Grace Mary's
agent; but she very much enjoyed every addition to her monotonous
diet, especially when Beth did the cooking. In fact, had it not been
for Loyal Heart, the family would have pretty nearly starved that
winter, because of Jim, who had contracted debts like a man, which his
mother had to pay.
With regard to Beth's cooking, it is remarkable that, although Mrs.
Caldwell herself had suffered all through her married life for want of
proper training in household matters, she never attempted to have her
own daughters better taught. On the contrary, she had forbidden Beth
to do servant's work, and objected most strongly to her cooking, until
she found how good it was, and even then she thought it due to her
position only to countenance it under protest. The extraordinary
inefficiency of the good-old-fashioned-womanly woman as a wife on a
small income, the silly pretences which showed her want of proper
self-respect, and the ill-adjusted balance of her undeveloped mind
which betrayed itself in petty inconsistencies, fill us with pity and
surprise us, yet encourage us too by proving how right and wise we
were to try our own experiments. If we had listened to advice and done
as we were told, the woman's-sphere-is-home would have been as ugly
and comfortless a place for us to-day as it used to be when Beth was
forced by the needs of her nature to poach for diversion, cook for
kindness, and clean, and fight, and pray, and lie, and love, in her
brave struggle against the hard and stupid conditions of her
life--conditions which were not only retarding the development, but
threatening utterly to distort, if not actually to destroy, all that
was best, most beautiful, and most wonderful in her character.
Beth rather expected to get into difficulties eventually about the
game, but she calculated that she would have a certain time to run
before her head was snapped off, and during that time her mother would
enjoy her good dinners and be the better for them, and she herself
would enjoy the sport--facts which no amount of anger afterwards could
alter. Since Mrs. Caldwell had washed her hands of Beth, they were
beginning to be quite good friends. Sometimes her mother talked to her
just as she would to anybody else; that is to say, with civility. She
would say, "And what are you going to do to-day, Beth?" quite
pleasantly, as though speaking to another grown-up person; and Beth
would answer politely, and tell the truth if possible, instead of
making some sulky evasion, as she had begun to do when there was no
other way of keeping the peace. She was fearlessly honest by nature,
but as she approached maturity, she lost her nerve for a time, and
during that time she lied, on occasion, to escape a harrowing scene.
She always despised herself for it, however, and therefore, as she
grew stronger, she became her natural straightforward self again,
only, if anything, all the more scrupulously accurate for the
degrading experience. For she soon perceived that there is nothing
that damages the character like the habit of untruth; the man or woman
who makes a false excuse has already begun to deteriorate. If a census
could be taken to establish the grounds upon which people are
considered noble or ignoble, we should find it was in exact proportion
to the amount of confidence that can be placed first of all in their
sincerity, and then in their accuracy. Sincerity claims respect for
character, accuracy estimation for ability; no high-minded person was
ever insincere, and no fool was ever accurate.
When the close season began, Beth left the plantations, and took to
fishing in the sea. She would sit at the end of the pier in fine
weather, baiting her hooks with great fat lob-worms she had dug up out
of the sands at low tide, and watching her lines all by herself; or,
if it were rough, she would fish in the harbour from the steps up
against the wooden jetty, where the sailors hung about all day long
with their hands in their pockets when the boats were in. Some of them
would sit with her, all in a row, fishing too, and they would exchange
bait with her, and give her good advice, while others 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 with
wondering interest to her talk, and never answered at all as if they
were speaking to a child. Beth heard some queer 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 south pier, and
fish there. She loved this spot; it was near to nature, yet not remote
from the haunts of man. She sat there one afternoon, holding her line,
and dreamily watching the fishing boats streaming across the bay, with
their brown sails set to catch the fitful breeze which she could see
making cat's-paws on the water far out, but could not feel, being
sheltered from it by the old stone pier. The sea was glassy smooth,
and lapped up the rocks, heaving regularly like the breast of a
tranquil sleeper. 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 rose 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 whitings, 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, she met
Sammy.
"Where did you get those fish?" he asked.
"Caught them," she answered laconically.
"What! all by yourself? No! I don't believe it."
"I did, all the same," she answered; "and now I'm going to cook
them--some of them at least."
"Yourself? Cook them yourself? No!" he cried in admiration. Cooking
was an accomplishment he honoured.
"If you'll come out after your tea, I'll leave the back-gate ajar, and
you can slip into the wood-house; and I'll bring you a whiting on
toast, all hot and brown."
With such an inducement, Sammy was in good time. Beth found him
sitting contentedly on a heap of sticks, waiting for the feast. She
had brought the whiting out with a cover over it, hot and brown, as
she had promised; and Sammy's mouth watered when he saw it.
"What a jolly girl you are, Beth!" he exclaimed.
But Beth was not so much gratified by the praise as she might have
been. The vision and the dream were upon her that evening, 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, dissatisfied; 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
effort to find expression for what she had in her consciousness.
"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 what it is when you are fishing off the rocks,
and there is no breaking of waves, only a rising and falling of the
water; and it comes swelling up about you with a sort of sob that
brings with it a whiff 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 me 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 keep
feeling--it was all so--_peaceful_, that was it. I've been wondering
ever since what it was, and that was it--peaceful;
The quiet people,
The old church steeple;
The sandy reaches
Of wreck-strewn beaches--"
"Who made that up?" said Sammy suspiciously.
"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 most likely be quite different.
It's like the stuff for a dress, you know, when you buy it. You get it
made up, and it's the same stuff, and it's quite different, too, in a
way. You've got it put into shape, and it's good for something."
"I don't believe you made it up," said Sammy doggedly. "You're
stuffing me, Beth. You're always trying to stuff me."
Beth, still leaning against the door-post, clasped her hands behind
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, that was his cry,
While the great clouds went sailing by;
Flashes of crimson on colder sky;
Like the thoughts of a summer's day,
Colour'd by love in a life which else were grey.
But that isn't you, you know, Sammy. Then when I stopped trying for
something about you, there came such a singing! What was it? It seems
to have gone--and yet it's here, you know, it's all here," 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 continued 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 I 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."
Sammy's blue eyes filled with tears. He got down from the heap of
sticks, intent on 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."
"It isn't a fool-fashion," Beth rejoined vehemently. "It's you that's
a 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 girl, anyway." She
flew at him as she spoke, caught him by the collar, kicked his shins,
slapped his face, and drubbed him on the back.
Sammy, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught, made no effort to defend
himself, but just wriggled out of her grasp, and ran home, with great
tears streaming down his round red cheeks, and sobs convulsing him.
Beth's exasperation subsided the moment she was left alone in the
wood-house. She sat down on the sticks, and looked straight before
her, filled with remorse.
"What shall I do? What shall I do?" she kept saying to herself. "Oh
dear! oh dear! Sammy! Sammy! He's gone. I've lost him. _This is the
most dreadful grief I have ever had in my life._"
The moment she had articulated this full-blown phrase, she became
aware of its importance. She repeated it to herself, reflected 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 pencil and paper, she was the
sad central figure of a great romance, full of the most melancholy
incidents; in which troubled atmosphere she sat and suffered for the
rest of the evening; but she did not think of Sammy again till she
went to bed. Then, however, she was seized anew with the dread of
losing him for ever, and cried helplessly 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 contempt flashing forth from his innocent blue eyes. In the
evening, however, she opened the back-gate, as usual, and waited in
the wood-house; but he never came. And at first she was in despair.
Then 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 heap of beech branches opposite the doorway,
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 silhouette against the
night-sky. Its bare branches made black bars on the face of the bright
white moon which was rising behind it. What a strange thing time is!
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 return no more. It was getting on for Christmas now. Another year
had nearly gone. The years 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 the steady year; days come
and go--no, no! Days dawn and disappear, 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 beech boughs, 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
purpose, 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 open so as to save as much of the clean space inside as
possible, 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 haste.
"Winter, summer, Sammy," she kept saying to herself. "Autumn,
autumn-tinted woods--my king--_Ministering Children_--ministering--king.
Moon, noon. Story, glory. Ever, never, endeavour. Oh, I can do it! I
can! I can! Slips round the steady year--"
It took her some days to do it to her satisfaction, but they were days
of delight, for the whole time she felt exactly as she had done when
first she found Sammy. She had the same warm glow in her chest, the
same sort of yearning, half anxious, half pleasant, wholly desirable.
It was late in the evening when she finished, and she had to put her
work away in a hurry, because her mother sent Harriet to tell her she
must go to bed; but all night long she lay only half asleep, and all
the time conscious of joy to come in the morning.
She was up early, but had too much self-restraint to go to the
acting-room till lessons were over. She was afraid of being disturbed
and so having her pleasure spoilt. As soon as she could safely lock
herself up, however, she took her treasure out. It was written on the
precious half-sheets in queer little crabbed characters, very
distinctly:--
Slips round the steady year,
Days dawn and disappear,
Winters and springs;
March storms and clouds and rain,
Till April once again
Light with it brings.
Then comes the summer song,
Birds in the woods prolong
Day into night.
Hot after tepid showers
Beats down this sun of ours,
Upward the radiant flowers
Look their delight.
O summer scents at noon!
O summer nights and moon!
Season of story.
Labour and love for ever
Strengthen each hard endeavour,
Now climb we up or never,
Upward 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
Ripe for the reaping.
Thus on a torrid day
Slipped my fond thoughts away,
Book from thy pages.
Seasons of which 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 powers foreseen--
Storms sowed renown.
Then came thy summer climb,
Then came thy golden-prime,
Then came thy harvest-time,
Bringing thy crown.
When Beth had read these lines, she doubled the half sheets on which
they were written, and put them in her pocket deliberately. She was
sitting on the acting-room floor at the moment, near the window.
"Now," she exclaimed, folding her delicate nervous hands on her lap,
and looking up at the strip of sky above her, "now I shall be
forgiven!"
It was dark at this time when the boys left school in the evening, and
Beth stood at the back-gate waiting to waylay Sammy. He 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 nothing to say; the
relief of finding her friendly again was too great for words. Had she
looked out, she might have seen him any day since the event,
bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked as usual, prowling about, anxious to
obtain a reassuring smile from her on his way to and from school. It
was not likely that he would lose the credit of being Beth Caldwell's
sweetheart if he could help it, just because she beat him. Already he
had suffered somewhat in prestige because he 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, Sammy," she cried, catching hold of his hand. "Come in, I've
something to show you; but it's too cold to sit in the wood-house, and
we can't have a light there either. Come up by the pump 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 somewhat
suspiciously as usual; but she piloted him safely, and, once in the
acting-room, with the candle lighted, he owned that it was jolly.
"Sammy, I _have_ been sorry," Beth began. "I've been quite miserable
about--you know what. It was horrid of me."
"I told you scratch-cats were horrid," said Sammy solemnly.
"But I've done something to atone," Beth proceeded. "Something 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 yourself," he said decidedly.
"O Sammy! yes, I did," Beth protested, taken aback and much pained.
"No, I don't believe you," said Sammy. "You got it out of a book.
You're always trying to stuff me up."
"I'm not stuffing you, Sammy," said Beth, suddenly flaming. "I made it
myself, every word of it. I tell you it came to me. It's my own.
_You've got to believe it._"
Sammy looked about him. There was no escape by the door, because that
led into the house, and Beth was between him and the window, with her
brown hair dishevelled, and her big eyes burning.
"Well," he said, a politic desire to conciliate struggling with an
imperative objection to be stuffed, "of course you made it yourself if
you say so. But it's all rot anyway."
The words slipped out unawares, and the moment he uttered them he
ducked his head: but nothing happened. Then he looked up at Beth, and
found her gazing hard at him, and as she did so the colour gradually
left her cheeks and the light went out of her eyes. 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 the room, but she said
nothing.
Sammy sat still in a tremor until the silence became too oppressive to
be borne; then he fidgeted, then he got up, and looked longingly
towards the window.
"I shall be late," he ventured.
Beth made no sign.
"When shall I see you again?" he recommenced, deprecatingly. "Will you
be at the back-gate to-morrow?"
"No," she said shortly. "It's too cold to wait for you."
"Then how shall I see you?" he asked, with a blank expression.
Beth reflected. "Oh, just whistle as you pass," she said at last, in
an offhand way, "and I'll come out if I feel inclined."
* * * * *
The next evening Mrs. Caldwell was taking her accustomed nap after
dinner in her arm-chair by the fire in the dining-room, and Beth was
sitting at the table dreaming, when she was suddenly startled by a
long, loud, shrill whistle. Another and another of the most piercing
quality followed in quick succession. Swiftly but cautiously she
jumped up, and slipped into the drawing-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
Sammy, standing with his innocent 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 long and hard and fast enough to rouse the
whole neighbourhood. Beth, impatient of such stupidity, returned to
the dining-room and sat down again, leaving Sammy to his fate.
Presently Mrs. Caldwell started wide awake.
"What _is_ that noise, Beth?" she exclaimed.
"It seems to be somebody whistling outside," Beth answered in deep
disgust. Then her exasperation got the better of her self-control, and
she jumped up, and ran out to the kitchen.
"Harriet," she said between her clenched teeth, "go out and send that
silly fool away."
Harriet hastened to obey; but at the opening of the front door, Sammy
bolted.
The next evening he began again, however, as emphatically as before;
but Beth could not stand such imbecility a second time, so she ran out
of the back-gate, and seized Sammy.
"What are you doing there?" she cried, shaking him.
"Why, you told me to whistle," Sammy remonstrated, much aggrieved.
"Did I tell you to whistle like a railway engine?" Beth demanded
scornfully. "You've no sense at all, Sammy. Go away!"
"Oh, do let's come in, Beth," Sammy pleaded. "I've something 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 impatiently, 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 herself on the steps. "I
don't believe it's anything."
"Yes, it is, so there!" said Sammy triumphantly. "But I'll lay you
won't guess what it is. Mrs. Barnes has got a baby."
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 disgusted.
"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 head and open your mouth so wide,
I can see you have no wisdom-teeth."
"You're always nasty now, Beth," Sammy complained.
Which was true. Love waning becomes critical. Beth's own feeling for
Sammy had been a strong mental stimulant at first, and, in her
enjoyment of it, she had overlooked all his shortcomings. There was
nothing in him, however, to keep that feeling alive, and it had
gradually died of inanition. His slowness and want of imagination
first puzzled and then provoked her; and, little-boy-like, he had not
even been able to respond to such tenderness as she showed him--not
that she had ever showed him much tenderness, for they were just like
boys together. She had kissed him, however, once or twice, after a
quarrel, to make it up; but she did not like kissing him: little boys
are rank. His pretty colouring was all that he had had to attract her,
and that, alas! had lost its charm by this time. For a little longer
she looked out for him and troubled about him, then let him go
gradually--so gradually, that she never knew when exactly he lapsed
from her life altogether.