For two years after Beth was outlawed by her mother, Great-Aunt
Victoria Bench was her one link with the civilised world. The intimacy
had lapsed a little while Sammy was the prevailing human interest in
Beth's life, but gradually as he ceased to be satisfactory, she
returned to the old lady, and hovered about her, seeking the
sustenance for which her poor little heart ached on always, and for
want of which her busy brain ran riot; and the old lady, who had not
complained of Beth's desertion, welcomed her back in a way which
showed that she had felt it.
For Great-Aunt Victoria Bench was lonely in the days of her poverty
and obscurity. Since the loss of her money, there had been a great
change in the attitude of most of her friends towards her, and such
attentions as she received were of a very different kind from those to
which she had been accustomed. Mrs. Caldwell had been the most
generous to her, for at the time that she had offered Aunt Victoria a
home in her house, she had not known that the old lady would be able
to pay her way at all. Fortunately Aunt Victoria had enough left for
that, but still her position in Mrs. Caldwell's house was not what it
would have been had she not lost most of her means. Mrs. Caldwell was
not aware of the fact, but her manner had insensibly adjusted itself
to Aunt Victoria's altered circumstances, her care and consideration
for her being as much reduced in amount as her income; and Aunt
Victoria felt the difference, but said nothing. Slowly and painfully
she learnt to realise that it was for what she had had to bestow, and
not for what she was, that people used to care; they had served her as
they served their God, in the hope of reaping a rich reward. Like many
other people with certain fine qualities of their own, Aunt Victoria
knew that there was wickedness in the outside world, but never
suspected that her own immediate circle, the nice people with whom she
talked pleasantly every day, could be tainted; and the awakening to
find that her friends cared less disinterestedly for her than she did
for them was a cruel disillusion. Her first inclination was to fly far
from them all, and spend the rest of her days amongst strangers who
could not disappoint her because she would have nothing to expect of
them, and who might perhaps come to care for her really. Long hours
she sat and suffered, shut up in her room, considering the matter,
yearning to go, but restrained by the fear that, as an old woman, she
would be unwelcome everywhere. In Aunt Victoria's day old people were
only too apt to be selfish, tyrannical, narrow, and ignorant, a terror
to their friends; and they were nearly always ill, the old men from
lives of self-indulgence, and the old women from unwholesome restraint
of every kind. Now we are beginning to ask what becomes of the
decrepit old women, there are so few to be seen. This is the age of
youthful grandmothers, capable of enjoying a week of their lives more
than their own grandmothers were able to enjoy the whole of their
declining years; their vitality is so much greater, their appearance
so much better preserved; their knowledge so much more extensive,
their interests so much more varied, and their hearts so much larger.
Aunt Victoria nowadays would have struck out for herself in a new
direction. She would have gone to London, joined a progressive
women's club, made acquaintance with work of some kind or another, and
never known a dull moment; for she would have been a capable woman had
any one of her faculties been cultivated to some useful purpose; but
as it was, she had nothing to fall back upon. She was just like a
domestic animal, like a dog that has become a member of the family,
and is tolerated from habit even after it grows old, and because
remarks would be made if it were put out of the way before its time;
and she had been content with the position so long as much was made of
her. Now, however, all too late, a great yearning had seized upon her
for an object in life, for some pursuit, some interest that would
remain to her when everything else was lost; and she prayed to God
earnestly that He would show her where to go and what to do, or give
her something--something which at last resolved itself into something
to live for.
Then one day there came a little resolute tap at the door, and Beth
walked in without waiting to be asked, and seeing in a moment with
that further faculty of hers into the old lady's heart that it was
sad, she went to her impulsively, and laid her unkempt brown head
against her arm in an awkward caress, which touched the old lady to
tears. Beth was lonely too, thought Aunt Victoria, a strange, lonely
little being, neglected, ill-used, and misunderstood, and the question
flashed through the old lady's mind, if she left the child, what would
become of her? The tangled brown head, warm against her arm, nestled
nearer, and Aunt Victoria patted it protectingly.
"Do you want anything, Beth?" she asked.
"No, Aunt Victoria. I just wanted to see you. I was lying on the
see-saw board, looking up through the leaves, and I suddenly got a
fancy that you were here all by yourself, and that you didn't like
being all by yourself. _I_ feel like that sometimes. So I came to see
you."
"Thank you, Beth," said Aunt Victoria, with her hand still on Beth's
head as if she were blessing her; and when she had spoken she looked
up through the window, and silently thanked the Lord. This was the
sign. He had committed Beth to her care and affection, and she was not
to think of herself, but of the child, whose need was certainly the
greater of the two.
"Have you nothing to do, Beth?" she said after a pause.
"No, Aunt Victoria," Beth answered drearily--"at least there are
plenty of things I could do, but everything I think of makes me
shudder. I feel so sometimes. Do you? There isn't a single thing I
want to do to-day. I've tried one thing after the other, but I can't
think about what I'm doing. Sometimes I like to sit still and do
nothing; but to-day I don't even like that. I think I should like to
be asked to do something. If I could do something for you
now--something to help you----"
"Well, you can, Beth," Aunt Victoria answered, after sitting rigidly
upright for a moment, blinking rapidly. "Help me to unpick an old
gown. I am going to make another like it, and want it unpicked for a
pattern."
"Can you make a gown?" Beth asked in surprise.
Aunt Victoria smiled. Then she took down an old black gown that was
hanging behind the door, and handed it to Beth with a pair of sharp
scissors.
"I'll undo the body part," Beth said, "and that will save your eyes. I
don't think this gown owes you much."
"I do not understand that expression, Beth," said Aunt Victoria.
"Don't you," said Beth, working away with the scissors cheerfully.
"Harriet always says that, when she's got all the good there is to be
got out of anything--the dusters, you know, or the dishcloth. I once
did a piece of unpicking like this for mamma, and she didn't explain
properly, or something--at all events, I took out a great deal too
much, so she----"
"Don't call your mamma 'she.' 'She' is the cat."
"Mamma, then. Mamma beat me."
"Don't say she beat you."
"I said mamma."
"Well, don't talk about your mamma beating you. That is not a nice
thing to talk about."
"It's not a nice thing to do either," said Beth judicially. "And I
never used to talk about it; didn't like to, you know. But now
she--mamma--doesn't beat me any more--at least only sometimes when she
forgets."
"Ah, then, you have been a better girl."
"No, not better--bigger. You see if I struck her back again she
wouldn't like it."
"Beth! Beth! strike your mother!"
"That was the danger," said Beth, in her slow, distinct, imperturbable
way. "One day she made me so angry I very nearly struck her, and I
told her so. That made her look queer, I can tell you. And she's never
struck me since--except in a half-hearted sort of way, or when she
forgot, and that didn't count, of course. But I think I know now how
it was she used to beat me. I did just the same thing myself one day.
I beat Sammy----"
"Who is Sammy?" said Aunt Victoria, looking over her spectacles.
"Sammy Lee, you know."
Aunt Victoria recollected, and felt she should improve the occasion,
but was at a loss for a moment what to say. She was anxious above
everything that Beth should talk to her freely, for how could she help
the child if she did not know all she had in her mind? It is upon the
things they are never allowed to mention that children brood
unwholesomely.
"I thought that you were not allowed to know Sammy Lee," she finally
observed.
"No more I was," Beth answered casually.
"Yet you knew him all the same?" Aunt Victoria ventured reproachfully.
"Aunt Victoria," said Beth, "did the Lord die for Sammy?"
"Ye--yes," said Aunt Victoria, hesitating, not because she doubted the
fact, but because she did not know what use Beth would make of it.
"Then why can't _I_ know him?" Beth asked.
"Oh, be--because Sammy does not live as if he were grateful to the
Lord."
"If he did, would he be a gentleman?" Beth asked.
"Yes," Aunt Victoria answered decidedly.
Beth stopped snipping, and looked at her as if she were looking right
through her, and out into the world beyond. Then she pursed up her
mouth and shook her head.
"That won't hold water," she said. "If a man must live like the Lord
to be a gentleman, what is Uncle James? And if living like the Lord
makes a man a gentleman, why don't we call on old Job Fisher?"
Aunt Victoria began to fear that the task she had undertaken would
prove too much for her. "It is hard, very hard," she muttered.
"Well, never mind," said Beth, resuming her work. "When I grow up I
mean to write about things like that. But what were we talking about?
Oh, beating Sammy. I did feel bad after I beat him, and I vowed I'd
never do it again however tiresome he was, and I never did. It makes
it easier if you vow. It's just as if your hands were tied then. I'd
like to tell mamma to try it, only she'd be sure to get waxy. You tell
her, Aunt Victoria."
Aunt Victoria made some reply which was lost in the noise of vehicles
passing in the street, followed by the tramp of many feet and a great
chattering. An excursion train had just arrived, and the people were
pouring into the place. Beth ran to the window and watched them.
"More confounded trippers," she ejaculated. "They spoil the summer,
swarming everywhere."
"Beth, I wish, to please me, you would make another vow. Don't say
'confounded trippers.'"
"All right, Aunt Victoria. Jim says it. But I know all the bad words in
the language were made for the men. I suppose because they have all the
bad thoughts, and do all the bad things. I shall say 'objectionable
excursionists' in future." She went to the door. "I'm just going to get
something," she said. "You won't go away now, will you? I shall be a
minute or two, but I want you to be here when I come back. I shall be
wild if you're not."
She banged the door after her and ran downstairs.
Aunt Victoria looked round the room; it no longer seemed the same
place to her. Beth's cheerful chatter had already driven away the evil
spirit of dejection, and taken the old lady out of herself. Untidy
child! She had left her work on the floor, her scissors on the bed,
disarranged the window-curtain, and upset a chair. If she would not do
any more unpicking when she returned, she must be made to put things
straight. There was one little easy-chair in the room. Aunt Victoria
sat down in it, a great piece of self-indulgence for her at that time
of day, folded her hands, and closed her weary old eyes just to give
them a rest, while a nice little look of content came into her face,
which it was good to see there.
When she opened her eyes again, Beth was setting a tray on a tiny
table beside her.
"I think you've been having a nap, Miss Great-Aunt Victoria Bench,"
she said. "Now, have some tea! and buttered toast!!"
"O Beth!" cried the old lady, beaming. "How could you--at this time of
day? Well, to please you. It is quite delicious. So refreshing. What,
another piece of toast! Must I take another?"
"You must take it all," said Beth. "I made it for you. I do like doing
things for you, Aunt Victoria. It makes me feel nice all over. I'll
just unpick a little more. Then I'll tidy up."
"You're a good child to think of that," said Aunt Victoria. "I did not
think you would."
"Didn't you?" said Beth. "How funny! But I like things tidy. I often
tidy up."
"I--I suppose Harriet says tidy up," the old lady observed gently, not
liking to be censorious at this happy moment of relaxation, but still
anxious to do her duty. Beth understood her perfectly and smiled.
"I like you to tell me when I say things wrong," she said; "and I like
to know how Harriet talks too. You can't write if you don't know how
every one talks."
"What are you going to write?" Aunt Victoria asked, taking up another
piece of buttered toast.
"Oh, books," Beth answered casually.
"Write something soul-sustaining then, Beth," said Aunt Victoria. "Try
to make all you say soul-sustaining. And never use a word you would be
ashamed to hear read aloud."
"You mean like those things they read in church?" said Beth. "I don't
think I ever could use such words. When Mr. Richardson comes close to
them, I get hot all over and hate him. But I promise you, Aunt
Victoria, I will never write anything worse than there is in the
Bible. There's a man called Ruskin who writes very well, they say, and
he learnt how to do it from reading the Bible. His mother taught him
when he was a little boy, just as you taught me. I always read the
Bible--search the Scriptures--every day. You say it's a sacred book,
don't you, Aunt Victoria? Harriet says it's smutty."
"Says _what_?" Aunt Victoria exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in her
horror. "What does she mean by such an expression?"
"Oh, she just means stories like Joseph and Potiphar's wife, David and
Bathsheba, Susanna and the elders."
"My _dear_ child!" Aunt Victoria gasped.
"Well, Aunt Victoria, they're all in the Bible, at least Susanna and
the elders isn't. That's in the Apocrypha."
Aunt Victoria sat silent a considerable time. At last she said
solemnly: "Beth, I want you to promise me one thing solemnly, and that
is that all your life long, whatever may be before you, whatever it
may be your lot to learn, you will pray to God to preserve your
purity."
"What is purity?" said Beth.
Aunt Victoria hesitated: "It's a condition of the mind which keeps us
from ever doing or saying anything we should be ashamed of," she
finally decided.
"But what kind of things?" Beth asked.
Unfortunately Aunt Victoria was not equal to the occasion. She blinked
her eyes very hard, sipped some tea, and left Beth to find out for
herself, according to custom.
"We must only talk about nice things," she said.
"Well, I shouldn't care to talk nastily about people as Lady Benyon
does sometimes," Beth rejoined.
"But, my dear child, that is not a nice thing to say about Lady
Benyon."
"Isn't it?" said Beth, then added: "Oh dear, how funny things are!"
meaning how complicated.
"Where did you get this tea, Beth?" said Aunt Victoria. "It is very
good, and I feel so much the better for it."
"I thought you wanted something," said Beth. "Your face went all
queer. That means people want something. I got the tea out of the
store-cupboard. It has a rotten lock. If you shake it, it comes
open."
"But what does your mamma say?"
"Oh, she never notices. Or, if she does, she thinks she left it open
herself. Harriet has a little sometimes. She takes it because she says
mamma should allow her a quarter of a pound of dry tea a week, so it
isn't stealing. And I took it for you because you pay to live here, so
you're entitled to the tea. I don't take it for myself, of course. But
I'm afraid I oughtn't to have told you about Harriet. I'm so sorry. It
slipped out. It wasn't sneaking. But I trust to your honour, Aunt
Victoria. If you sneaked on Harriet, I could never trust you again,
now could I?" She got up as she spoke, folded her work, picked up the
chair, arranged the window-curtain, moved the tray, and put the table
back in its place, at the same time remarking: "I shall take these
things downstairs now, and go for a run."
She left Aunt Victoria with much to reflect upon. The glimpse she had
accidentally given the old lady of Harriet's turpitude had startled
her considerably. Mrs. Caldwell had always congratulated herself on
having such a quiet respectable person in the house as Harriet to look
after Beth, and now it appeared that the woman was disreputable both
in her habits and her conversation, the very last person whom a girl,
even of such strongly marked individuality as Beth, should have been
allowed to associate with intimately. But what ought Miss Victoria to
do? If she spoke to Mrs. Caldwell, Beth would never forgive her, and
the important thing was not to lose Beth's confidence; but if she did
not speak to Mrs. Caldwell, would she be doing right? Of course, if
Mrs. Caldwell had been a different sort of person, her duty would have
been clear and easy; but as it was, Aunt Victoria decided to wait.
The next day Beth returned of her own accord to finish the unpicking.
She wanted to know what "soul-sustaining" meant; and in ten minutes
she had cross-questioned Aunt Victoria into such a state of confusion
that the old lady could only sit silently praying to Heaven for
guidance. At last she got up, and took a little packet out of one of
her trunks. She had to live in her boxes because there was no closet
or wardrobe or chest of drawers in the room.
"See, Beth," she said, "here is some tea and sugar. I don't think it
nice of you to go to your mother's cupboard without her leave. That's
rather a servant's trick, you know, and not honest; so give it up,
like a dear child, and let us have tea together, you and I, up here,
when we want it. I very much enjoy a good cup of tea, it is so
refreshing, and you make it beautifully."
Beth changed colour and countenance while Aunt Victoria was speaking,
and she sat for some time afterwards looking fixedly at the empty
grate; then she said, "You always tell me things nicely, Aunt
Victoria; that's what I like about you. I'll not touch the cupboard
again, I vow; and if you catch me at any other 'servant's tricks' just
you let me know."
The old lady's heart glowed. The Lord was showing her how to help the
child.
But the holidays were coming on; she would have to go away to make
room for the boys; and she dreaded to leave Beth at this critical
time, lest she should relapse, just as she was beginning to form nice
feminine habits. For Beth had taken kindly to the sewing and
tea-drinking and long quiet chats; it was a delight to her to have
some one to wait on, and help, and talk to. "I'm so fond of you, Aunt
Victoria," she said one day; "I even like you to snap at me; and if we
lived quite alone together, you and I, I should do everything for
you."
"Would you like to come away with me these holidays?" said Aunt
Victoria, seized suddenly with a bright idea.
"Oh, wouldn't I!" said Beth. "But then, the expense!"
"I think I can manage it, if your mamma has no objection," said Aunt
Victoria, nodding and blinking, and nodding again, as she calculated.
"I should think mamma would be only too glad to get rid of me," said
Beth hopefully.
And she was not mistaken.