The next few weeks, in their effect upon Beth's character, were among
the most important of her life. She did not know until the day before
where she was to go with Aunt Victoria. It was the habit of the family
to conceal all such arrangements from the children, and indeed from
each other as much as possible. Aunt Victoria observed that Caroline
was singularly reticent, and Mrs. Caldwell complained that Aunt
Victoria made a mystery of everything. It was a hard habit, which
robbed Beth of what would have been so much to her, something to look
forward to. Since she knew that she was to go somewhere, however, she
had lived upon the idea; her imagination had been busy trying to
picture the unknown place, and her mind full of plans for the comfort
of Aunt Victoria.
It was after breakfast one day, while her mother and Aunt Victoria
were still at table, that the announcement was made. "You need not do
any lessons this morning, children," Mrs. Caldwell said. "Beth is
going to Harrowgate with Aunt Victoria to-morrow, and I must see to
her things and get them packed."
Aunt Victoria looked round at Beth with a carefully restrained smile,
expecting some demonstration of joy. Beth was standing in the window
looking out, and turned with a frown of intentness on her face when
her mother mentioned Harrowgate, as if she were trying to recall
something.
"Harrowgate!" she said slowly. "_Harrowgate!_"
"Beth, do not frown so," Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed irritably. "You'll be
all wrinkled before you're twenty."
Beth gazed at her solemnly without seeing her, then fixed her eyes
upon the ground as if she were perusing it, and began to walk slowly
up and down with her head bent, her hands clasped behind her, her
curly brown hair falling forward over her cheeks, and her lips moving.
"What is it you're muttering, child?" Aunt Victoria asked.
"I'm trying to think," Beth rejoined.
"''Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool....
* * * * *
"'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone....
* * * * *
"'And yet I feared him all the more,
For lying there so still....
* * * * *
"'I took the dreary body up.'...
"Ah, I know--I have it!" she exclaimed joyfully, and with a look of
relief; "Harrowgate--Knaresboro'--the cave there----
"'Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.'"
"My dear child," said Aunt Victoria sternly, "what is it you are
trying to say? and how often are you to be told not to work yourself
up into such a state of excitement about nothing?"
"Don't you know about Eugene Aram, Aunt Victoria?" Beth rejoined with
concern, as if not to know about Eugene Aram were indeed to have
missed one of the great interests of life. Then she sat down at the
table with her elbows resting on it, and her delicate oval face framed
in her slender hands, and gave Aunt Victoria a graphic sketch of the
story from Bulwer Lytton.
"Dear me, Caroline," said Aunt Victoria, greatly horrified, "is it
possible that you allow your children to read such books?"
"I read such books to my children myself when I see fit," Mrs.
Caldwell rejoined. "I may be allowed to judge what is good for them, I
suppose?"
"Good for them!" Aunt Victoria ejaculated. "Accounts of murder, theft,
and executions!"
"But why not, Aunt Victoria?" Beth put in. "Why not read about Eugene
Aram as well as about Barabbas?"
Aunt Victoria looked so shocked, however, at the mention of Barabbas
in this connection, that Beth broke off and hastened to add for the
relief of the old lady's feelings--"Only of course Barabbas was a
sacred sort of thief, and that is different."
On the journey next day a casual remark let fall by a stranger made a
curious impression upon Beth. They were travelling second-class, and
Aunt Victoria, talking to another lady in the carriage, happened to
mention that Beth was twelve years old. A gentleman, the only other
passenger, who was sitting opposite to Beth, looked up at her over his
newspaper when her age was mentioned, and remarked--"Are you only
twelve? I should have thought you were older. Rather nice-looking too,
only freckled."
Beth felt her face flush hotly, and then she laughed. "Nice-looking!
Nice-looking!" She repeated the words to herself again and again, and
every time they recurred to her, she lost countenance in spite of
herself, and laughed and flushed, being strangely surprised and
pleased.
It was that remark that first brought home to Beth the fact that she
had a personal appearance at all. Hitherto she had thought very little
of herself. The world without had been, and always would be, much more
to her than the world within. She was not to be one of those narrow,
self-centred, morbid beings whose days are spent in introspection, and
whose powers are wasted in futile efforts to set their own little
peculiarities forth in such a way as to make them seem of consequence.
She never at any time studied her own nature, except as a part of
human nature, and in the hope of finding in herself some clue which
would help her to a sympathetic understanding of other people.
Great-Aunt Victoria Bench, in these days of her poverty, lodged with
an old servant of the family, who gave her for ten shillings a week a
bedroom at the top of the house, and a little sunny sitting-room on
the ground-floor at the back, looking out into an old-fashioned
garden, full of flowers such as knights in olden times culled for
their ladies. The little sitting-room was furnished with Chippendale
chairs, and a little Chippendale sideboard with drawers, and a
bookcase with glass doors above and a cupboard below, in which Aunt
Victoria used to keep her stores of tea, coffee, sugar, and currants
in mustard-tins. Beth heard with surprise that the hearthrug was one
which Aunt Victoria had worked herself as a present for Prentice when
she married. Prentice was now Mrs. Pearce, but Aunt Victoria always
called her Prentice. The hearthrug was like a Turkey carpet, only
softer, deeper, and richer. Aunt Victoria had sat on Chippendale
chairs in her youth, and she was happy amongst them. When she sat down
on one she drew herself up, disdaining the stiff back and smiled and
felt young again, while her memory slipped away to pleasant days gone
by; and Mrs. Pearce would come and talk to her, standing respectfully,
and reminding her of little things which Aunt Victoria had forgotten,
or alluding with mysterious nods and shakings of the head to other
things which Beth was not to hear about. When this happened Beth
always withdrew. She was becoming shy of intruding now, and delicate
about overhearing anything that was not intended for her; and when she
had gone on these occasions, the two old ladies would nod and smile to
each other, Prentice in respectful approval, and Aunt Victoria in
kindly acknowledgment. Prentice wore a cap and front like Aunt
Victoria, but of a subdued brown colour, as became her humble station.
Beth took charge of the housekeeping as soon as they arrived, made
tea, arranged the groceries in the cupboard, and put the key in her
pocket; and Aunt Victoria, who was sitting upright on a high
Chippendale chair, knitting, and enjoying the dignity of the old
attitude after her journey, looked on over her spectacles in pleased
approval. Before they went to bed, they read the evening psalms and
lessons together in the sitting-room, and Aunt Victoria read prayers.
When they went upstairs they said their private prayers, kneeling
beside the bed, and Aunt Victoria made Beth wash herself in hot water,
and brush her hair for half-an-hour. Aunt Victoria attributed her own
slender, youthful figure and the delicate texture of her skin to this
discipline. She said she had preserved her figure by never relaxing
into languid attitudes, and her complexion by washing her face in hot
water with fine white soap every night, and in cold water without soap
every morning. She did not take her fastidious appetite into
consideration, nor her simple, regular life, nor the fact that she
never touched alcohol in any shape or form, nor wore a tight or heavy
garment, nor lost her self-control for more than a moment whatever
happened, but Beth discovered for herself, as she grew older, that
these and that elevated attitude of mind which is religion, whatever
the form preferred to express it, are essential parts of the
discipline necessary for the preservation of beauty.
In the morning Beth made breakfast, and when it was over, if crusts
had accumulated in the cupboard, she steeped them in hot milk in a
pie-dish, beat them up with an egg, a little butter, sugar, currants,
and candied peel, and some nutmeg grated, for a bread-pudding, which
Prentice took out to bake for dinner, remarking regularly that little
miss promised to be helpful, to which Aunt Victoria as regularly
responded Yes, she hoped Miss Beth would become a capable woman some
day.
After breakfast they read the psalms and lessons together, verse by
verse, and had some "good talk," as Beth called it. Then Aunt Victoria
got out an old French grammar and phrase-book, a copy of "Telemaque,"
and a pocket-dictionary, treasured possessions which she always
carried about with her, and had a kind of pride in. French had been
her speciality, but these were the only French books she had, and she
certainly never spoke the language. She would have shrunk modestly
from any attempt to do so, thinking such a display almost as
objectionable as singing in a loud professional way instead of
quietly, like a well-bred amateur, and showing a lack of that
dignified reserve and general self-effacement which she considered
essential in a gentlewoman.
But she was anxious that Beth should be educated, and therefore the
books were produced every morning. Mrs. Caldwell had tried in vain to
teach Beth anything by rule, such as grammar. Beth's memory was always
tricky. Anything she cared about she recollected accurately; but
grammar, which had been presented to her not as a means to an end but
as an end in itself, failed to interest her, and if she remembered a
rule she forgot to apply it, until Aunt Victoria set her down to the
old French books, when, simply because the old lady looked pleased if
she knew her lesson and disturbed if she did not, she began at the
beginning of her own accord, and worked with a will--toilsomely at
first, but by degrees with pleasure as she proceeded, and felt for the
first time the joy of mastering a strange tongue.
"You learnt out of this book when you were a little girl, Aunt
Victoria, didn't you?" she said, looking up on the day of the first
lesson. She was sitting on a high-backed chair at one end of the
table, trying to hold herself as upright as Aunt Victoria, who sat at
the other and opposite end to her, pondering over her knitting. "I
suppose you hated it."
"No, I did not, Beth," Aunt Victoria answered severely. "I esteemed it
a privilege to be well educated. Our mother could not afford to have
us all instructed in the same accomplishments, and so she allowed us
to choose French, or music, or drawing and painting. _I_ chose
French."
"Then how was it grandmamma learned drawing and painting, and playing,
and everything?" Beth asked. "Mamma knows tunes she composed."
"Your dear grandmamma was an exceedingly clever girl," Aunt Victoria
answered stiffly, as if Beth had taken a liberty when she asked the
question; "and she was the youngest, and desired to learn all we knew,
so we each did our best to impart our special knowledge to her. _I_
taught her French."
"How strange," said Beth; "and out of this very book? And she is dead.
And now you are teaching _me_."
The feeling in the child's voice, and the humble emphasis on the
pronoun _me_, touched the old lady; something familiar too in the tone
caused her to look up quickly and kindly over her spectacles, and it
seemed to her for a moment as if the little, long-lost sister sat
opposite to her--great grey eyes, delicate skin, bright brown hair,
expression of vivid interest, and all.
"Strange! strange!" she muttered to herself several times.
"I am supposed to be like grandmamma, am I not?" said Beth, as if she
read her thoughts.
"You _are_ like her," Aunt Victoria rejoined.
"But you can be a plain likeness of a good-looking person, I suppose?"
Beth said tentatively.
"Certainly you can," Miss Victoria answered with decision; and the
spark of pleasure in her own personal appearance, which had recently
been kindled in Beth, instantly flickered and went out.
Their little sitting-room had a bow-window down to the ground, the
front part of which formed two doors with glass in the upper part and
wood below, leading out into the garden. On fine days they always
stood wide open, and the warm summer air scented with roses streamed
in. Both Beth and Aunt Victoria loved to look out into the garden.
From where Beth sat to do her French at the end of the table, she
could see the soft green turf, a bright flower-border, and an old
brick wall, mellowed in tone by age, behind it; and a little to the
left, a high, thick screen of tall shrubs of many varieties, set so
close that all the different shades of green melted into each other.
The irregular roof of a large house, standing on lower ground than the
garden, with quaint gables and old chimneys, rose above the belt of
shrubs; the tiles on it lay in layers that made Beth think of a wasp's
nest, only that they were dark-red instead of grey; but she loved the
colour as it appeared all amongst the green trees and up against the
blue sky. She often wondered what was going on under that roof, and
used to invent stories about it. She did not write anything in these
days, however, but stored up impressions which were afterwards of
inestimable value to her. The smooth grey boles of the beeches, the
green down on the larches, the dark, blue-green crown which the Scotch
fir held up, as if to accentuate the light blue of the sky, and the
wonderful ruddy-gold tones that shone on its trunk as the day
declined; these things she felt and absorbed rather than saw and
noted, but because she felt them they fired her soul, and resolved
themselves into poetic expression eventually.
They dined early, and on the hot afternoons they sat and worked
together after dinner, Beth sewing and Aunt Victoria knitting, until
it was cool enough to go out. Aunt Victoria was teaching Beth how to
make some new underclothing for herself, to Beth's great delight. All
of her old things that were not rags were patches, and the shame of
having them so was a continual source of discomfort to her; but Aunt
Victoria, when she discovered the state of Beth's wardrobe, bought
some calico out of her own scanty means, and set her to work. During
these long afternoons, they had many a conversation that Beth
recollected with pleasure and profit. She often amused and interested
the old lady; and sometimes she drew from her a serious reprimand or a
solemn lecture, for both of which she was much the better. Aunt
Victoria was severe, but she was sympathetic, and she was just; she
seldom praised, but she showed that she was satisfied, and that was
enough for Beth; and she never scolded or punished, only spoke
seriously when she was displeased, and then Beth was overwhelmed.
One very hot day when they were working together, Aunt Victoria
sitting on a high-backed chair with her back to the open doors because
the light was too much for her eyes, and Beth sitting beside her on a
lower seat, but so that she could look up at her, and also out into
the garden, it occurred to her that once on a time, long ago, Aunt
Victoria must have been young, and she tried artfully to find out
first, if Aunt Victoria remembered the fact, and secondly, what little
girls were like at that remote period.
"Was your mamma like mine, Aunt Victoria?" she asked.
Aunt Victoria had just made a mistake in her knitting, and answered
shortly: "No, child."
"When you were all children," Beth pursued, "did you play together?"
"Not much," Aunt Victoria answered grimly.
"Did you quarrel?"
"My dear child! what could put such a notion into your head?"
"What did you do then?" said Beth. "You couldn't have been all the
time learning to sit upright on a high-backed chair; and I am trying
so hard to think what your home was like. I wish you would tell me."
"It was not at all like yours," Aunt Victoria replied with emphasis.
"We were most carefully brought up children. Our mother was an
admirable person. She lived by rule. If one of her children was born
at night, it was kept in the house until the morning, and then sent
out to nurse until it was two years old. If it was born by day, it was
sent away at once."
"And didn't great-grandmamma ever go to see it?"
"Yes, of course; twice a year."
"I think," said Beth, reflecting, "I should like to keep my babies at
home. I should want to put their little soft faces against mine, and
kiss them, you know."
"Your great-grandmamma did her duty," said Aunt Victoria with grim
approval. "She never let any of us loll as you are doing now, Beth.
She made us all sit up, as _I_ always do, and as I am always telling
you to do; and the consequence was our backs grew strong and never
ached."
"And were you happy?" Beth said solemnly.
Aunt Victoria gazed at her vaguely. She had never asked herself the
question. Then Beth sat with her work on her lap for a little, looking
up at the summer sky. It was an exquisite deep blue just then, with
filmy white clouds drawn up over it like gauze to veil its brightness.
The red roofs and gables and chimneys of the old house below, the
shrubs, the dark Scotch fir, the copper-beech, the limes and the
chestnut stood out clearly silhouetted against it; and Beth felt the
forms and tints and tones of them all, although she was thinking of
something else.
"Mamma's back is always aching," she observed at last, returning to
her work.
"Yes, that is because she was not so well brought up as we were," Aunt
Victoria rejoined.
"_She_ says it is because she had such a lot of children," said Beth.
"Did you ever have any children, Aunt Victoria?"
Miss Victoria Bench let her knitting fall on her
lap--"My--dear--child!" she gasped, holding up both her hands in
horror.
"Oh, I forgot," said Beth. "Only married ladies have children.
Servants have them, though, sometimes before they are married, Harriet
says, and then they call them bad girls. Grandmamma wasn't as wise as
great-grandmamma, I suppose, but perhaps great-grandmamma had a good
husband. Grandpapa was an awful old rip, you know."
Aunt Victoria stared at her aghast.
"He used to drink," Beth proceeded, lowering her voice, and glancing
round mysteriously as the old servants at Fairholm did when they
discussed these things; "and grandmamma couldn't bear his ways or his
language, and used to shut herself up in her own room more and more,
and they never agreed, and at last she went quite mad, so the saying
came true. Did you never hear the saying? Why, you know her father's
crest was a raven, and grandpapa's crest was a bee, and for
generations the families had lived near each other and never been
friends; and it was said, if the blood of the bees and the ravens were
ever put in the same bowl it wouldn't mingle. Do you say 'if it were,'
or 'if it was,' Aunt Victoria? Mamma says 'if it were.'"
"_We_ were taught to say 'if it was,'" Aunt Victoria answered stiffly;
"but your mamma may know better."
Beth thought about this for a minute, then set it aside for further
inquiry, and dispassionately resumed. "That was a mean trick of Uncle
James's, but it was rather clever too; I should never have thought of
it. I mean with the fly, you know. When grandpapa died, Uncle James
got his will and altered it, so that mamma mightn't have any money;
and he put a fly in grandpapa's mouth, and swore that the will was
signed by his hand while there was life in him."
"My dear child," said Aunt Victoria sharply, "who told you such a
preposterous story?"
"Oh, I heard it about the place," Beth answered casually; "everybody
knows it." She took another needleful of thread, and sewed on steadily
for a little, and Aunt Victoria kept glancing at her meanwhile, with a
very puzzled expression.
"But what I want to know is _why_ did grandmamma stay with grandpapa
if he were, or was, such a very bad man?" Beth said suddenly.
"Because it was her duty," said Aunt Victoria.
"And what was his duty?"
"I think, Beth," said the old lady, "you have done sewing enough for
this afternoon. Run out into the garden."
Beth knew that this was only an excuse not to answer her, but she
folded her work up obediently, observing as she did so, however, with
decision, "If _I_ ever have a bad husband, I shall _not_ stay with
him, for I can't see what good comes of it."
"Your grandmamma had her children to think of," said Aunt Victoria.
"But what good did she do them?" Beth wanted to know. "She devoted
herself to Uncle James, but she didn't make much of a man of him! And
she had no influence whatever with mamma. Mamma was her father's
favourite, and he taught her to despise grandmamma because she
couldn't hunt, and shrieked if she saw things killed. I think that's
silly myself, but it's better than being hard. Of course mamma is
worth a dozen of Uncle James, but--" Beth shrugged her shoulders, then
added temperately, "You know mamma has her faults, Aunt Victoria, it's
no use denying it. So what good did grandmamma do by staying? She just
went mad and died! If she'd gone away, and lived as you do, she might
have been alive and well now."
"Ah, my dear child," said the old lady sorrowfully, "that never could
have been; for I have observed that no woman who marries and becomes a
mother can ever again live happily like a single woman. She has
entered upon a different phase of being, and there is no return for
her. There is a weight of meaning in that expression: 'the ties of
home.' It is 'the ties of home' that restrain a loving woman, however
much she suffers; there are the little daily duties that no one but
herself can see to; and there is always some one who would be worse
off if she went. There is habit too; and there are those small
possessions, each one with an association of its own perhaps, that
makes it almost a sacred thing; but above all, there is hope--the hope
that matters may mend; and fear--the fear that once she deserts her
post things will go from bad to worse, and she be to blame. In your
grandmamma's day such a thing would never have been thought of by a
good woman; and even now, when there are women who actually go away
and work for themselves, if their homes are unhappy--" Aunt Victoria
pursed up her lips, and shook her head. "It may be respectable, of
course," she concluded magnanimously; "but I cannot believe it is
either right or wise, and certainly it is not loyal."
"Loyal!" Beth echoed; "that was my father's word to me: 'Be loyal.'
We've got to be loyal to others; but he also said that we must be
loyal to ourselves."
Aunt Victoria had folded up her knitting, and now rose stiffly, and
went out into the garden with an old parasol, and sat meditating in
the sun on the trunk of a tree that had been cut down. She often sat
so under her parasol, and Beth used to watch her, and wonder what it
felt like to be able to look such a long, long way back, and have so
many things to remember.