Aunt Victoria Bench died of failure of the heart, the medical man
decided; and, he might have added, if the feelings of the family had
not had to be considered, that the disease was accelerated by
privation and cold.
For days after the event, Beth was not to be roused. She would sit in
the tenantless room by the hour together, with the dear old aunt's
great Bible on her knee open at some favourite passage, thinking of
all that ought to have been done to save her, and suffering the ache
and rage of the helpless who would certainly have done all that could
have been done had they had their way. Again and again her mother
fetched her down to the dining-room where there was a fire, and tried
to reason with her, or scolded her for her persistent grief when
reasoning produced no effect.
"You must begin your lessons again, Beth," she said to her at last one
morning in despair. "Giving you a holiday is doing you no good at
all."
Beth went upstairs without a word, and brought down the old aunt's
French books, and sat at the dining-table with one of them open before
her; but the sight of it recalled the happy summer days in the bright
little parlour looking out on the trees and flowers, and the dear old
lady with her delicate face sitting at the end of the table placidly
knitting while Beth prepared her lesson, and the tears welled up in
her eyes once more, and fell on the yellow pages.
"Beth," said her mother emphatically, "you must not go on like this.
Why are you so selfish? Don't _I_ feel it too? Yet I control myself."
"You don't feel it as I do," Beth answered doggedly. "She was not so
much to you when she was here, how can you miss her so much now she
has gone?"
"But you have others to love," Mrs. Caldwell remonstrated. "She was
not your nearest relation."
"No, but she was the dearest," Beth replied. "I may have others to
love, but she was the one who loved me. She never said I had no
affection for any one; she never said I was selfish and thought of
nothing but my own interests. If she had to find fault with me, she
did it so that she made me want to be better. She was never unkind,
she was never unjust, and now I've lost her, I have no one."
"It is your own fault then," said Mrs. Caldwell, apt as usual to say
the kind of thing with which fatuous parents torment the genius-child.
"You are so determined not to be like other people that nobody can
stand you."
"I am not determined to be unlike other people," Beth exclaimed,
turning crimson with rage and pain. "I want to be like everybody else,
and I _am_ like everybody else. And I am always ready to care for
people too, if they will let me. It isn't my fault if they don't like
me."
"It _is_ your fault," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined. "You have an unhappy
knack of separating yourself from every one. Look at your Uncle James.
He can hardly tolerate you."
"He's a fool, so that doesn't matter," said Beth, who always dealt
summarily with Uncle James. "I can't tolerate him. But you can't say I
separate myself from Aunt Grace Mary. She likes me, and she's kind;
but she's silly, and when I'm with her any time it makes me yawn. Is
_that_ my fault? And did I separate myself from Kitty? Did I separate
myself from papa? Do I separate myself from Count Bartahlinsky? Have I
separated myself from Aunt Victoria?--and who else is there?"
"You gave Aunt Victoria plenty of trouble while she was here," Mrs.
Caldwell rejoined drily.
"Well, that is true, at all events," Beth answered in a broken voice;
and then she bowed her head on the old French grammar, and sobbed as
if her heart would break.
Mrs. Caldwell looked up from her work at her from time to time
frowning, but she was too much ruffled by some of Beth's remarks to
say anything consoling; and Beth, absorbed in her grief, lost all
consciousness of everything outside herself.
At last, however, a kindly hand was laid on her head, and some one
stroked her hair.
"That is the way she goes on, and I don't know what to do with her,"
Mrs. Caldwell was saying. "Come, Beth, rouse yourself," she added
sharply.
Beth looked up, and found that it was Aunt Grace Mary who was stroking
her hair.
"Poor little body!" said Aunt Grace Mary as if she were speaking to an
infant, then added in a sprightly tone: "Come, dear! Come, dear! Wipe
your eyes. Mamma will be here directly--my mamma--and Uncle James, and
Mr. Watson."
"What are they coming for?" said Beth.
"Oh, _your_ mamma knows," Aunt Grace Mary answered archly. "Mr. Watson
was poor dear Aunt Victoria's lawyer, and he has brought her will, and
is going to read it to us."
"Am I to be sent out of the room?" Beth asked.
"Of course," said Mrs. Caldwell. "It isn't a matter for you at all."
"Everything is a matter for me that concerned Aunt Victoria," Beth
rejoined, "and if Lady Benyon is to be here, _I_ shall stay."
Before Mrs. Caldwell could reply, Lady Benyon herself was ushered into
the little room with great deference by Uncle James. They were
followed by a little old gentleman dressed in black, with spectacles,
and a pair of badly-fitting black kid gloves. He shook hands with Mrs.
Caldwell, and then with Beth, whom he looked at over his spectacles
shrewdly. Uncle James also shook hands, and kissed his sister. "This
is a solemn occasion," he said, with emotion in his voice. Then he
looked at Beth, and added, "Had she not better go?"
Beth sat down beside Aunt Grace Mary, with her mouth obstinately set;
and Mrs. Caldwell, afraid of a scene, merely shrugged her shoulders
helplessly. Meanwhile the lawyer was blowing his nose, wiping his
spectacles, taking papers out of a pocket at the back of his
frock-coat, and settling himself at the table.
"You would like this young lady to retire, I suppose," said Uncle
James blandly.
"By no means," the little old gentleman answered, looking up at him
over his spectacles, and then at Beth. "By no means; let the young
lady remain."
Aunt Grace Mary put her arm round Beth. The lawyer broke the seal,
unfolded the will, and remarked by way of preface: "The document is in
the handwriting of the deceased. Ahem!"
Instantly into every face there came the expression that people wear
in church. Mr. Watson proceeded to read; but in a dry, distinct,
matter-of-fact tone, devoid of all emotion. A lawyer reading a will
aloud is sure of the interest of his audience, and, on this occasion,
it was evident that each member of the little group listened with
strained attention, but with very different feelings. What they
gathered was that Miss Victoria Bench, spinster, being of sound mind,
did will and bequeath everything of which she might die possessed to
her beloved great-niece, Elizabeth Caldwell, commonly called Beth.
Should Beth marry, the money was to be settled upon her for her
exclusive use. The present income from the property, about fifty
pounds a year, was to be devoted to the education of the said
Elizabeth Caldwell, commonly called Beth.
Uncle James's jaw dropped during the reading. "But," he stammered when
it was over, "if the investments recover?"
"Then Miss Elizabeth Caldwell, commonly called Beth, will have an
income of between six and seven hundred a year, _at least_," said the
lawyer, smiling.
Aunt Grace Mary clasped Beth close in a spasm of congratulation. Mrs.
Caldwell burst into tears. Beth herself, with an unmoved countenance,
perceived the disgust of Uncle James, her mother's emotion, and
something like amusement in Lady Benyon's face; and she also
perceived, but at a great distance as it were, that there was a dim
prospect of some change for the better in her life.
"Poor little body!" said Aunt Grace Mary, caressing her.
"Rich little body!" said Lady Benyon. "Come and kiss me, Puck, and let
me congratulate you."
"It is very nice for you, Beth, I am sure," said Mrs. Caldwell
plaintively, holding out her hand to Beth as she passed. Beth accepted
this also as a congratulation, and stooped and kissed her mother. Then
the lawyer got up and shook hands with her, and thereupon Uncle James,
feeling forced for decency's sake to do something, observed pointedly:
"I suppose Miss Victoria Bench was quite sane when she made this
bequest?"
"I should say that your supposition was correct," said the lawyer.
"Miss Victoria Bench always seemed to me to be an eminently sane
person."
There was no allusion whatever to Uncle James in Aunt Victoria's will.
She thanked her niece, Caroline Caldwell, kindly for the shelter she
had given her in her misfortune, and hoped that by providing for Beth
she would relieve her mother's mind of all anxiety about the child, to
whom, she proceeded to state, she left all she had in proof of the
tender affection she felt for the child, and in return for the
disinterested love and duty she had received from Beth. Aunt Victoria
wished Beth to have her room when she was gone, in order that Beth
might, as she grew up, have proper privacy in her life, with
undisturbed leisure for study, reflection, and prayer. She added that
she considered Beth a child of exceptional temperament, that peculiar
care and kindness would be necessary to develop her character; but
Miss Victoria hoped, prayed, and believed that, with the help of the
excellent abilities with which she had been endowed, Beth would not
only work out her own salvation eventually, but do something notable
to the glory of God and for the good of mankind.
Beth's heart glowed when she heard this passage, and ever afterwards,
when she recalled it, she felt strangely stimulated.
After the last solemn words of the will had been read, and the little
scene of congratulation had been enacted, there was a pause in the
proceedings, then Uncle James remarked in his happiest manner: "The
importance which old ladies attach to their little bequests is only to
be equalled by the strength of their sentiments, and the grandeur of
the language in which they are expressed. One would think a
principality was being bequeathed to a princess, instead of a few
pounds to an obscure little girl, to judge by the tone of the whole
document. Well, well!"
Beth looked at him, then drew down the corners of her mouth
impertinently. "There is one thing I can console you with, Uncle
James," she said. "You may be quite sure that when I do come into my
kingdom, I shall carefully conceal the fact that I am any relation of
yours."
Later in the day, Beth found her mother sitting in her accustomed
place by the dining-table, rocking herself sideways over her work, and
with a worried expression of countenance, as if she were uneasy in her
mind.
"Aren't you pleased, mamma," said Beth, "that I should be left the
money?"
"Why, yes, of course, my dear child," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined. Her tone
to Beth had altered very much since the morning. Even in a few short
hours Beth had been made to feel that mere money was making her a
person of more importance than she had ever before been considered.
Her mother had stopped short, but Beth waited, and Mrs. Caldwell
recommenced: "I am delighted on your account. Only, I was just
thinking. The money is of no use to you just now, and it would have
made all the difference to Jim. He ought to be making friends now who
will last him his life and help him on in his career; but he can do
nothing without an allowance, and I cannot make him one. There is no
hurry for your education. In fact, I think it would be better for your
health if you were not taught too much at present. But you shall have
your aunt's room, Beth, to study in if you like. You may even sleep
there, although I shall feel it when you leave mine. It will be
breaking up the family. That remark in the will about proper privacy
seems to me great nonsense, and you know I am not legally bound to
give you a room to yourself. However, it was the dear old lady's last
request to me, and that makes it sacred, so it shall be carried out to
the letter. The room is yours, and I hope you will enjoy your
privacy."
"Oh, I _shall_," Beth exclaimed with uncomplimentary fervour.
Mrs. Caldwell sighed and sewed on in silence for a little.
"The dear old lady left you the money because she believed you would
do some good with it," she resumed. "'For the good of mankind.' Those
are her own words. And I do think that is rather your line, Beth; and
what greater good can you do to begin with than help your brother on
in the world? To spend the money on him instead of on yourself would
really be a fine, unselfish thing to do."
Beth's great grey eyes dilated; the prospect was alluring. "I suppose there
would not be enough for both of us?" she ventured tentatively--"enough
for me to be taught some _few_ things properly, you know--English,
music, French."
"On fifty pounds a year, my dear child!" her mother exclaimed
sorrowfully. "Fifty pounds goes no way at all." Beth sighed.
"Besides," Mrs. Caldwell pursued, "_I_ can teach you all these things.
You've got beyond your childish tiresomeness now, and have only to
ask, and then I will tell you all you don't know. It would be a
pleasure and an occupation for me, and indeed, Beth, I have very
little pleasure in life. The days are long and lonely." Beth looked up
with sudden sympathy. "But if you will let me give you the lessons,
and earn the money, I could send it to Jim, and that would comfort me
greatly, and add also to _your_ happiness, I should think."
It was not in Beth to resist such an appeal. She always forgot herself
at the first symptom of sorrow or suffering in another, and never
considered her own interests if she could help somebody else by
sacrificing them.
"It _would_ add to my happiness," she answered brightly. "And if you
will just explain to me, mamma, when I don't understand things, I
shall remember all right, and not be a bother to you. Will you be kind
to me, and not scold me, and jeer at me, and make my life a burden to
me? When you do that, I hate you."
Mrs. Caldwell stopped short with her needle up in the air, in the act
of drawing the thread through her work. She was inexpressibly shocked.
"Hate your mother, Beth!" she gasped.
"I know it's abominable," said Beth, filled with compunction; "but I
can't help it. It's the devil, I suppose. He gets hold of us both, and
makes you torment me, and makes me--not like you for it."
Mrs. Caldwell quietly resumed her sewing. She was too much startled by
this glimpse of herself from Beth's point of view to say another word
on the subject; and a long silence ensued, during which she saw
herself as a sadly misunderstood mother. She determined, however, to
try and manage Beth on a new principle.
"I should like to help you to make the best of yourself, Beth," she
burst out again abruptly; "and I think I can. You are a tall girl for
your age, and are beginning to hold yourself well already. Your poor
dear aunt was very particular to teach you that. And you have the
complexion of the Bench family, if you will take care of it. You
should wash your face in buttermilk at night after being out in the
sun. I'll get you some, and I'll get you a parasol for the summer.
Your hands are not nearly so coarse as they used to be, and they would
really be quite nice if you attended to them properly. All your
father's people had good hands and feet. I must see to your gloves and
boots. I don't know what your waist is going to be, but you shall have
some good stays. A fine shape goes a long way. With your prospects you
really ought to make a good match, so do not slouch about any more as
if you had no self-respect at all. You can really do a great deal to
make yourself attractive in appearance. Your Uncle William Caldwell
had a very ugly nose, but he pinched it, and pinched it every day to
get it into shape, until at last he made it quite a good one."
Bernadine came into the room in time to hear this story, and was so
impressed by it that she tried the same experiment on her own nose
without asking if it were ugly or not, and pinched it and rubbed it so
diligently that by the time it was formed she had thickened it and
changed it from a good ordinary nose into something quite original.
This was the kind of thing that happened to ladies in the days when
true womanliness consisted in knowing nothing accurately, and always
taking advice. Efforts to improve themselves in some such way were
common enough among marriageable maidens, and their mothers helped
them to the best of their ability with equally happy hints. Because
small feet were a beauty, therefore feet already in perfect proportion
must be squeezed to reduce their size till they were all deformed; and
because slenderness was considered elegant, therefore naturally
well-formed women must compress their bodies till they looked like
cylinders or hour-glasses, and lace till their noses swelled and their
hair fell out. Never having heard of proportion, all their ambition
was to reduce themselves to something less than they were designed to
be. Those were the days when women had "no nonsense about them, sir, I
tell you," none of those new-fangled ideas about education and that.
It was a new notion to Beth that she could do anything to make herself
attractive, and she took a solemn interest in it. She listened with
absolute faith to all that her mother said on the subject, and
determined to be high-principled and make the most of herself. When
her mother talked to her in this genial friendly way, instead of
carping at her or ignoring her, Beth's heart expanded and she was
ready to do anything to please her. Lessons on the new method went on
without friction. Beth never suspected that her mother was unequal to
the task of educating her in any true sense of the word; her mother
never suspected it, neither did anybody else; and Beth had it all her
own way. If she were idle, her mother excused her; if she brought a
lesson only half-learnt, her mother prompted her all through; if she
asked questions, her mother answered them pleasantly; so that they got
on very well together, and everybody was satisfied--especially Jim,
who was benefiting by Aunt Victoria's bequest to the extent of being
able to keep up with the best of his bar-loafing acquaintances.