When she did what Aunt Victoria approved, Beth felt that she was
making Aunt Victoria happy. Her dead were never far from her, never
beyond recall. She conquered her pride for Aunt Victoria's sake, and
began to go out again with her mother for the morning walk that winter
unasked; but Mrs. Caldwell seemed indifferent to the attention. She
let Beth walk beside her day after day, but remained absorbed in her
own reflections, and made no effort to talk to Beth and take her out
of herself; so that Beth very soon found the duty intolerably irksome.
It irritated her, too, when she caught her mother smiling to herself,
and on asking what was amusing her, Mrs. Caldwell replied, still
smiling, "Never _you_ mind." With Beth's temperament it was not
possible that the sense of duty would long survive such snubs.
Gradually she began to wander off by herself again, leaving her mother
pacing up and down the particular sheltered terrace overlooking the
sea on which she always walked at that hour, and Bernadine playing
about the cliffs or the desolate shore.
The whole place was desolate and melancholy at that time of the year.
The wind-swept streets were generally deserted, and the few people who
ventured out looked cold and miserable in their winter wraps. When a
gleam of sunshine enlivened the sky, the sailors would stand at the
top of the steps that led down on to the pier, with their hands in
their trousers-pockets, chewing tobacco, and straining their eyes out
seaward as if they were watching for something special; and Beth would
stand there among them, and look out too--out, far beyond the range of
their mental vision, eastwards, to summer lands whence the swallows
came, where the soft air was perfumed with flowers, and there was
brightness and warmth and ease, and the sea itself, so full of
complaint down below there, raged no more, neither lamented, but
sang. And there Aunt Victoria would be, sitting somewhere out of doors
under the trees, with good things, books and work and fruit and
flowers, piled up on a little table beside her, and every wish of her
heart gratified, looking serenely happy, and smiling and nodding and
beckoning to Beth. But following fast upon the vision, Aunt Victoria
would be beside her in the bitter wind, wearing her old brown dress
with white spots that was far too thin, and making believe that she
did not shiver; then they had returned from the morning walk, and Aunt
Victoria was pausing a moment at the bottom of the stairs to look up,
as if measuring her strength and the distance, before she took hold of
the bannister and began to mount wearily, but never once trusting
herself to glance towards Bernadine and the bread, lest something
should be seen in her face which she chose to conceal. From that
vision Beth would fly down the steps to the sands, and escape it in a
healthy race with the turgid waves that came cresting in and broke on
the barren shore.
Then one day, suddenly, as it seemed, a bird sang. The winter was
over, spring was upon the land again, and Beth looked up and smiled.
The old pear-tree in the little garden at the back was a white wonder
of blossom, and, in front, in the orchard opposite, the apple-trees
blushed with a tinge of pink. Beth, seeing them one morning very early
from her bed in Aunt Victoria's room, arose at once, rejoicing, and
threw the window wide open. Beth might have used the same word to
express the good and the beautiful, as the Greeks did, so inseparably
were the two associated in her mind. At this stage of her development
she felt very literally--
"The heavens are telling the glory of God,
The wonder of His works displays the firmament."
"O Lord, how wondrous are Thy works," she chanted to herself softly,
as she gazed, awe-stricken, at the loveliness of the rose-tinged foam
on the fruit-trees, and her whole being was thrilled with gratitude
for the beauty of earth. She took deep draughts of the sweet morning
air, and, like the Indian devotee, she breathed a sacred word with
every breath. But passive ecstasy was not enough for Beth. Her fine
feelings strove for expression always in some fine act, and as she
stood at the window she made good resolutions. Her life should be
ordered to worthy purposes from morning till night. She would in
future begin the day by getting up to greet the dawn in an ecstasy of
devotion. Not a minute later than daybreak would do for her. All
Beth's efforts aimed at an extreme.
She idled most of that day away in contemplation of her project, and
she was as dilatory and troublesome as she could be, doing nothing
she ought to have done, because her mind was so full of all the things
she was going to do. What she feared was that she would never be able
to wake herself in time, and she went to bed at a preposterously early
hour, and sat long in her night-dress, thinking how to manage it. At
last it occurred to her that if she tied her great toe to the bed-post
with a piece of string, it would give her a jerk when she moved, and
so awake her.
The contrivance answered only too well. She could not sleep for a long
time, and when at last she dropped off, she was almost immediately
awakened by a pitiless jerk from the string. She had Aunt Victoria's
old watch under her pillow, and lighted a match to see the time. It
was only twelve. When would the day break? She turned, and tossed, and
fidgeted. The string on her toe was very uncomfortable, but nothing
would have induced her to be so weak as to take it off. One, two,
three, she heard the church-clock strike, but it was still pitch dark.
Then she dozed off again, but in a minute, as it seemed to her, she
was re-aroused by the string. She gave a great weary sigh and opened
her eyes. It was all grey daylight in the room.
Beth was out of bed as soon as she could get the string off her toe.
The water was very cold, and she shivered and yawned and stretched
over it, but washed herself with exaggerated conscientiousness all the
same, then huddled on her clothes, and stood awhile, not knowing quite
what to do next. She had slept with the window open, and now she drew
up the blind. Under the leaden sky the apple-trees showed no tinge of
colour, and it was as if white sheets had been spread out over them
for the night. Beth thought of curl-papers and rooms all covered up
from the dust when Harriet was sweeping, and felt no enthusiasm. She
was on the west side of the house, and could not therefore see the sun
rise; but she must see the sunrise--sunrise--sunrise. She had never
seen the sunrise. The sea was east. It would rise over the sea. The
sea at sunrise! The very thought of it took her breath away. She put
on her things and slipped into the acting-room. Her mother took the
front-door key up to her room with her when she went to bed at night,
so that the only way out was by the acting-room window. Beth swung
herself round the bar, crept cautiously down the tiles to the pump,
jumped to the ground, then ran up the entry, and let herself out by
the back-gate into the street. There she was seized upon by a great
feeling of freedom. She threw up her arms, filled her lungs with a
deep breath, and ran. There was not a soul to be seen. The town was
hers!
She made for a lonely spot on the cliff, where a stream fell in a
cataract on to the sand, and there was a rustic seat with a lovely
view of the bay. Beth dropped on to the seat out of breath and looked
curiously about her. The tide was high. The water, smooth, sullen,
swollen and weary, broke on the shore in waves so small that it seemed
as if the sea, tired of its endless task, were doing dispiritedly as
little as it dared, and murmuring at that. The curving cliffs on the
left looked like white curtains, closely drawn. The low grey sky was
unbroken by cloud or rift except low down on the horizon, where it had
risen like a blind drawn up a little to admit the light. It was a
melancholy prospect, and Beth shivered and sighed in sympathy. Then a
sparrow cheeped somewhere behind her, and another bird in the hedge
softly fluted a little roulade. Beth looked round to see what it was,
and at that moment the light brightened as if it had been suddenly
turned up. She looked at the sea again. The rift in the leaden sky had
lengthened and widened, and the first pale primrose of the dawn showed
beyond. A faint flush followed, and then it seemed as if the night sky
slowly rolled itself up and was put away, leaving a floor of silver,
deepening to lilac, for the first bright beam to disport itself upon.
Then the sea smiled, and the weariness of it, back and forth, back and
forth, passed into animation. Its smooth surface became diapered with
light airs, and moved with a gentle roll. The sullen murmur rose to a
morning song, and a boat with bare mast at anchor in the bay, the only
one in sight, rocked to the tune. A great sea-bird sailed by, gazing
down into the depths with piercing eyes, and a grey gull flew so close
to the water, it seemed as if his wings must dip at every flap. The
sky by this time was all a riot of colour, at which Beth gazed in
admiration, but without rapture. Her intellect acknowledged its
loveliness, but did not delight in it--heart and soul were untouched.
The spirit of the dawn refused to speak to her. She had exhausted
herself in her effort to induce the intoxication of devotion which had
come to her spontaneously the day before. The great spirit does not
want martyrs. Joy in beauty and goodness comes of a pure and tranquil
mind, not of a tortured body. The faces of the holy ones are calm and
their souls serene.
A little farm-house stood back from the road just behind the seat
where Beth was sitting, and a tall gaunt elderly man, with a beard on
his chin, came out presently and stood staring grimly at the sunrise.
Then he crossed the road deliberately, sat down at the other end of
the seat, and stared at Beth.
"You're early out," he said at last.
Beth detected something hostile in the tone, and fixed her big
fearless grey eyes upon him defiantly. "It's a free country," she
said.
"Free or not," he answered drily, "it isn't fit fur no young gell to
be out alone at sechun a time. Ye should be indoors gettin' the
breakfast."
"Thank you," said Beth, "I've no need to get the breakfast."
"Well, it makes it all the worse," he rejoined; "fur if ye're by way
o' bein' a lady, it not on'y means that ye're out wi' no one to tak'
care of ye, but that ye've niver been taught to tak' care o' yerself.
Lady!" he ejaculated. "Pride and patches! Tak' my advice, _lady_, go
back to yer bed, get yer meed o' sleep, wak' up refreshed, and set to
work."
He spat on the grass in a self-satisfied way when he had spoken, and
contemplated the sunrise like a man who has done his duty and earned
the right to repose.
Beth got up and walked home despondently. She climbed in at the
acting-room window, and went to her own room. The sun was shining on
the apple-blossom in the orchard opposite, and she looked for the
charm of yesterday, but finding only the garish commonplace of
fruit-trees in flower with the sun on them, she drew down the blind.
Then she took off her hat and jacket, threw herself on her bed, and
fell into a heavy sleep, with her brow puckered and the corners of her
mouth drooping discontentedly.
The next night she determined to take her meed of sleep, and did not
tie the string to her toe. It had been a long lonely day, filled with
great dissatisfaction and vague yearnings for companionship; but when
she fell asleep she had a happy dream, so vivid that it seemed more
real than anything she had seen in her morning ramble. It was eight
o'clock in the evening, she dreamt, and there was some one waiting for
her under the pear-tree in the garden. The night air was fresh and
fragrant. The moonlight shone on the white blossoms overhead, which
clustered so close that no ray penetrated to the ground beneath, so
that there all was shadowy, but still she could see that there was
some one standing in the shade, and she knew that he was waiting for
her. She had never seen him before, yet she knew him well and hurried
to meet him; and he took her in his arms and kissed her, and his
kisses thrilled her with a thrill that remained with her for many a
day.
She got up the moment she awoke, and looked about her in a kind of
amaze, for everything she saw was transfigured. It was in herself,
however, that the light burned which made the world so radiant. As the
old apple-trees, warmed by the sun, suddenly blossomed into bridal
beauty in the spring, so, in the silent night, between sundown and
day-dawn, while she slept, yet another petal of her own manifold
nature had unfolded, and in the glow of its loveliness there was
nothing of commonplace aspect; for a new joy in life was hers which
helped her to discover in all things a hitherto unsuspected charm.
Beth's little life had been full of childish irregularities, the
little duties being continually slurred and neglected that the little
pleasures might be indulged in the sooner. She was apt to regard
bathing, hair-brushing, dressing, and lessons as mere hindrances to
some of the particular great businesses of life which specially
occupied her--verse-making, for instance, piano-playing, poaching, or
praying, whichever happened to be the predominant interest of the
moment. But now, on a sudden, the care of her person became of
extraordinary importance. All the hints, good and bad, she had had on
the subject recurred to her, and she began to put them into practice
systematically. She threw the clothes back from her bed to air it the
moment she got up, that it might be fresh and sweet to sleep in. Her
little bath had hitherto been used somewhat irregularly, but now she
fetched hot and cold water for herself, and bathed every day. She
brushed her hair glossy, and tightened her stays to make her waist
small, and she was sorely dissatisfied because her boots did not pinch
her feet. She began to take great care of her hands too, and would do
no dusting without gloves on, or dirty work of any kind that was
calculated to injure them. She used a parasol when she could, and if
she got sunburnt bathing or boating, she washed her face in buttermilk
at night, fetched from Fairholm regularly for the purpose. The minds
and habits of the young are apt to form themselves in this way out of
suggestions let fall by all kinds of people, the worst and most
foolish as well as the wisest and best.
Beth longed that morning for something new and smart to wear. Her old
black things looked so rusty in the spring sunshine, she could not
satisfy herself with anything she had. All Aunt Victoria's possessions
were hers, and she examined her boxes, looking for something to
enliven her own sombre dress, and found some lace which she turned
into a collar and cuffs and sewed on. When she saw herself in the
glass with this becoming addition to her dress, her face brightened at
the effect. She knew that Aunt Victoria would have been pleased to see
her look like that--she was always pleased when Beth looked well; and
now, when Beth recollected her sympathy, all the great fountain of
love in her brimmed over, and streamed away in happy little waves, to
break about the dear old aunt somewhere on the foreshore of eternity,
and to add, perhaps, who knows how or what to her bliss.
When Beth went down to breakfast, she was very hungry, but there was
only one little bloater, which must be left for mamma to divide with
Bernadine. There was not much butter either, so Beth took her toast
nearly dry, and her thin coffee with very little milk and no sugar in
it, also for economical reasons; but the coffee was hot, and she was
happy. Her happiness bubbled up in bright little remarks, which
brightened her mother too.
"Mamma," said Beth, taking advantage of her mood, "it's a poor heart
that never rejoices. Let's have a holiday, you and I, to celebrate the
summer."
"But the summer hasn't come," Mrs. Caldwell objected, smiling.
"But summer is coming, is coming," Beth chanted, "and I want to make a
song about it."
"_You_ make a song!" Bernadine exclaimed. "Why, you can't spell
summer."
Beth made a face at her. "I know you want a holiday, mamma," she
resumed. "Come, confess! I work you to death. And there's church
to-day at eleven, and I want to go."
"Well, if you want to go to church," said Mrs. Caldwell, relieved.
Beth did not wait to hear the end of the sentence.
She went to the drawing-room first, and sat down at the little
rosewood piano with a volume of Moore's "Lalla Rookh" open before her.
"From the mountain's warbling fount I come,"
she chanted, with her eyes fixed on the words, but she played as if
she were reading notes. She wove all the poems she loved to music in
this way, and played and sang them softly to herself by the hour
together.
The Lenten service in the church at the end of the road was but poorly
attended. There were not more than a dozen people present; but Beth,
seated beside the door, enjoyed it. She was all fervour now, and every
emotional exercise was a pleasure.
After the service she strolled down the quaintly irregular front
street, which was all red brick houses with small window-panes, three
to the width of the window, except where an aspiring tradesman had
introduced plate-glass and a vulgar disguise of stucco, which
converted the warm-toned bricks into commonplace colourless greyness.
It was on one side of this street that the principal shops were, and
Beth stood for some time gazing at a print in a stationer's window--a
lovely little composition of waves lapping in gently towards a
sheltered nook on a sandy beach. Beth, wafted there instantly, heard
the dreamy murmur and felt the delicious freshness of the sea, yet the
picture did not satisfy her.
"I should want somebody," she broke out in herself. "I should want
somebody--somebody to lay my head against. Ah, dear Lord, how I hate
to be alone!"
Old Lady Benyon, at her post of observation in the big bow-window at
the top of the street, saw Beth standing there, and speculated.
"Gracious, how that child grows!" she exclaimed. "She'll be a woman
directly."
As Beth went on down the street, she began to suffer from that dull
irresolute feeling which comes of a want of purpose. She wanted a
companion and she wanted an object. Presently she met a young man who
looked at her intently as they approached each other, and as he looked
his face brightened. Beth's pulse quickened pleasurably and her colour
rose. Her steps became buoyant. She held up her head and glowed with
animation, but was unaware of the source of this sudden happy
stimulant, nor did she try to discover it. She was living her
experiences then, by-and-by she would reflect upon them, then
inevitably she would reproduce them, and all without intention. As the
sun rises, as the birds build, so would she work when the right time
came. Talent may manufacture to order, but works of genius are the
outcome of an irresistible impulse, a craving to express something for
its own sake and the pleasure of expressing it, with no thought of
anything beyond. It is talent that thinks first of all of applause and
profits, and only works to secure them--works for the result, for the
end in view--never for love of the work.
Beth's heart had no satisfaction at home; she had no friend of her own
sex to fill it as most girls have, and a nature like hers, rich in
every healthy possibility, was bound to crave for love early. It was
all very well for her mother and society as it is constituted to
ignore the needs of nature; by Beth herself they would not be ignored.
In most people, whether the senses or the intellect will have the
upper-hand is very much a matter of early training.
Because she was a girl, Beth's intellect had been left to stagnate for
want of proper occupation or to run riot in any vain pursuit she might
happen upon by accident, while her senses were allowed to have their
way, unrestrained by any but the vaguest principles. Thanks to her
free roving outdoor habits, her life was healthy if it were not happy,
and she promised to mature early. Youth and sex already began to hang
out their signals--clear skin, slim figure, light step, white teeth,
thick hair, bright eyes. She was approaching her blossoming time, the
end of her wintry childhood, the beginning of a promising spring. It
was natural and right that her pulses should quicken and her spirits
rise when a young man met her with a friendly glance. Her whole being
was suffused with the glory of love, and her mind held the vision; but
it was of an abstract kind as yet, not inspired by man. It was in
herself that the emotion arose, in happy exuberance, and bubbled over,
expending itself in various forms of energy until it should find one
object to concentrate itself upon. There comes a time to all healthy
young people when Nature says: "Mate, my children, and be happy." If
the impulse come prematurely, it is not the young people, but the old
ones that are to blame; they should have seen to it that the
intellect, which acts as a curb on the senses when properly trained
and occupied, developed first. Beth was just at the age when the
half-educated girl has nothing to distract her but her own emotions.
Her religion, and the young men who are beginning to make eyes at her,
interest her then about equally, and in much the same way; she owes to
each a pleasurable sensation. If she can combine the two under one
roof, as in church, they suffice and her happiness is complete. It
cannot be said, however, that the senses awoke before the intellect in
Beth; but because of the irregularities of her training, the want of
discipline and order, they took possession of her first.
Passing a shop-window, Beth caught a reflection of herself in the
polished pane, and saw that her skirt hung badly: it dipped too much
behind. She stopped to gauge the length, that she might alter it when
she went in, and then she noticed the pretty light summer things
displayed in the window, and ached to possess some. She was miserably
conscious of her old ill-cut skirt, more especially of the invisible
dirt on it, and she did so yearn for something new and sweet and
clean. Her mother had a bill at that shop--should she--should she just
go in and ask about prices? No, she could not in that horrid old
frock; the shopman would not respect her. She had intended to go down
to the sands and sit by the sea, and wait for things to come to her,
by which she meant ideas; but the discomfort of mind set up by that
glimpse of her uncouth clothes, and the horrible sense of their want
of freshness, gained upon her, and drove her in hurriedly. Beth would
have expressed the dainty refinement of her mind in her dress had she
had the means; but it is difficult to be dainty on nothing a year.
The rest of the day she spent in her room sewing. She found that one
of Aunt Victoria's summer silks would fit her with very little
alteration, and set to work to make a Sunday frock of it. As she
worked she thought of the dear old lady, and of the hours they had sat
there together sewing, and of their teas and talks. She would not have
known how to alter that dress but for Aunt Victoria; it made her both
sad and glad to remember how much she owed her.
Later in the day, after dinner, when the sun had set and the darkness
was beginning to gather, Beth became aware of a curious sensation. It
was as if she were expecting something delightful to happen, and yet,
at the same time, was all aching with anxiety. Then suddenly she
remembered her dream. The old pear-tree was a pyramid of blossom.
Should she go and see the white foam-flowers by moonlight? The moon
had risen.
She stole out into the garden, anxious above everything to go alone.
Her heart throbbed curiously; what did she expect? The young moon hung
in an indigo sky, and there were some white stars. The air was fresh
and fragrant as it had been in her dream, but there was less light.
She had to peer into the shade beneath the pear-tree to see--to see
what? If there were any one there? Of course there was no one there!
How could there be? She did not trust herself closer, however, until
she was quite sure that there was nothing to encounter but the trunk
of the tree. Then she went bravely, and reclined on the see-saw board,
looking up through the black branches to the clustering blossoms that
shone so white on the topmost twigs in the moonlight. And presently
she began to glow with a great feeling of exultation. It began in her
chest, and spread, as from a centre, all over her. The details of her
dream recurred to her, the close clasp, the tender kiss, and she
thrilled again at the recollection.
But, for the present, the recollection was enough.