The Beth Book
"Kitty, ye'll not go and leave me," Beth repeated passionately.
"Troth, an' I'd stay for your sake if I could," said Kitty, "fur it's
a bad time I'm afraid ye'll be havin' once I'm gone."
"Do you hear that?" Captain Caldwell exclaimed. "Now you see what
comes of getting people of this kind into the house. She's going to
make out that the child is ill-treated."
"One of _my_ children ill-treated!" Mrs. Caldwell cried scornfully.
"Who would believe her?" Then turning to Beth: "If I ever hear you
repeat a word that wicked woman has taught you, I'll beat you as long
as I can stand over you."
Kitty looked straight into Mrs. Caldwell's face, and smiled
sarcastically, but uttered not a word.
"How dare you stand there, grinning at me in that impertinent way, you
low woman?" Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed with great exasperation. "I
believe you _are_ a Jesuit, sent here to corrupt my children. But go
you shall to-morrow morning."
"Oh, I'll go, m'em," Kitty answered quietly. She knew the case was
hopeless.
"There, now," said Mrs. Caldwell, turning to her husband. "Do you see?
That shows you! She doesn't care a bit."
Beth was clinging to Kitty, but her mother seized her by the arm, and
flung her half across the room, and was about to follow her, but
Captain Caldwell interfered. "That will do," he said significantly.
"It's no use venting your rage on the child. In future choose your
nurses better."
"Then, in future, give me better advice when I consult you about
them," Mrs. Caldwell retorted, following him out of the room.
Beth clung to Kitty the whole night long, and had to be torn from her
in the morning, screaming and kicking. She stood in front of her
mother, her eyes and cheeks ablaze:--
"I shall pray to the Blessed Virgin--I shall pray to the Blessed
Virgin--every _hour_ of my life," she gasped, "and you can't prevent
me. Beat me as long as you can stand over me if you like, but I'll
only pray the harder."
"For God's sake, m'em," Kitty cried, clasping her hands, "let that child
alone. Shure she's a sweet lamb if you'd give her a chance. But ye put
the divil into her wid yer shakin' an' yer batin', and mischief'll come
of it sooner or later, mark my words."
When Kitty had gone, Mrs. Caldwell shut Beth up in the nursery with
Baby Bernadine. Beth threw herself on the floor, and sobbed until she
had exhausted her tears; then she gathered herself together, and sat
on the floor with her hands clasped round her legs, her chin on her
knees, looking up dreamily at the sky, through the nursery window. Her
pathetic little face was all drawn and haggard and hopeless. But
presently she began to sing--
"Ave Maria!
Mother of the desolate!
Guide of the unfortunate!
Hear from thy starry home our prayer:
If sorrow will await us,
Tyrants vex and hate us,
Teach us thine own most patient part to bear!
Sancta Maria!
When we are sighing,
When we are dying,
Give to us thine aid of prayer!"
As she sang, comfort came to her, and the little voice swelled in
volume.
Baby Bernadine also sat on the floor, opposite to Beth, and gazed at
her, much impressed. When she had finished singing, Beth became aware
of her sister's reverent attention, and put out her tongue at her.
Bernadine laughed. Then Beth crisped up her hands till they looked like
claws, and began to make a variety of hideous faces. Bernadine thought
it was a game and smiled at first, but finally she ceased to recognise
her sister and shrieked aloud in terror. Beth heard her mother hurrying
up, and got behind the door so that her mother could not see her as she
opened it. Mrs. Caldwell hurried up to the baby--"The darling, then,
what have they been doing to you?"--and Beth made her escape. As she
crossed the hall, some one knocked at the front door. Beth opened it a
crack. Captain Keene was outside. When she saw him, she recollected
something she had heard about his religious opinions, and began to
question him eagerly. His answers were apparently exciting, for
presently she flung the door wide open to let him in, then ran to the
foot of the stairs, and shouted at the top of her voice--
"Papa, papa, come down! come directly! Here's old Keene, the old
Buffalo, and he says there is no God!"
Captain Caldwell descended the stairs hurriedly, but, on catching a
glimpse of his countenance, Beth did not wait to receive him.
She had to pass through the kitchen to get into the yard. It was the
busy time of the day, and Biddy and Anne and Riley, all without shoes
or stockings, were playing football with a bladder.
Biddy tried to detain Beth.
"Arrah, bad luck to ye, Biddy," Beth cried, imitating the brogue. "Let
me go, d'ye hear?"
"Holy Mother, preserve us!" Biddy exclaimed, crossing herself. "Don't
ye ever be afther wishin' anybody bad luck, Miss Beth; shure ye'll
bring it if ye do."
"Thin don't ye ever be afther stoppin' me when I want to be going,
Biddy," Beth rejoined, stamping her foot, "or I'll _blast_ ye," she
added as she passed out into the sunlight.
Fowls and ducks and Jim's pet pigeons were the only creatures moving in
the yard. Beth stood among them, watching them for a little, then went
to the cornbin in the stable, and got some oats. There was a shallow tub
of water for the birds to drink; Beth hunkered down beside it, and held
out her hand, full of corn. The pigeons were very tame, and presently a
beautiful blue-rock came up confidently, and began to eat. His eyes were
a deep rich orange colour. Beth caught him, and stroked his glossy
plumage, delighting in the exquisite metallic sheen on his neck and
breast. The colour gave her an almost painful sensation of pleasure,
which changed on a sudden into a fit of blind exasperation. Her grief
for the loss of Kitty had gripped her again with a horrid twinge. She
clenched her teeth in her pain, her fingers closed convulsively round
the pigeon's throat, and she held him out at arm's length, and shook him
viciously till the nictitating membrane dropped over his eyes, his head
sank back, his bill opened, and he hung from her hand, an inert heap of
ruffled feathers. Then the tension of her nerves relaxed; it was a
relief to have crushed the life out of something. She let the bird drop,
and stood looking at him, as an animal might have looked, with an
impassive face which betrays no shade of emotion. As she did so,
however, the bird showed signs of life; and, suddenly, quickening into
interest, she stooped down, turned him over, and examined him; then
sprinkled him with water, and made him drink. He rapidly revived, and
when he was able to stand, she let him go; and he was soon feeding among
his companions as if nothing had happened.
Beth watched them for a little with the same animal-like
expressionless gravity of countenance, then moved off unconcernedly.
She never mentioned the incident to any one, and never forgot it; but
her only feeling about it was that the pigeon had had a narrow escape.
CHAPTER VI
Beth was a fine instrument, sensitive to a touch, and, considering the
way she was handled, it would have been a wonder if discordant effects
had not been constantly produced upon her. Hers was a nature with a
wide range. It is probable that every conceivable impulse was latent
in her, every possibility of good or evil. Exactly which would
predominate depended upon the influences of these early years; and
almost all the influences she came under were haphazard. There was no
intelligent direction of her thoughts, no systematic training to form
good habits. Her brothers were sent to school as soon as they were old
enough, and so had the advantage of regular routine and strict
discipline from the first; but a couple of hours a day for lessons was
considered enough for the little girls; and, for the rest of the time,
so long as they were on the premises and not naughty, that is to say,
gave no trouble, it was taken for granted that they were safe, morally
and physically. Neither of their parents seem to have suspected their
extreme precocity; and there is no doubt that Beth suffered seriously
in after life from the mistakes of those in authority over her at this
period. People admired her bright eyes without realising that she
could see with them, and not only that she could see, but that she
could not help seeing. But even if they had realised it, they would
merely have scolded her for learning anything in that way which they
preferred that she should not know. They were not sufficiently
intelligent themselves to perceive that it is not what we know of
things, but what we think of them, which makes for good or evil. Beth
was accordingly allowed to run wild, and expected to see nothing; but
all the time her mind was being involuntarily stored with observations
from which, in time to come, for want of instruction, she would be
forced to draw her own--often erroneous--conclusions.
Kitty's departure was Beth's first great grief, and she suffered
terribly. The prop and stay of her little life had gone, the comfort
and kindness, the order and discipline, which were essential to her
nature. Mrs. Caldwell was a good woman, who would certainly do what
she thought best for her children; but she was exhausted by the
unconscionable production of a too numerous family, a family which she
had neither the means nor the strength to bring up properly. Her
husband's health, too, grew ever more precarious, and she found
herself obliged to do all in her power to help him with his duties,
which were arduous. There was a good deal that she could do in the way
of writing official letters and managing money-matters, tasks for
which she was much better fitted than for the management of children;
but the children, meanwhile, had to be left to the care of others--not
that that would have been a bad thing for them had their mother had
sufficient discrimination to enable her to choose the proper kind of
people to be with them. Unfortunately for everybody, however, Mrs.
Caldwell had been brought up on the old-fashioned principle that
absolute ignorance of human nature is the best qualification for a
wife and mother, and she was consequently quite unprepared for any
possibility which had not formed part of her own simple and limited
personal experience. She never suspected, for one thing, that a
servant's conversation could be undesirable if her appearance and her
character from her last mistress were satisfactory; and, therefore,
when Kitty had gone, she put Anne in her place without misgiving,
Anne's principal recommendation being that she was a nice-looking
girl, and had pretty deferential manners.
Anne came from one of the cabins on the Irish side of the road, where
people, pigs, poultry, with an occasional cow, goat, or donkey herded
together indiscriminately. The windows were about a foot square, and
were not made to open. Sometimes they had glass in them, but were
oftener stopped up with rags. Before the doors were heaps of manure
and pools of stagnant water. There was no regular footway, but a mere
beaten track in front of the cabins, and this, on wet days, was
ankle-deep in mud. The women hung about the doors all day long,
knitting the men's blue stockings, and did little else apparently.
Both men and women were usually in a torpid state, the result,
doubtless, of breathing a poisoned atmosphere, and of insufficient
food. It took strong stimulants to rouse them: love, hate, jealousy,
whisky, battle, murder, and sudden death. Their conversation was
gross, and they were very immoral; but it is hardly necessary to say
so, for with men, women, children, and animals all crowded together in
such surroundings, and the morbid craving for excitement to which