The Beth Book
tall and slim, and in his whole appearance there was something almost
ethereal, as of a young poet or philosopher still moving among his
fellow-men, yet knowing himself to be prematurely smitten, set apart,
and consecrated to death, by some insidious slow disease from which
there is no escape. This was Beth's first notion of him, but she
always hoped it was fanciful. She thought about him a good deal in the
solitary walks which were her principal recreation. When she was tired
of working or wanted to think, she used to go out and wander alone. At
first she was afraid to venture far, for she had always been assured
that she had no head for topography, and would never be able to find
her way; and so long as she went about under escort, with some one to
save her the necessity of observing, she never knew where she was.
Now, however, that she had to look after herself, she found no
difficulty after her first timidity wore off; and this little
experience taught her why it is that the intelligence of women seems
childishly defective as regards many of the details of the business of
life. They have the faculty, but when they are not allowed to act for
themselves, it remains imperfectly developed or is altogether
atrophied for want of exercise.
It was in these days of peace that the ugly downward droop of the
corners of Beth's mouth, which had always spoilt the expression of her
face, entirely disappeared, and her firm-set lips softened into
keeping with the kindliness of her beautiful grey eyes; but she still
wanted much loving to bring out the natural tenderness which had been
so often and so cruelly nipped back in its growth. Beth had been born
to be a woman, but circumstances had been forcing her to become a
career. Strangely enough, some of the scenes she saw during her
rambles in London helped to soften her. While she was under her
husband's influence, she saw the evil only, and was filled with
bitterness. London meant for her in those days the dirt and squalor of
the poor, the depravity of the rich, the fiendish triumph of the lust
of man, and the horrible degradation of her own sex; but now that her
mind was recovering its tone, and she could see with her own eyes, she
discovered the good at war with the evil, the courage and kindliness
of the poor, signs of the growth of better feeling in the selfish and
greedy rich, the mighty power of purity at war with the license of
man, and the noble attitude of women wherever injustice was rife, the
weak oppressed, and the wronged remained unrighted; then her heart
expanded with pity, and instead of the torment of unavailing hate, she
began to revive in the glow of strengthening gleams of hope. It was in
those days too that she learnt to appreciate the wonder and beauty of
the most wonderful and beautiful city ever seen; and her eyes grew
deep from long looking and earnest meditating upon it. She
occasionally experienced the sickening sensation of being followed
about by one of those specimens of mankind so significantly called
"sly dogs" by their fellow-men. They made themselves particularly
objectionable in Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park; but she found that
an appeal to a policeman or a Park-keeper, or to any decent workman,
was enough to stop the nuisance. Genuine respect for women, which is
an antidote to the moral rottenness that promotes the decay of
nations, and portends the indefinite prolongation of the life of a
race, is of slow growth, but it is steadily increasing among the
English-speaking peoples.
During her rambles, Beth composed long letters to her friends, but
somehow none of them were ever written. She had managed to send a few
hurried lines of explanation to Mrs. Kilroy in the midst of her
packing before she left Slane. As she had not known where she would
be, she had asked Angelica to address her letters to Slane to be
forwarded; but no reply had come as yet, and Beth was just a little
sore and puzzled about it. However, she knew that, what with her
public and private duties, Angelica was overwhelmed with work, and
might well have overlooked the fact that she had not answered Beth's
letter, so Beth determined to write again. Time passed, however, and
she got into such a groove of daily duties that anything outside the
regular routine required a special effort which she always postponed,
and letters were quite outside the regular routine. After the first no
one wrote to her except the old lawyer who sent her half-yearly
dividend; and she had written to no one. She had dropped altogether
out of her own world, yet, because of her work and of her power to
interest herself in every one about her, and to appreciate the
goodness of her humblest friends, her life was full, and she had not
known a moment's discontent. Little things were great pleasures now.
To be able to get on the top of an omnibus at Piccadilly Circus when
the sun was setting, and ride to Hammersmith Broadway, engrossed in
watching the wonderful narrow cloudscape above the streets, changing
from moment to moment in form and colour; the mystery of the hazy
distances, the impression of the great buildings and tall irregular
blocks of houses appearing all massed together among the trees from
different points of view, and taking on fine architectural effects,
now transformed into huge grey palaces, large and distinct, now
looming in the mist, sketchily, with uncertain outlines, and all the
fascination of the fabrics, innocent of detail, that confront the
dreamer in enchanted woods, or lure him to the edge of fairy lakes
with twinkling lights all multiplied by their own reflection in the
water. Beth had rolled in that direction in luxurious carriages often,
and never joyed in the scene, her mind being set on other
things--things prosaic, such as what she should wear, or whether she
was late, scraps of society gossip, conversations which had satiated
without satisfying her, and remained in her mind to be items of
weariness if not of actual irritation. She had noticed in those days
how very seldom she saw a happy face in a carriage, unless it was a
very young face, full of expectation. Even the very coachmen and
footmen in the Park looked enervated, as the long lines of carriages
passed in wearisome procession. And in everything there had been that
excess which leaves no room for healthy desire. At first, the shop
windows, set out with tasteless profusion, no article in the
heterogeneous masses telling, however beautiful, each being eclipsed
by the other in the horrible glut, had interested her, and she had
looked at everything. But she soon sickened at the sight. The vast
quantities of things, crowded together, robbed her of all pleasure of
choice, and made her feel as if she had eaten too much. Occasionally
she would see two or three things of beauty displayed with art in a
large window; but everywhere else excessive quantity produced
indifference, disgust, or satiety, according to the mood of the
moment. And even in the days of her poverty and obscurity, when her
faculties were sharpened into proper appreciation by privation, those
congested windows teeming with jewels, with wearing apparel, with all
things immoderately, set up a sort of mental dyspepsia that was
distressing, and she was glad to turn away to relieve the consequent
brain-fag. But by degrees she became accustomed to the tasteless
profusion. It did not please her any better, but at all events it did
not afflict her by always obtruding itself upon her attention. She saw
it, not in detail, but as a part of the picture; and she found in the
new view of London and of London life from the top of omnibuses more
of the unexpected, of delight, of beauty for the eyes and of matter
for the mind, of humour, pathos, poetry, of tragedy and comedy,
suggestive glimpses caught in passing and vividly recollected, than
she could have conceived possible when she rolled along with society
on carriage cushions, soothed by the stultifying ease into temporary
sensuous apathy.
Winter set in suddenly and with terrible severity that year. London
became a city of snow, cruelly cold, but beautiful, all its ugliness
disguised by the white mantle, all its angles softened, all its charms
enhanced. Commonplace squares, parks, gardens, and dirty streets were
transformed into fairyland by the delicate disposition of snow in
festoons on door-post and railing, ledge and lintel, from roof to
cellar. The trees especially, all frosted with shining filigree, were
a wonder to look upon; and Beth would wander about the alleys in
Kensington Gardens, and gaze at the glory of the white world under the
sombre grey of the murky clouds, piled up in awesome magnificence,
until she ached with yearning for some word of human speech, some way
to express it, to make it manifest.
She returned one afternoon somewhat wet and weary from one of her
rambles. The little window of her attic was half snowed up, and the
gloom under the sloping roof struck a chill to her heart as she
entered; but when she had lighted the lamp (a new investment that
helped up the temperature besides giving light), and set her little
oil-stove going with the kettle on it, her surroundings took on an air
of homely comfort that was grateful. As she busied herself preparing
the tea, she noticed that her neighbour in the next attic was coughing
a good deal, and then it occurred to her that she had not seen him
about lately, and she wondered if he could be ill. The thought of a
young man of small means, ill alone in a London lodging, probably
without a bell in the room, and certainly with no one anxious to
answer it if he should ring, though not cheering, is stimulating to
the energy of the benevolent, and Beth went downstairs to ask as soon
as the notion occurred to her.
"Mr. Brock? there now!" Gwendolen exclaimed in dismay. "If I didn't
forget altogether! I've so much to see to, and the missus ill in bed
with bronchitis, and Miss Ethel run off her feet, and not too fit
'erself with that cold as 'ud be called influenza if it wasn't for
frightening the lodgers. Whatever it is, it's going through the 'ouse,
and Mr. Brock seems to have got it bad. 'E ast me when I went wiv 'is
shyving-water this morning to tike 'im some coals and mike 'im some
tea, an' I never thought no more about it--I clean forgot."
"This morning!" Beth cried. "Why that was at eight o'clock, and now it
is four!"
"I'll get 'em at once," Gwendolen said with contrition. But the girl
herself looked worn to death. She had been on her feet since early
morning, and had no prospect of a rest till she dropped on her bed
late at night, too exhausted to undress.
"Never mind," Beth said. "Give me the coals, and I'll carry them up,
and see to the rest. I have nothing else to do."
"Bless you," Gwendolen muttered.
Beth found Mr. Brock in bed, with bright eyes, and burning spots of
colour on each cheek. A lamp was burning beside him. When he saw who
it was, he raised his eyebrows; but smiled at the same time, as if he
were both surprised and pleased. The room struck cold to Beth.
"What! no fire?" she exclaimed.
"I tried to light the pesky thing," he said, "but it wouldn't burn."
"Gwendolen forgot you altogether," Beth said. "She has far too much to
do, poor girl, and I have only just heard that you were ill. Why
didn't you call me?"
He smiled again.
"We are all of the same family here, you know," Beth said, "the great
human family. You had only to say 'Sister!' and I should have come."
The smile faded from his lips, but it was replaced by another
expression, which, when she saw it, caused Beth to ejaculate inwardly,
"Surely of such are the Kingdom----"
Each had seen in the other's face at the same time something there is
no human utterance to describe, and, recognising it, had reverently
held their peace.