The Beth Book
had not her friends been in a difficulty, with no one at hand to help
them out of it but herself. But to be drawn from her hallowed
seclusion into such a blaze of publicity, even for once, was not at
all to her mind, and much of her wakefulness of the night before had
been caused by her shrinking from the prospect.
Late that night after the meeting she returned to her cottage alone,
cowering in a corner of the Kilroys' carriage. She was cowering from
the recollection of a great crowd that rose with deafening shouts and
seemed to be rushing at her--cowering, too, from the inevitable which
she had been forced to recognise--her vocation--discovered by
accident, and with dismay, for it was not what she would have chosen
for herself in any way had it occurred to her that she had any choice
in the matter. There were always moments when she would fain have led
the life which knows no care beyond the cultivation of the arts, no
service but devotion to them, no pleasure like the enjoyment of
them,--a selfish life made up of impersonal delights, such as music,
which is emotion made audible, painting, which is emotion made
visible, and poetry, which is emotion made comprehensible;--and such a
life could not have been anything but grateful to one like Beth, who
had the capacity for so many interests of the kind. She was debarred
from all that, however, by grace of nature. Beth could not have lived
for herself had she tried. So that now, when the call had come, and
the way in which she could best live for others was made plain to her,
she had no thought but to pursue it.
The carriage put her down at her garden-gate, and she stood awhile in
the moonlight, listening to it as it rolled away with patter of
horses' hoofs and rattle of harness, listening intently as if the
sound concerned her. Then she let herself in, and was hurrying up to
her room, but stopped short on the stairs, cowering from the crowd
that rose and cheered and cheered and seemed to be rushing at her.
Her bedroom had windows east, west, and south, so that she had sunrise
and sunset and the sun all day. When she went in now, she found the
lamps lighted and all the windows shut, and she went round and flung
them open with an irritable gesture. Her nerves were overwrought; the
slightest contrariety upset her. The sweet fresh country air streamed
in and the tranquil moonlight. These alone would ordinarily have been
enough to soothe her, but now she paid no heed to them. When she had
opened the windows, she began to take off her things in feverish
haste, pacing about the room restlessly the while, as if that helped
her to be quicker. Everything she wore seemed too hot, too heavy, or
too tight, and she flung hat and cloak and bodice down just where she
took them off in her haste to get rid of them. Throwing her things
about like that was an old trick of her childhood, and becoming
conscious of what she was doing, she remembered it, and began to think
of herself as she had been then, and so forget her troubled self as
she was at that moment--fresh from the excitement and terror of an
extraordinary achievement, a great success. For she had spoken that
night as few have spoken--spoken to a hostile audience and fascinated
them by the power of her personality, the mesmeric power which is part
of the endowment of an orator, and had so moved them that they rose at
last and cheered her for her eloquence, whether they held her opinions
or not. Then there had come friendly handshakes and congratulations
and encouragement; and one had said, "Beth is launched at last upon
her true career."
"But who could have thought that that was her bent?" another had
asked.
Beth did not hear the answer, but she knew what it should have been.
She had been misled herself, and so had every one else, by her pretty
talent for writing, her love of turning phrases, her play on the music
of words. The writing had come of cultivation, but this--the last
discovered power--was the natural gift. Angelica had said that all the
indications had pointed to literary ability in Beth, but there had
been other indications hitherto unheeded. There was that day at
Castletownrock when Beth invited the country people in to see the
house, and, for the first time, found words flowing from her lips
eloquently; there were her preachings to Emily and Bernadine in the
acting-room, of which they never wearied; her first harangue to the
girls who had caught her bathing on the sands, and the power of her
subsequent teaching which had bound them to the Secret Service of
Humanity for as long as she liked; there was her storytelling at
school, too, and her lectures to the girls--not to mention the charm
of her ordinary conversation when the mood was upon her, as in the
days when she used to sit and fish with the bearded sailors, and held
them with curious talk as she had held the folk in Ireland,
fascinating them. And then there was the unexpected triumph of her
first public attempt--indications enough of a natural bent, had there
been any one to interpret them.
Beth, as she thought on these things, wandered from window to window,
too restless and excited to sit still; but, even occupied as she was,
after she had changed her dress the old trick came upon her, and she
was all the while observing.
It was autumn, and on the south she overlooked a field of barley,
standing in stooks, waiting to be carted. She noticed how the long,
irregular rows and their shadows showed in the moonlight. Across the
field the farm to which it belonged nestled in an apple-orchard. From
the east end of the house she obtained a glimpse of the sea, which was
near enough, for the drowsy murmur of it reached her even in calm
weather. To the west the highroad ran, and in her wanderings from
window to window Beth paused to contemplate it, to follow it in
imagination whither it led, to think of the weary way it was to so
many weary feet, to mourn because she could not offer rest and
refreshment to every one that passed.
The night was clear and the air was crisp, with a suspicion of frost
in it, such as sometimes comes in the late autumn. The moon was
sinking, and the stars shone out ever more brightly. Down in the
roadway a little brazier burned, where the road had been taken up and
blocked for repairs, and over the brazier the old watchman, who should
have been guarding the tools and materials that had been left lying
about, dozed in a sort of sentry-box. It occurred to Beth that the
task was long and dreary, and that the air grew chilly towards the
dawn. Surely some food would cheer and refresh him, and help to pass
the time. She went down to the pantry and got some, then carried it
out on a tray. But the old man was sound asleep, and, standing there
in her long white wrapper, she had to call him several times, "Old
man! old man!" before she roused him.
He awoke at last with a start, and seeing the unexpected apparition in
the dim light, exclaimed, "Holy Mother! why have you come to me?"
Beth silently set the tray before him and slipped away, leaving him in
the happy certainty that a heavenly vision had been vouchsafed him.
But the moon set, the stars paled, and, from her window to the east,
Beth watched the dark melt to dusk, and the dusk pale to an even grey,
into which were breathed the burnished colours of the happy dawn.
Then, when the sun was high, and the accustomed sounds of life and
movement that held her ear by day had well begun, down the long road
beneath the old gnarled trees the postman came beladen, and there were
brought to her pamphlets, papers, cards, letters, telegrams, a fine
variety of praise, abuse, sympathy, derision, insults, and admiration.
Quietly Beth read, and knew what it meant, all of it--success! and
the success she had most desired: that her words should come with
comfort to thousands of those that suffer, who, when they heard, would
raise their heads once more in hope. In one paper that she opened she
read: "A great teacher has arisen among us, a woman of genius--"
Hastily she put the paper aside, burning with a kind of shame,
although alone, to see so much said of herself. Beth was one of the
first swallows of the woman's summer. She was strange to the race when
she arrived, and uncharitably commented upon; but now the type is
known, and has ceased to surprise.
When she was dressed that morning, she went down to her bright little
breakfast parlour. Before her was the harvest-field, looking its
loveliest in the early morning sunlight. As she contemplated the
peaceful scene, she thought that she should feel herself a singularly
fortunate being. The dead would be with her no more, alas! except in
the spirit; but all else that heart could desire, was it not hers? The
answer came quick, No! Something was wanting. But she did not ask
herself what the something was.
The harvesters were not at work that morning, and she had not seen a
soul since she sat down to breakfast; but before she left the table, a
horseman came out from the farm, and rode towards her across the long
field, deliberately. She watched him, absently at first, but as he
approached he reminded her of the Knight of her daily vision, her
saviour, who had come to rescue her in the dark days of her deep
distress at Slane--
"A bowshot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves."
"The barley-sheaves!" suddenly Beth's heart throbbed and fluttered and
stood still. The words had come to her as the interpretation of an
augury, the fulfilment of a promise. It seemed as if she ought to have
known it from the first, known that he would come like that at last,
that he had been coming, coming, coming through all the years. As he
drew near, the rider looked up at her, the sun shone on his face, he
raised his hat. In dumb emotion, not knowing what she did, Beth
reached out her hands towards him as if to welcome him. He was not the
Knight of her dark days, however, this son of the morning, but the
Knight of her long winter vigil--Arthur Brock.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
The following have been changed, as they appear to be typesetter's
errors. All other colloquialisms, non-standard spelling, grammar
and punctuation have been left as they appear in the original book.
Page 2
"I had quite forgotten the whisky," she said to the
maid-of [hyphen added] all-work,
Page 34
"What does she do it for? [added "]
Page 220
Do I separate myself from Count Bartahlinski [changed to Bartahlinsky]?
Page 290
Miss Bey had had great experience of girls, and her sharp
manner, which was mainly acquired in the effort to maintain
displine, [changed to "discipline"] somewhat belied her kindly nature.
Page 395
"I calcalute [changed to calculate?] that they come to just three
hundred pounds,"
Page 468
If we were to die now, in six
months it would be as though we had never bee [added n]
Page 469
I never knew such a woman tiil [changed to till?] I met you;
Page 522
bordered on either side with great trees, oak and elm, chestnut
and beech, and a high hawthorn hedge just whitening into
blosom. [changed to blossom]