The Beth Book
Mrs. Caldwell drew herself up, and looked at Mrs. Small, but said
nothing; yet somehow Beth knew that she too was unhappy because of
Sophia Keene. Beth was not on familiar terms with her mother, and
would not have dared to embrace her spontaneously, or make any other
demonstration of affection; but she was loyally devoted to her all the
same, and would gladly have stabbed Sophia Keene, and have done battle
with the whole of the rest of the family on her mother's behalf had
occasion offered.
She was curled up among the fuchsias on the window-seat of the
sitting-room one day, unobserved by her parents, who entered the room
together after she had settled herself there, and began to discuss the
Keenes.
"You did not tell me, Henry, you spent all your time with them before
we came," Mrs. Caldwell said reproachfully.
"Why should I?" he answered, with a jaunty affectation of ease.
"It is not why you should," his wife said with studied gentleness,
"but why you should not. It seems so strange, making a mystery of it."
"I described old Keene to you--the old buffalo!" he replied; "and I'll
describe the girls now if you like. Mary is a gawk, Sophia is as
yellow as a duck's foot, and Lenore is half-witted."
The Keenes were ignorant, idle, good-tempered young women, and kind to
the children, whom they often took to bathe with them. They were
seldom able to go into the sea itself, for it was a wild, tempestuous
coast; but there were lovely clear pools on the rocky shore, natural
stone baths left full of water when the tide went out, sheltered from
the wind by tall, dark, precipitous cliffs, and warmed by the sun; and
there they used to dabble by the hour together. Anne went with them,
and it was a pretty sight, the four young women in white chemises that
clung to them when wet, and the three lovely children--little white
nudities with bright brown hair--scampering over the rocks, splashing
each other in the pools, or lying about on warm sunny slabs, resting
and chattering. One day Beth found some queer things in a pool, and
Sophia told her they were barnacles.
"They stick to the bottom of a ship," she said, "and grow heavier and
heavier till at last the ship can make no more way, and comes to a
standstill in a shining sea, where the water is as smooth as a mirror;
you would think it was a mirror, in fact, if it did not heave gently
up and down like your breast when you breathe; and every time it
heaves it flushes some colour, blue, or green, or pink, or purple. And
the barnacles swell and swell at the bottom of the ship, till at last
they burst in two with a loud report; and then the sailors rush to the
side of the ship and look over, and there they see a flock of
beautiful big white geese coming up out of the water; and sometimes
they shoot the geese, but if they do a great storm comes on and
engulfs the ship, and they are all drowned; but sometimes they stand
stockstill, amazed, and then the birds rise up out of the air on their
great white wings, up, up, drifting along, together, till they look
like the clouds over there. Then a gentle breeze springs up, and the
ship sails away safely into port."
"And where do the geese go?" Beth demanded, with breathless interest.
"They make for the shore too, and in the dead of winter, on stormy
nights, they fly over the land, uttering strange cries, and if you
wake and hear them, it means somebody is going to die."
Beth's eyes were staring far out beyond the great green Atlantic rollers
that came bursting in round the sheltering headland, white-crested with
foam, flying up the beach with a crash, and scattering showers of
spray that sparkled in the sunshine. She could see the ships and the
barnacles, and the silent sea, heaving great sighs and flushing with
fine colour in the act; and the geese, and the sailors peering over the
side and shooting at them and sinking immediately in a storm, but also
sailing into a safe haven triumphantly, where the sun shone on white
houses, although, at the same time, it was dark night, and overhead
there were strange cries that made her cower--"Beth!" cried Sophia,
"what's the matter with you, child?"
Beth returned with a start, and stared at her--"I know who it will
be," she said.
"Who what'll be, Miss Beth?" Anne asked in awe.
"Who'll die," said Beth.
"You mustn't say, Beth; you'll bring bad luck if you do," Miss Keene
interposed hastily.
"I'm not going to say," Beth answered dreamily; "but I know."
"You shouldn't have told the child that story, miss," Anne said.
"Shure, ye know what she is--she sees." Anne nodded her head several
times significantly.
"I forgot," said Sophia.
"She'll forget too," said Mary philosophically. "I say, Beth," she
went on, raising herself on her elbow--she was lying prone on a slab
of rock in the sun--"what does your mother think of us?"
Beth roused herself. "I don't know," she answered earnestly; "she
never says. But I know what papa thinks of you. He says Mary's a gawk,
Sophia is as yellow as a duck's foot, and Lenore is only half-witted."
The effect of this announcement astonished Beth. The Misses Keene,
instead of being interested, all looked at her as if they did not like
her, and Anne burst out laughing. When they got in, Anne told Mrs.
Caldwell, who flushed suddenly, and covered her mouth with her
handkerchief.
"Yes, mamma," Mildred exclaimed with importance, "Beth did say so. And
Mary tossed her head, and Sophia sneered."
"What is sneered?" Beth demanded importunately. "What is sneered?"
"O Beth! don't bother so," Mildred exclaimed irritably. "It's when you
curl up your lip."
"Beth, how could you be so naughty?" Mrs. Caldwell said at last from
behind her handkerchief. "Don't you know you should never repeat
things you hear said? A lady never repeats a private conversation."
"What's a private conversation?" said Beth.
Mrs. Caldwell gave her a broad definition, during which she lowered
her handkerchief, and Beth discovered that she was trying not to
smile.
This was Beth's first lesson in honour, which was her mother's god,
and she felt the influence of it all her life.
Later in the day, Beth was curled up on the window-seat among the
fuchsias, looking out. Behind the thatched cabins opposite, the sombre
mountains rolled up, dark and distinct, to the sky; but Beth would not
look at them if she could help it, they oppressed her. It was a close
afternoon, and the window was wide open. A bare-legged woman, in a
short petticoat, stood in an indolent attitude leaning against a
door-post opposite; a young man in low shoes, light blue stockings,
buff knee-breeches, a blue-tailed coat with brass buttons, and a soft
high-crowned felt hat, came strolling up the street with his hands in
his pockets.
"Hallo, Biddy," he remarked, as he passed the woman, "you're all
swelled."
"Yes," she answered tranquilly, "I've been drinking buttermilk."
"Well, let's hope it'll be a boy," he rejoined.
The woman looked up and down the street complacently.
Presently Beth saw Honor and Kathleen Mayne come out of the inn. The
Maynes used to pet the children and play the piano to them when they
were at the inn, and had been very good to Jim also when he was there
alone with his father before the family arrived. Their manners were
gentle and caressing, and they did their best to win their way into Mrs.
Caldwell's good graces, but at first she coldly repulsed them, which
hurt Beth very much. The Maynes, however, did not at all understand that
they were being repulsed. A kindly feeling existed among all classes in
those remote Irish villages. The squire's family, the doctor's,
clergyman's, draper's, and innkeeper's visited each other, and shook
hands when they met. There was no feeling of condescension on the one
hand, or of pretension on the other; but Mrs. Caldwell had the strong
class prejudice which makes such stupid snobs of the English. It was not
_what_ people were, but _who_ they were, that was all important to her;
and she would have bowed down cheerfully, as whole neighbourhoods do,
and felt exhilarated by the notice of some stupid county magnate, who
had not heart enough to be loved, head enough to distinguish himself, or
soul enough to get him into heaven. She was a lady, and Mayne was an
innkeeper. His daughters might amuse the children, but as to associating
with Mrs. Caldwell, that was absurd!
The girls were not to be rebuffed, however. They persevered in their
kindly attentions, making excuses to each other for Mrs. Caldwell's
manner; explaining her coldness by the fact that she was English, and
flattering her, until finally they won their way into her good graces,
and so effectually too, that when they brought a young magpie in a
basket for Beth one day, her mother graciously allowed her to accept
it.
Beth liked the Maynes, but now as they came up the road she slid from
the window-seat. She knew they would stop and talk if she waited, and
she did not want to talk. She was thinking about something, and it
irritated her to be interrupted. So she tore across the hall and
through the kitchen out into the yard, impelled by an imperative
desire to be alone.
The magpie was the first pet of her own she had ever had, and she
loved it. At night it was chained to a perch stuck in the wall of the
stable-yard. On the other side of that wall was the yard of Murphy the
farrier. The magpie soon became tame enough to be let loose by day,
and Beth always went to release it the first thing in the morning and
give it its breakfast. It came hopping to meet her now, and followed
her into the garden. The garden was entered by an archway under the
outbuildings, which divided it from the stable-yard. It was very long,
but narrow for its length. On the right was a high wall, but on the
left was a low one--at least one half of it was low--and Beth could
look over it into the farrier's garden next door. The other half had
been raised by Captain Caldwell on the understanding that if he raised
one half the farrier would raise the other, but the farrier had proved
perfidious. The wall was built without mortar, of rough, uncut stones.
Captain Caldwell had his half neatly finished off at the top with
sods, but Murphy's piece was still all broken down. The children used
to climb up by it on to the raised half, and dance there at the risk
of life and limb, and jeer at Murphy as he dug his potatoes, calling
his attention to the difference between the Irish and English half of
the wall, till he lost his temper and pelted them. This was the signal
for a battle. The children returned his potatoes with stones by way of
interest, and hit him as often as he hit them. (Needless to say, their
parents were not in the garden at the time.) They had a great contempt
for the farrier because he fought them, and he used to go about the
village complaining of them and their "tratement" of him, "the little
divils, spoilin' the pace of the whole neighbourhood."
There was a high wall at the end of the garden, and Beth liked to sit on
the top of it. She went there now, picked up her magpie, and climbed up
with difficulty by way of Pat Murphy's broken bit. Immediately below her
was a muddy lane, beyond which the land sloped down to the sea, and as
she sat there, the sound of the waves, that dreamy, soft murmur for
which we have no word, filled the interstices of her consciousness with
something that satisfied.
She was not left long in peace to enjoy it that afternoon, however,
for the farrier was at work in his garden below, and presently he
looked up and saw the magpie.
"There ye are agin, Miss Beth, wi' yer baste of a burrd; bad luck to
it!" he exclaimed, crossing himself. "Shure, don't I tell ye ivery day
uf your life it's wan fur sorrow."