The Beth Book
"Oh, now, this _is_ delightful!" the old lady chuckled. "I'm to enjoy
myself to-day, it seems. You didn't prepare me for this treat, James
Patten!"
Uncle James simpered, as though taking to himself the credit of the
whole entertainment.
"So you hate Ireland?" said Lady Benyon.
"No, I love it," said Beth. "It's me native country; and they don't
give you little bits of cake there the size of sixpence. What they
have you're welcome to. Long live Ireland!"
"Good!" Lady Benyon ejaculated; then turned to Mildred. "And are you
another naughty little patriot?" she asked.
"No, _I'm_ not naughty," Mildred answered piously.
"Beth's naughty," said Bernadine.
"I'm sure I don't know _what_ Beth is not," the old lady declared,
turning to Beth again.
"Riley said I was one of the little girls the devil put out when he
gave up housekeeping," Beth remarked casually.
"Beth!" Mrs. Caldwell remonstrated.
"He did, mamma. He said it the day that perjured villain Pat Murphy
killed my magpie. And Riley's a good man. You said so yourself."
"You can hear that the young lady has been in Ireland, I suppose,
mamma," Uncle James observed.
"I hear she can imitate the Irish," Lady Benyon rejoined bluntly; "and
not the Irish only," she added with a chuckle.
Beth was still sitting on the music-stool opposite the window, and
presently she saw some one cross the lawn. "Oh, do look at the lovely
lady," she cried enthusiastically. "She's just like the Princess
Blue-eyes-and-golden-hair."
Lady Benyon glanced over her shoulder. "Why, it's my maid," she said.
Beth's countenance dropped, then cleared again. Even a maid might be a
princess in disguise.
Lady Benyon was going to stay all night, and at her special request
Mildred and Beth were allowed to sit up to late dinner and prayers.
She expected Beth to amuse her, but Beth was busy the whole time
weaving a romance about the lovely lady's-maid, and scarcely spoke a
word. When the servants came in to prayers, she sat and gazed at her
heroine, and forgot to stand or kneel. She noticed, however, that
Uncle James read the evening prayers with peculiar fervour.
When Beth went to bed, she found Bernadine, who slept with her, fast
asleep. Beth was not at all sleepy. Her intellect had been on the
alert all day, and would not let her rest now; she must do something
to keep up the excitement. She pulled the blind aside, and, looking
out of the window, discovered an enchanted land, all soft shadow and
silver sheen, and above it an exquisite moon, in an empty sky, floated
serenely. "Oh, to be out in the moonlight!" she sighed to herself.
"The fairy-folk--the fairy-folk." For a little her mind was a blank as
she gazed; then words came tripping a measure--
"The fairy-folk are calling me,
Are calling me, are calling me;
They come across the stormy sea,
To play with me, to play with me."
Beth's vague longing crisped itself into a resolution. She looked at
the big four-post bed. The curtains were drawn on one side of it.
Should she draw them on the other, on the chance of her mother not
looking in? No, she must wait, because of Mildred. Mildred was
undressing, and would say her prayers presently. Beth waited until she
knelt down, then slipped her night-dress on over her clothes, and got
into bed, without disturbing Bernadine. Now she must wait for her
mother; but Mrs. Caldwell came up very soon, Uncle James having
hurried every one off to bed unusually early that evening. Mrs.
Caldwell was a long time undressing, as it seemed to Beth; but in the
meantime Mildred had fallen asleep, and very soon after her mother got
into bed she too began to breathe with reassuring regularity.
Then Beth got up, opened the door very gently, and slipped out into
the dark passage.
"The fairy-folk are calling me,
Are calling me, are calling me;
They come across the stormy sea,
To play with me, to play with me."
The words set themselves to a merry tune, and carried Beth on with
them.
All was dark in the hall. The front door was locked and bolted, and
the shutters were up in all the rooms; how was she to get out? She
felt for the green baize double-door which shut off the kitchen from
the other parts of the house, opened it, and groped her way down the
passage. As she did so, she saw a faint glimmer of light at the far
end--not candlelight, moonlight--and at the same moment she became
aware of some one else moving. At the end of the passage she was in,
there was a little door leading out into a garden. If that were open
all would be easy. She had stopped to listen. Certainly some one else
was moving quite close to her. What was she near? Oh, the store-room.
Something grated like a key in a lock--a door was opened, a match
struck, a candle lighted; and there was Mrs. Cook in the store-room
itself, hurriedly filling paper-bags with tea, sugar, raisins,
currants, and other groceries from Uncle James's carefully guarded
treasure, and packing them into a small hamper with a lid. When the
hamper was full she blew out the candle, came out of the store-room,
locked the door after her, and went into the kitchen, without
discovering Beth. She left the kitchen door open; the blind was up;
and Beth could see a man, whom she recognised as the cook's son,
standing in the moonlight.
"Is there much this time, mother?" he asked.
"A goodish bit," cook replied, handing him the hamper.
"'E 'asn't 'ad 'is eyes about 'im much o' late, then?"
"Oh, 'e allus 'as 'is eyes about 'im, but 'e doan't see much. You'll
get me what ye can?"
"I will so," her son replied, and kissed cook as she let him out of
the back-door, which she fastened after him. Then she went off herself
up the back-stairs to bed.
When all was quiet again, Beth thought of the garden-door at the end
of the passage. To her relief she found it ajar; the gleam of light
she had seen in that direction was the moonlight streaming through the
crevice. She slipped out cautiously; but the moment she found herself
in the garden she became a wild creature, revelling in her freedom.
She ran, jumped, waved her arms about, threw herself down on the
ground, and rolled over and over for yards, walked on all fours,
turned head over heels, embraced the trunks of trees, and hailed them
with the Eastern invocation, "O tree, give me of thy strength!"
For a good hour she rioted about the place in this way, working off
her superfluous energy. By that time she had come to the stackyard.
There, among the great stacks, she played hide-and-seek with the
fairy-folk for a little. Very cautiously she would steal round in the
black shadows, stalking her imaginary play-fellows, and then would go
flying out into the moonlight, pursued by them in turn; and looking
herself, with her white night-dress over her clothes, and her tousled
hair, the weirdest little elfin figure in the world. Finally, to
escape capture, she ran up a ladder that had been left against a
haystack. Blocks of hay had been cut out, leaving a square shelf half
way down the stack, on to which Beth scrambled from the ladder. There
was room enough for her to lie at her ease up there and recover her
breath. The hay and the night-air smelt deliciously sweet. The stack
she was on was one of the outer row. Beneath was the road along which
the waggons brought their loads in harvest time; and this was flanked
by a low wall, on the other side of which was a meadow, bordered with
elms. Beth pulled up the hay about her, covered herself with it, and
nestled amongst it luxuriously. The moon shone full upon her, but she
had quite concealed herself, and would probably have fallen asleep
after her exertions had it not been that just when drowsiness was
coming upon her she was startled by the sound of a hurried footstep,
and a girl in a light dress, with a shawl about her shoulders, came
round the stack, and stood still, looking about her, as if she
expected some one. Beth recognised her as Harriet Elvidge, the
kitchen-maid; and presently Russell, one of the grooms, came hurrying
to meet her from the other direction. They rushed into each other's
arms.
"Thou'st laate," the girl grumbled.
"Ah bin waatin' ower yon'er this good bit," he answered, putting his
arm round her, and drawing her to the wall, on which they sat, leaning
against each other, and whispering happily. The moon was low, and her
great golden disk illumined the sky, against which the two dark
figures stood out, silhouetted distinctly. The effect gave Beth a
sensation of pleasure, and she racked her brains for words in which to
express it. Presently the lovers rose and strolled away together. Then
for a little it was lonely, and Beth thought of getting down; but
before she had made up her mind, two other people appeared, strolling
in the moonlight, whom Beth instantly recognised as Uncle James and
the beautiful princess Blue-eyes-and-golden-hair. The princess had
both her hands clasped round Uncle James's arm, and every now and then
she nestled her face against his shoulder lovingly.
"What will Jimmie-wimmie give his Jenny-penny?" she was saying as they
approached.
"First what will Jenny-penny give her Jimmie-wimmie?" Uncle James
cooed.
"First, a nice--sweet--kiss!"
"Duckie-dearie!" Jimmie-wimmie gurgled ecstatically, taking the kiss
with the playful grace of an elephant gambolling.
Beth on the haystack writhed with suppressed merriment until her sides
ached.
But Jimmie-wimmie and Jenny-penny passed out of sight like Harriet and
Russell before them. The moon was sinking rapidly. A sudden gust of
air blew chill upon Beth. She was extremely sensitive to sudden
changes of temperature, and as the night grew dull and heavy, so did
her mood, and she began to be as anxious to be indoors again as she
had been to come out. The fairy-folk had all vanished now, and ghosts
and goblins would come in their stead, and pounce upon her as she
passed, if she were not quick. Beth scrambled down from the haystack,
and made for the side-door in hot haste, and was half-way upstairs,
when it suddenly occurred to her that if she locked the door,
Jimmie-wimmie and Jenny-penny would not be able to get in. So she
retraced her steps, accomplished her purpose, slipped back to bed, and
slept until she was roused in the morning by a shrill cry from
Bernadine--"See, mummy! see, mummy! lazy Beth is in bed with all her
clothes on!"
Beth sat up, and slapped Bernadine promptly; whereupon Mrs. Caldwell
slapped Beth.
"Such is life," said Beth, in imitation of Aunt Grace Mary; and Mrs.
Caldwell smiled in spite of herself.
Later in the day Beth complained to Mildred of a bad cold in her head.
"Oh dear!" Mildred exclaimed, "I expect Uncle James will talk at that
cold as long as it lasts."
"I know," Beth said. "Grace Mary, dear--or Aunt Victoria--have you
observed that children always have colds and never have
pocket-handkerchiefs?"
Uncle James, however, had a bad cold himself that morning, and
described himself as very much indisposed.
"I went out of doors last night before retiring," he explained at
luncheon, "tempted by the glorious moonlight and the balmy air; but
before I returned the night had changed and become chilly, and
unfortunately the side-door had shut itself, and every one was in bed,
so I could not get in. I threw pebbles up at Grace Mary's window, but
failed to rouse her, she being somewhat deaf. I also knocked and rang,
but no one answered, so I was obliged to shelter in the barn. Harriet,
however, appeared finally. She--er--gets the men's breakfasts,
and--er--the kitchen-window--" But here Uncle James was seized with a
sudden fit of sneezing, and the connection between the men's
breakfasts and the kitchen-window was never explained. "She is an