The Beth Book
How to get the child down was the difficulty, as there was no ladder
at hand long enough to reach up to the roof.
"I'll go and fetch her down if you like," said Beth.
"I should think so! and then there'd be two of you," said Mrs. Davy.
"I don't see how you'll manage it then," said Beth. "There isn't
foothold for a man to get out of the attic-window." Having spoken, she
strolled off with an air of indifference, and disappeared. She was a
heroine of romance now, going to do a great deed; and before she was
missed, the horrified spectators saw her climbing out of the front
attic-window smiling serenely. The people held their breath as they
watched her go up the roof on the slippery tiles at a reckless rate to
her sister.
"Come along, Bernadine," she whispered. "Such fun! There's a whole
crowd down there watching us. Just let them see you're not afraid."
Bernadine peeped. It was gratifying to be an object of such interest.
"Come along, don't be an idiot," said Beth. "Just follow me, and don't
look at anything but the tiles. That's the way _I_ learnt to do it."
Bernadine's courage revived. Slowly she slid from the roof-ridge, Beth
helping her carefully. It looked fearfully dangerous, and the people
below dared not utter a sound. When they got to the attic-window,
Beth, herself on the edge of the roof, guided her sister past her, and
helped her in. She was following herself, when some tiles gave way
beneath her, and fell with a crash into the street. Fortunately she
had hold of the sill, but for a moment her legs hung over; then she
pulled herself through, and, falling head first on to the floor,
disappeared from sight. The people below relieved their feelings with
a faint cheer.
"Eh, but she's a _bad_ un," said Mrs. Davy, who was trembling all
over.
"Well, she's a rare plucky un, at any rate," said a man in the crowd,
admiringly.
Crowds constantly collected at the little house in Orchard Street in
those days. When Mrs. Caldwell had to go out alone she was always
anxious, not knowing what might be happening in her absence. Coming
home from Lady Benyon's one summer evening, she found the whole street
blocked with people, and the roadway in front of her own house packed
so tight she could not get past. Beth had dressed herself up in a mask
and a Russian sheepskin cloak which had belonged to her father, and
sat motionless in the drawing-room window on a throne made of an
arm-chair set on a box; while Bernadine played Scotch airs on the
piano. A couple of children passing had stopped to see what on earth
the thing was, then a man and woman had come along and stopped too,
then several girls, some sailors, the bellman, and many more, until
the street was full. Harriet was enjoying the commotion in the
background, but when Mrs. Caldwell appeared, she gave the signal, the
piano stopped, and the strange beast roared loudly and fled.
But Beth had her human moments. They generally came on in wet weather,
which depressed her. She would then stand in the drawing-room window
by the hour together, looking out at the miserable street, thinking of
the poor people, all cold and wet and hungry. She longed to do
something for them, and one day she stopped a little girl who was
going with a jug for some beer to the "Shining Star," a quiet little
public-house on the same side of the street.
"I suppose you are a very ignorant little girl," said Beth severely.
"Aw?"
"What's your name?"
"Emily Bean."
"Do you learn lessons?"
"Naw."
"Dear me, how dreadful!" said Beth. "You ought to be taught, you know.
Would you like to be taught?"
"Ah should."
"Well, you come here every afternoon at two o'clock, and I'll teach
you."
"Ah mon jest ass mother first," said Emily.
"Yes--I'd forgotten that," Beth rejoined. "Well, you come if she lets
you."
Emily nodded, and was going on her errand, but stopped. "Did you ass
yer own mother if you might?" she wanted to know.
"No, I didn't think of that either," Beth rejoined. "But I will."
"Will she let you?"
"I don't know"--rather doubtfully.
"I expect she will if you wait until she's in a good humour," the
child of the people sagely suggested.
"All right. You come at any rate," Beth answered boldly.
Mrs. Caldwell consented. She came of a long line of lady patronesses,
and thought it natural and becoming that her child should wish to
improve the "common people." Punctually to the moment Emily arrived
next day, and Beth sat down with her in the kitchen, and taught her a,
b, ab, and b, a, d, bad. Then she repeated a piece of poetry to her,
and read her a little story. Harriet was busy in the back kitchen, and
Bernadine was out with her mother and Aunt Victoria, so Beth and her
pupil had the kitchen to themselves. The next day, however, Harriet
wanted to clean the kitchen, so they had to retire to the acting-room.
This was Beth's first attempt to apply such knowledge as she
possessed, and in her anxiety to improve the child of the people, she
improved herself in several respects. She began to read better, became
less afraid of writing and spelling, mastered the multiplication
table, and found she could "make out" how to do easy sums from the
book. This gave her the first real interest she had ever had in
school-work, and inspired her with some slight confidence in herself.
She felt the dignity of the position of teacher too, and the
responsibility. She never betrayed her own ignorance, nor did anything
to shake Emily's touching belief in her superiority; and she never
shook Emily. She knew she could have done better herself if there had
been less thumping and shaking, and she had the wisdom to profit by
her mother's errors of judgment already--not that Emily ever provoked
her. The child was apt and docile, and the lessons were a sort of
improving game.
How to impart religious instruction was the thing that troubled Beth
most: she used to lie awake at night thinking out the problem. She
found that Emily had learnt many texts and hymns in the Sunday-school
to which she went regularly, and Beth made her repeat them, and soon
knew them all by heart herself; but she did not think that she taught
Emily enough. One day in church, however, she thought of a way to
extend her teaching. Bernadine had joined her class for fun, and was
playing at learning too; and now Beth proposed that they should fit up
a chapel in the acting-room, and resolve themselves occasionally into
a clergyman and congregation. A chair with the bottom knocked out was
the pulpit, and a long narrow box stood on end was the reading-desk.
Beth was the parson, of course, in a white sheet filched from the
soiled-clothes bag, and changed for a black shawl for the sermon. She
read portions of Scripture standing, she read prayers on her knees,
she led a hymn; and then she got into the black shawl and preached.
What these discourses were about, she could not remember in after
years; but they must have been fascinating, for the congregation
listened unwearied so long as she chose to go on.
Emily was a disappointment in one way: she had no imagination. Beth
pretended to take her photograph one day, after the manner of the
photographers on the sands.
"Now, this is the picture," she said, showing her a piece of glass.
"But there isn't no picture on it," said Emily, staring hard at the
glass.
"How stupid you are," said Beth, disgusted. "Look again."
"There isn't," Emily protested. "Just you show it to Bernadine."
"You should say _Miss_ Bernadine," that young lady admonished her.
A few minutes afterwards Emily corrected Bernadine for not saying miss
to Beth and herself. Beth tried to explain, but Emily could not see
why she should say miss to them if they did not say miss to her and to
each other.
Poor Mrs. Caldwell was in great straits for want of money at this
time. She had scarcely enough to pay for their meagre fare, and her
own clothes and the children's were almost beyond patching and
darning. Beth surprised her several times sitting beside the
dining-table with the everlasting mending on her lap, fretting
silently, and the child's heart was wrung. There was some legal
difficulty, and letters which added to her mother's trouble came to
the house continually.
The same faculty made Beth either the naughtiest or the best of
children; the difference depended on her heart: if that were touched,
she was all sympathy; but if no appeal was made to her feelings, her
daily doings were the outcome of so many erratic impulses acted on
without consideration, merely to vary the disastrous monotony of those
long idle afternoons.
The day after she had surprised her mother fretting over her letters,
another packet arrived. Beth happened to be early up that morning, and
opened the door to the postman. She would like to have given the
packet back to him, but that being impossible, she carried it up to
the acting-room and hid it in the roof. When her mother came down,
however, she found to her consternation that the fact of there being
no letter at all that morning was a greater trouble if anything than
the arrival of the one the day before; so she boldly brought it down
and delivered it, quite expecting to be whipped. But for once Mrs.
Caldwell asked for an explanation, and the child's motive was so
evident that even her mother was more affected by her sympathy than
enraged by the inconvenient expression of it.
The next day she was playing on the pier with Bernadine. Her mother and
Aunt Victoria were walking up and down, not paying much attention to the
children. First they swung on a chain that was stretched from post to
post down the middle of the pier to keep people from being washed off in
stormy weather; but Bernadine tumbled over backwards and hurt her head,
and was jeered at besides by some rude little street children, who could
not understand why the little Caldwells, who were as shabby as
themselves, should look down on them, and refuse to associate with them.
It was not Beth's nature to be exclusive. She had no notion of
differences of degree. Any pleasant person was her equal. She was as
much gratified by friendly notice from the milkman, the fishwoman, and
the sweep as from Lady Benyon or Count Bartahlinsky; and very early
thought it contemptible to jeer at people for want of means and defects
of education. She never talked of the "common people," after she found
that Harriet was hurt by the phrase; and she would have been on good
terms with all the street children had it not been for what Mrs.
Caldwell called "Bernadine's superior self-respect." Bernadine told if
Beth spoke to one of them, and as Beth had no friends amongst them as
yet, she did not feel that their acquaintance was worth fighting for.
But the street children resented the attitude of the two shabby little
ladies, and were always watching for opportunities to annoy them.
Accordingly, when Bernadine tumbled off the chain head-over-heels
backwards, there was a howl of derision. "Oh my! Ain't she getten thin
legs!" "Ah say, Julia, did you see that big 'ole i' her stockin'?" "Naw,
but ah seed the patch on 'er petticoat!" "Eh--an' she's on'y getten one
on, an' it isn't flannel." "An' them's ladies!"
Bernadine's pride came to her rescue on these occasions. At home she
howled when she was hurt, but now she affected to laugh, and both
sisters strolled off with their little heads up, and an exasperating
air of indifference to the enemy. The tide was out, and they went down
into the harbour and found a large oyster among the piles of the
wooden jetty. When they got home, the difficulty was how to open it;
but they managed to make it open itself by holding it over the kitchen
fire on the shovel. When it began to lift its lid, Beth sent Bernadine