The Beth Book
for a fork, and while she was getting it Beth ate the oyster. But
Bernadine could not see the joke, and her rage was not to be appeased
even by the oyster-shell, which Beth said she might have the whole of.
The battle came off after dinner that evening. But it was a day of
disaster. Harriet was out of temper; and Mrs. Caldwell appeared
mysteriously, just as Beth knocked Bernadine down and sat on her
stomach.
* * * * *
They were reading a story of French life at that time, and something
came into it about snail-broth as a cure for consumption, and
snail-oil as a remedy for rheumatism. The next day there was a most
extraordinary smell all over the house. Mrs. Caldwell, Aunt Victoria,
Harriet, and Bernadine went sniffing about, but could find nothing to
account for it. Beth sat at the dining-table with a book before her,
taking no notice. At last Harriet had occasion to open the oven door,
and just as she did so there was a loud explosion, and the kitchen
wall opposite was bespattered with boiling animal matter. Beth had got
up early, and collected snails enough in the garden to fill a
blacking-bottle, corked them up tight, and put them into the darkest
corner of the oven, her idea being to render them into oil, as Harriet
rendered suet into fat, and go and rub rheumatic people with it. As
usual, however, her motive was ignored, while a great deal was made of
the mess on the kitchen wall--which disheartened her, especially as
several other philanthropic enterprises happened to fail about the
same time.
Emily appeared with a bad toothache one day, and finding a remedy for
it gave Beth a momentary interest in life. She told Emily she had a
cure for toothache, and Emily, never doubting, let her put some soft
substance into the tooth with the end of a match.
"It won't taste very nice," said Beth; "but you mustn't mind that. You
just go home, and you'll find it won't ache any more."
When Emily returned next day she gratefully proclaimed herself cured,
and her mother wanted to know "whatever the stuff was."
"Soap," said Beth.
"Oh, you mucky thing!" Emily exclaimed. She resented the application
of such a substance to the inside of her person. Her plebeian mind was
too narrow to conceive a second legitimate use for soap, and from that
day Beth's influence declined. Emily's attendance became irregular,
then gradually ceased altogether; not, however, before Beth's own
interest in the lessons was over, and her mind much occupied with
other things.
CHAPTER XVII
The dower-house of the Benyon family stood in a street which was
merely an extension of Orchard Street, and could be seen from Mrs.
Caldwell's windows. Lady Benyon, having produced a huge family, and
buried her husband, had done her day's work in the world, as it were,
and now had full leisure to live as she liked; so she "lived well";
and in the intervals of living, otherwise eating, she sat in the big
bow-window of her sitting-room, digesting, and watching her
neighbours. From her large old-fashioned house she commanded a fine
view down the wide irregular front street to the sea, with a diagonal
glimpse down two other streets which ran parallel with the front
street; while on the left she could see up Orchard Street as far as
the church; so that everybody came under her observation sooner or
later, and, to Beth, it always seemed that she dominated the whole
place. Most of the day her head could be seen above the wire-blind;
but, as she seldom went out, her acute old face and the four dark
sausage-shaped curls, laid horizontally on either side of it, were
almost all of her that was known to the inhabitants.
Mrs. Caldwell went regularly to see Lady Benyon, and sometimes took
the children with her. On one occasion when she had done so, Lady
Benyon made her take a seat in the window where she was sitting
herself, so that they could both look out. Beth and Bernadine sat in
the background with a picture-book, in which they seemed so absorbed
that the conversation flowed on before them with very little
constraint. Beth's ears were open, however, as usual.
"After twenty-two children," Lady Benyon remarked, "one cannot expect
to be as active as one was."
"No, indeed," Mrs. Caldwell answered cheerfully. "_I_ have only had as
good as fourteen, and I'm quite a wreck. I don't know what it is to
pass a day free from pain. But, however, it is so ordered, and I don't
complain. If only they turn out well when they do come, that's
everything."
"Ah, you're right there," Lady Benyon answered.
"You know _my_ trial," Mrs. Caldwell pursued--Beth's face instantly
became a blank. "I am afraid she cares for no one but herself. It
shows what spoiling a child does. Her father could never make enough
of her."
"Well, I suppose she's naughty," Lady Benyon rejoined with a laugh;
"but she's promising all the same--and not only in appearance. The
things she says, you know!"
"Oh, well, yes," Mrs. Caldwell allowed. "She certainly says things
sometimes, but that's not much comfort when you never know what she'll
be doing. Now Mildred has never given me a moment's anxiety in her
life, except on account of her delicate health, poor little body; and
Bernadine is a dear, sweet little thing. _She_ is the only one who is
thoroughly unruly and selfish."
Beth's blood boiled at the accusation.
"How does the old aunt get on?" Lady Benyon asked presently.
"Oh, she seems to be very well."
"Don't you find it rather a trial to have her about always?"
Mrs. Caldwell shrugged her shoulders with an air of resignation. "Oh,
you know, she means well," she replied, "and there really was nothing
else for it. But I must say I have no patience with cant."
Beth, in opposition, still smarting from her mother's accusation of
selfishness, determined at once to inquire into Aunt Victoria's
religious tenets, with a view to approving of them.
"Well, James Patten played a mean part in that business," Lady Benyon
observed. "But I always say, beware of a man who does his own
housekeeping. When they keep the money in their own hands, and pay the
bills themselves, don't trust them. That sort of man is a cur at
heart, you may be sure. And as for a man who takes possession of his
wife's money, and doles it out to her a little at a time--! I know one
such--without a penny of his own, mind you! He gives his wife a cheque
for five pounds a month; the rest goes on other women, and she never
suspects it! He's one of those plausible gentlemen who's always
looking for a post that will pay him, and never gets it--you know the
kind of thing." Here the old lady caught Beth's eye. "You take my
advice," she said. "Don't ever marry a man who does his own
housekeeping. He's a crowing hen, that sort of man, you may be sure. I
warn you against the man who does a woman's work."
"And if a woman does a man's work?" said the intelligent Beth.
"It is often a very great help," Mrs. Caldwell put in, with a quick
mental survey of the reams of official letters she had written for her
husband.
Lady Benyon pursed up her mouth.
* * * * *
Aunt Victoria was one of those forlorn old ladies who have nobody
actually their own to care for them, although they may have numbers of
relations, and acquire odd habits from living much alone. She was a
great source of interest to Beth, who would sit silently watching her
by the hour together, her bright eyes steady and her countenance a
blank. The intentness of her gaze fidgeted the old lady, who would
look up suddenly every now and then and ask her what she was staring
at. "Nothing, Aunt Victoria; I was only thinking," Beth always
answered; and then she affected to occupy herself until the old lady
returned to her work or her book, when Beth would resume her
interrupted study. But she liked Aunt Victoria. The old lady was sharp
with her sometimes, but she meant to be kind, and was always just; and
Beth respected her. She had more faith in her, too, than she had in
her mother, and secretly became her partisan on all occasions. She had
instantly detected the tone of detraction in the allusions Lady Benyon
and her mother had made to Aunt Victoria that afternoon, and stolidly
resented it.
When they went home, she ran upstairs and knocked at Aunt Victoria's
door. It was immediately opened, and Beth, seeing what she took for an
old gentleman in a short black petticoat and loose red jacket, with
short, thick, stubbly white hair standing up all over his head,
started back. But it was only Aunt Victoria without her cap and front.
When she saw Beth's consternation, the old lady put her hand up to her
head. "I had forgotten," she muttered; then she added severely, "But
you should never show surprise, Beth, at anything in anybody's
appearance. It is very ill-bred."
"I don't think I shall ever be surprised again," Beth answered
quaintly. "But I want you to tell me, Aunt Victoria. What do you
believe in?"
"What do you mean, child?"
"Oh, you know, about God, and the Bible, and cant, and that sort of
thing," Beth answered evenly.
"Come in and sit down," said Aunt Victoria.
Beth sat on a classical piece of furniture that stood in the window, a
sort of stool or throne, with ends like a sofa and no back. It had
belonged to Aunt Victoria's father, and she valued it very much.
Beth's feet, as she sat on it, did not touch the ground. Aunt Victoria
stood for a moment in the middle of the room reflecting, and, as she
did so, she looked, with her short, thick, stubbly white hair, more
like a thin old gentleman in a black petticoat and loose red jacket
than ever.
"I believe, Beth," she said solemnly, "I believe in God the Father
Almighty. I believe that if we do His holy will here on earth, we
shall, when we die, be received by Him into bliss everlasting; but if
we do not do His holy will, then He will condemn us to the bad place,
where we shall burn for ever."
"But what _is_ His holy will?" Beth asked.
"It is His holy will that we should do right, and that we should not
do wrong. But this is a big subject, Beth, and I can only unfold it to
you bit by bit."
"But will you unfold it?"
"I will, as best I can, if you will listen earnestly."
"I am always in earnest," Beth answered sincerely.
"No one can teach you God," Aunt Victoria pursued. "He must come to
you. '_Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright
of heart. The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament
showeth His handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto
night showeth knowledge. There is no speech nor language where their
voice is not heard. Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lifted
up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is
the King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty._'"
Beth, in a burst of enthusiasm, jumped down from her perch, clasped
her hands to her chest, and cried--"O Aunt Victoria! that is--that
is"--she tore at her hair--"I want a word--I want a word!"
"It is _grand_, Beth!"
"Grand! grand!" Beth shouted. "Yes, it is grand."
"Beth," said Aunt Victoria emphatically, "remember that you are a
Christian child, and not a dancing-dervish. If you do not instantly
calm yourself, I shall shake you. And if I ever see you give way to
such wild excitement again, I _shall_ shake you, for your own good.
Calm is one of the first attributes of a gentlewoman."
Teachers of religion do not always practise what they preach. Up to
this moment, although Beth had done her best to teach Emily, she had
had no idea of being religious herself; but now, on a sudden, there
came upon her that great yearning tenderness towards God, and desire
for goodness, which some sects call conversion, and hold to be the