The Beth Book
essential beginning of a religious life. This was the opportunity Aunt
Victoria had prayed for, and from that time forward she began to
instruct Beth systematically in religious matters. The subject
fascinated Beth, and she would make opportunities to be alone with her
aunt, and go to her room willingly whenever she asked her, for the
pleasure of hearing her. Aunt Victoria often moved about the room, and
dressed as she talked, and Beth, while listening, did not fail to
observe the difficulty of keeping stockings up on skinny legs when you
wore woollen garters below the knee; and also that it looked funny to
have to tuck up your dress to get your purse out of a pocket in your
petticoat at the back. But when Aunt Victoria sat down and read the
Bible aloud, Beth became absorbed, and would even read whole chapters
again to herself in order to remember how to declaim the more poetical
passages as Aunt Victoria did--all of which she relished with the
keenest enthusiasm. Unfortunately for Beth, however, Aunt Victoria was
strongly Calvinistic, and dwelt too much on death and the judgment for
her mental health. The old lady, deeply as she sympathised with Beth,
and loved her, did not realise how morbidly sensitive she was; and
accordingly worked on her feelings until the fear of God got hold of
her. Just at this time, too, Mrs. Caldwell chose "The Pilgrim's
Progress" for a "Sunday book," and read it aloud to the children; and
this, together with Aunt Victoria's views, operated only too actively
on the child's vivid imagination. A great dread seized upon her--not
on her own account, strange to say; she never thought of herself, but
of her friends, and of the world at large. She was in mortal dread
lest they should be called to judgment and consigned to the flames.
While the sun was out such thoughts did not trouble her; but as the
day declined, and twilight sombrely succeeded the sunset, her heart
sank, and her little being was racked with one great petition, offered
up to the Lord in anguish, that He would spare them all.
The season was beginning, the little place was already full of
visitors, and Beth used to stand at the dining-room window while Mrs.
Caldwell was reading aloud on Sunday evenings, and watch the
congregation stream out of the church at the end of the road, and
suffer agonies because of the torments that awaited them all,
including her mother, brothers and sisters, Harriet in the kitchen,
and Mrs. Davy at Orchard House opposite--everybody, indeed, except
Aunt Victoria--in a future state. Out on the cliffs in the summer
evenings, when great dark masses of cloud tinged with crimson were
piled to the zenith at sundown, and coldly reflected in the dark
waters of the bay, she saw the destination of the world; she heard
cries of torment, too, in the plash of breaking waves and the
unceasing roar of the sea; and as she watched the visitors lounging
about in bright dresses, laughing and talking, careless of their doom,
she could hardly restrain her tears. Night after night when she went
to bed, she put her head under the clothes that Bernadine might not
hear, and her chest was torn with sobs until she fell asleep.
At that time she devised no more tricks, she took no interest in
games, and would not fight even. Bernadine did not know what to make
of her. All day she was recovering from the lassitude caused by the
mental anguish of the previous evening, but regularly at sunset it
began again; and the more she suffered, the less able was she to speak
on the subject. At first she had tried to discuss eternal punishment
with Harriet, Bernadine, and Aunt Victoria, and each had responded
characteristically. Harriet's imagination dwelt on the particular
torments reserved for certain people she knew, which she described
graphically. Bernadine listened to Beth's remarks with interest, then
accused Beth of trying to frighten her, and said she would tell mamma.
Aunt Victoria discoursed earnestly on the wages of sin, the sufferings
of sinners, the glories of salvation, the peace on earth from knowing
you are saved, and the pleasures of the world to come; but the more
Beth heard of the joys of heaven, the more she dreaded the horrors of
hell. Still, however, she was too shy to say anything about her own
acute mental misery, and no one suspected that anything was wrong,
until one day something dejected in the child's attitude happened to
catch Aunt Victoria's attention.
Beth was sitting on an African stool, her elbow on her knee, her chin
resting on her little hand, her grey eyes looking up through the
window at the summer sky. What could the child be thinking of, Aunt
Victoria wondered, and surely she was looking thin and pale--quite
haggard.
"Why don't you get something to do, Beth?" the old lady asked. "It's
bad for little girls to idle about all day."
"I wish I had something to do," Beth answered. "I'm so tired."
"Does your head ache, child?" Aunt Victoria asked, speaking sharply
because her mind was disturbed.
"No."
"You should answer politely, and say 'No, thank you.'"
"No, thank you, Aunt Victoria," was the docile rejoinder.
Aunt Victoria resolved to speak to Mrs. Caldwell, and resumed her
knitting. She was one of those people who can keep what they have to
say till a suitable occasion offers. Her mind was never so full of any
one subject as to overflow and make a mess of it. She would wait a
week watching her opportunity if necessary; and she did not,
therefore, although she saw Mrs. Caldwell frequently during the day,
speak to her about Beth until the children had gone to bed in the
evening, when she was sure of her effect.
Then she began abruptly.
"Caroline, that child Beth is ill."
Mrs. Caldwell was startled. It was very inconsiderate of Aunt
Victoria. She knew she was nervous about her children; how could she
be so unfeeling? What made her think Beth ill?
"Look at her!" said Aunt Victoria. "She eats nothing. She has wasted
to a skeleton, she has no blood in her face at all, and her eyes look
as if she never slept."
"I am sure she sleeps well enough," Mrs. Caldwell answered, inclined
to bridle.
"I feel quite sure, Caroline," Aunt Victoria said solemnly, "that if
you take a candle, and go upstairs this minute, you will find that
child wide awake."
Mrs. Caldwell felt that she was being found fault with, and was
indignant. She went upstairs at once, with her head held high,
expecting to find Beth in a healthy sleep. The relief, however, of
finding that the child was well, would not have been so great at the
moment as the satisfaction of proving Aunt Victoria in the wrong.
But Beth was wide awake, petitioning God in an agony to spare her
friends. When Mrs. Caldwell entered she started up.
"O mamma!" she exclaimed, "I'm so glad you've come; I've been so
frightened about you."
"What is the matter with you, Beth?" Mrs. Caldwell asked, not
over-gently. "What are you frightened about?"
"Nothing," Beth faltered, shrinking back into herself.
"Oh, that's nonsense," her mother answered. "It's silly to be
frightened at nothing, and cowardly to be frightened at all. Lie down
and go to sleep, like a good child. Come, turn your face to the wall,
and I'll tuck you in."
Beth obeyed, and her mother left her to her fears, and returned to
Aunt Victoria in the drawing-room.
"Well?" Aunt Victoria asked anxiously.
"She was awake," Mrs. Caldwell acknowledged. "She said she was
frightened, but didn't know what of. I expect she'd been dreaming. And
I'm sure there is nothing the matter with her. She's been subject to
queer fits of alarm at night ever since she was a baby. It's the dark,
I think. It makes her nervous. At one time the doctor made us have a
night-light for her, which was great nonsense, _I_ always said; but
her father insisted. When it suits her to play in the dark, she's
never afraid."
It was at this time that Rainharbour set up a band of its own. Beth
was always peculiarly susceptible to music. Her ear was defective; she
rarely knew if any one sang flat; but the poorest instrument would lay
hold of her, and set high chords of emotion vibrating, beyond the
reach of words. The first time she heard the band, she was completely
carried away. It was on the pier, and she happened to be close beside
it when it began to play, and stood still in astonishment at the crash
of the opening bars. Her mother, after vainly calling to her to come
on, snatched impatiently at her arm to drag her away; and Beth, in her
excitement, set her teeth and slapped at her mother's hand--or rather
at what seemed to her the importunate thing that was trying to end her
ecstasy.
Of course Mrs. Caldwell would not stand that, so Beth, victim of brute
force, was hustled off to the end of the pier, and then slapped,
shaken, and reviled, for the enormity of her offence, until, in an
acute nervous crisis, she wrenched herself out of her mother's
clutches, and sprang over into the harbour. It was high-water happily,
and Count Gustav Bartahlinsky, who was just going out in his yacht,
saw her drop, and fished her out with a boat-hook.
"Look here, young woman," he said, "what do you mean by tumbling about
like this? I shall have the trouble of turning back and putting you on
shore."
"No, don't; no, don't," Beth pleaded. "Take me along with you."
He looked at her an instant, considering, then went to the side of the
yacht, and called up to her frantic mother: "She's all right. I'll
have her dried, and bring her back this afternoon,"--with which
assurance Mrs. Caldwell was obliged to content herself, for the yacht
sailed on; not that she would have objected. Beth and Count Gustav
were sworn allies by this time, and Mrs. Caldwell knew that Beth could
not be in better hands. Beth had seen Count Gustav passing their
window a few days after their first meeting, and had completed her
conquest of him by tearing out, and running down Orchard Street after
him with nothing on her head, to ask what copyright was; and since
then they had often met, and sometimes spent delightful hours
together, sitting on the cliffs or strolling along by the sea. He had
discovered her talent for verse-making, and given her a book on the
subject, full of examples, which was a great joy to her. When the
yacht was clear of the harbour, he took her down to the saloon, and
got out a silk shirt. "I'm going to leave you," he said, "and when I'm
gone, you must take off all your things, and put this shirt on. Then
tumble into that berth between the blankets, and I'll come back and
talk to you." Beth promptly obeyed. She was an ill-used heroine now,
in the hands of her knightly deliverer, and thoroughly happy.
When Count Gustav returned, he was followed by Gard, a tall, dark,
handsome sailor, a descendant of black Dane settlers on the coast, and
for that reason commonly called Black Gard. He brought sandwiches,
cakes, and hot tea on a tray for Beth. She had propped herself up with
pillows in the berth, and was looking out of an open port-hole
opposite, listening enraptured to the strains of the band, which,
mellowed by distance, floated out over the water.
"What a radiant little face!" the Count thought, as he handed her the
tea and sandwiches.
Beth took them voraciously.
"Did you have any breakfast?" the Count asked, smiling.
"Yes," Beth answered.
"What did you have?"
"Milk and hot water and dry toast. I made the toast myself."
"No butter?"
"No. The butter's running short, so I wouldn't take any."
"When do you lunch?"
"Oh, we don't lunch. Can't afford it, you know. The boys have got to
be educated, and Uncle James Patten won't help, though Jim's his
heir."
Count Gustav looked at her little delicate hand lying on the coverlet,
and then at the worn little face.
"You've been crying," he said.