The Beth Book
her, so that, instead of being tiresome at her lessons, she did them
in a way that astonished her mother--such a wonderful incentive is a
little joy in life. She would not go out when lessons were over,
however, but stood in the drawing-room window watching the people
pass. Harriet came and worried her to help with the dusting.
"Go away, you chattering idiot," said Beth. She had found Harriet out
in many meannesses by this time, and had lost all respect for her.
"Don't you see I'm thinking? If you don't bother me now I'll help you
by-and-by, perhaps."
On the other side of the road, in the same row as the Benyon
dower-house, but well within sight of the window, was the
Mansion-House Collegiate Day and Boarding School for the Sons of
Gentlemen. Beth kept looking in that direction, and presently the boys
came pouring out in their mortar-boards, and, among them, she soon
discovered the one she was thinking of. She discovered him less by
sight than by a strange sensation in herself, a pleasure which shot
through her from top to toe. For no reason, she stepped back from the
window, and looked in the opposite direction towards the church; but
she could see him when he came bounding past with his satchel of books
under his arm, and she also knew that he saw her. He ran on, however,
and going round the corner, where Orchard Row turned off at an angle
out of Orchard Street, was out of sight in a moment.
But Beth was satisfied. Indeed she was more than satisfied. She ran into
the kitchen, and astonished Harriet by a burst of hilarious spirits, and
a wild demand for food, for a duster, for a scrubbing-brush. She wanted
to do a lot, and she was hungry.
"You're fond, ah think," said Harriet dryly.
"You're fond, too," Beth cried. "We're all fond! The fonder the
better! And I must have something to eat."
"Well, there's nothing for you but bread."
"I must have meat," said Beth. "Rob the joint, and I'll not take any
at dinner."
"Ah'd tak' it w'eniver ah could get it, if ah was you," Harriet
advised.
"If you was or were me, you'd do as I do," said Beth; "and _I_ won't
cheat. If I say I won't take it, I won't. I'm entitled to meat once a
day, and I'll take my share now, please; but I won't take more than my
share."
"You'll be 'ungry again by dinner-time."
"I know," said Beth. "But that won't make any difference."
She got out the sirloin of beef which was to be roasted for dinner,
deftly cut some slices off it, fried them with some cold potatoes, and
ate them ravenously, helped by Harriet. When dinner-time came Beth was
ravenous again, but she was faithful to her vow, and ate no meat.
Harriet scoffed at her for her scrupulousness.
The next day, at the same time, Beth was again in the window, waiting
for her boy to come out of the Mansion-House School. When he appeared,
the most delightful thrill shot through her. Her first impulse was to
fly, but she conquered that and waited, watching him. He made straight
for the window, and stopped in a business-like way; and then they
laughed and looked into each other's faces.
"What are you doing there?" he asked, as if he were accustomed to see
her somewhere else.
"I live here," she said.
"I live in Orchard Row, last house," he rejoined.
"Old Lee's?" Beth inquired.
"Yes, he's my grandfather. I'm Sammy Lee."
"He's a licensed victualler, retired," Beth repeated, drawing upon her
excellent verbal memory.
"Yes," said Sammy. "What's yours?"
"I haven't one."
"What's your father?"
"He's dead too."
"What was he?"
"He was a gentleman."
"A retired gentleman?"
"No," said Beth, "an officer and a gentleman."
"Oh," said Sammy. "My father's dead too. He was a retired gentleman."
"What's a retired gentleman?" Beth asked.
"Don't you know?" Sammy exclaimed. "I thought everybody knew that!
When you make a fortune you retire from business. Then you're a
retired gentleman."
"But gentlemen don't go into business," Beth objected.
"What do they do then?" Sammy retorted.
"They have professions or property."
"It's all the same," said Sammy.
"It isn't," Beth contradicted.
"Yah! _you_ don't know," said Sammy, laughing; and then he ran on,
being late for his dinner.
The discussion had been carried on with broad smiles, and when he left
her, Beth hugged herself, and glowed again, and was glad in the
thought of him. But it was not his conversation so much as his
appearance that she dwelt upon--his round blue eyes, his bright fair
curly hair, his rosy cheeks. "He is beautiful! he is beautiful!" she
exclaimed; then added upon reflection, "_And I never thought a boy
beautiful before._"
The next day she was making rhymes about him in the acting-room, and
forgot the time, so that she missed him in the morning; but when he
left school in the afternoon she was at the window, and she saw him
trotting up the street as hard as his little legs could carry him.
"Where were you at dinner-time?" he said.
"How funny!" she exclaimed in surprise and delight.
"What's funny?" he demanded, looking about him vaguely.
"You were wanting to see me."
"Who told you so?" Sammy asked suspiciously.
"You did yourself just now," Beth answered, her eyes dancing.
"I didn't."
"You _did_, Sammy."
"You're a liar!" said Sammy Lee.
"Sammy, that's rude," she exclaimed. "And it's not the way to speak to
a young lady, and I won't have it."
"Well, but I did _not_ tell you I wanted to see you at dinner-time,"
Sammy retorted positively.
"Yes, you did, stupid," said Beth. "You asked where I was at
dinner-time, and then I knew you had missed me, and you wouldn't have
missed me if you hadn't wanted to see me."
"But," Sammy repeated with sulky obstinacy, unable to comprehend the
delicate subtilty of Beth's perception,--"But I did not tell you."
"Didn't you want to see me, then?" Beth said coaxingly, waiving the
other point with tact.
But Sammy, feeling shy at the question and vaguely aggrieved, looked
up and down the street and kicked the pavement with his heel instead
of answering.
"I shall go, then," said Beth, after waiting for a little.
"No, don't," he exclaimed, his countenance clearing. "I want to ask
you--only you put it out of my head--gels do talk so."
"Gels!" Beth exclaimed derisively. "I happen to be a girl."
Sammy looked at her with a puzzled expression, and forgot what he was
going to say. She diverted his attention, however, by asking him how
old he was.
"Eleven," Sammy answered promptly.
"So am I. When were you eleven?"
"The twentieth of February."
"Oh, then you're older than me--March, April, May, June--four months.
My birthday's in June. What do you do at school? Let's see your books.
I wish _I_ went to school!"
"Shu!" said Sammy. "What's the use of sending a gel to school? Gels
can't learn."
"So Jim says," Beth rejoined with an absence of conviction that roused
Sammy.
"All boys say so," he declared.
"All boys are silly," said Beth. "What's the use of saying things?
That doesn't make them true. You're as bad as Jim."
"Who's Jim?" Sammy interrupted jealously.
"Jim's my brother."
Sammy, relieved, kicked his heel on the pavement.
"Which is tallest?" he asked presently, "you or me?"
"I'm tallest, I think," Beth answered; "but never mind. You're the
fattest. I've grown long, and you've grown broad."
"You're mighty sharp," said Sammy.
"You're mighty blunt," said Beth. "And you'll be mighty late for tea,
too. Look at the church-clock!"
Sammy glanced up, then fled precipitately; and Beth, turning to leave
the window, discovered Harriet standing in the background, grinning.
"So you've getten a sweetheart!" she exclaimed. "There's nothing like
beginning early."
"So you've been listening again," Beth answered hotly. "Bad luck to
you!"
A few days later Mrs. Caldwell was sitting with Lady Benyon, who was
in the bow-window as usual, looking out.
"If I am not mistaken," said Lady Benyon suddenly, "there is a crowd
collecting at your house."
"What! again?" Mrs. Caldwell groaned, jumping up.
"If I'm not mistaken," Lady Benyon repeated.
Mrs. Caldwell hurried off without even waiting to shake hands. On
getting into the street, however, she was relieved to find that Lady
Benyon had been mistaken. There was no crowd collecting in Orchard
Street, but, as she approached her own house, she became aware of a
small boy at the drawing-room window talking to some one within, whom
she presently discovered to be Beth.
"What are you doing there, Beth?" she demanded severely. "Who is this
boy?"
Beth started. "Sammy Lee," she gasped. "Mr. Lee's grandson at the end
of Orchard Row."
"Why are you talking to him?" her mother asked harshly. "I won't have
you talking to him. Who will you scrape acquaintance with next?" Then
she turned to Sammy, who stood shaking in his shoes, with all the rosy
colour faded from his fair fat cheeks, too frightened to stir. "Go
away," said Mrs. Caldwell, "you've no business here talking to my
daughter, and I won't allow it."
Sammy sidled off, not daring to turn his back full till he was at a
safe distance, lest he should be seized from behind and shaken. He was
not a heroic figure in retreat, but Beth, in her indignation, noted
nothing but the insult that had been offered him. For several days,
when her mother was out, she watched and waited for him, anxious to
atone; but Sammy kept to the other side of the road, and only cast
furtive smiles at her as he ran by. It never occurred to Beth that he
was less valiant than she was, or less willing to brave danger for her
sake than she was for his. She thought he was keeping away for fear of
getting her into trouble; and she beckoned to him again and again in
order to explain that she did not care; but he only fled the faster.
Then Beth wrote him a note. It was the first she had ever written
voluntarily, and she shut herself up in the acting-room to compose it,
in imitation of Aunt Grace Mary, whose beautiful delicate handwriting
she always did her best to copy--with very indifferent success,
however, for the connection between her hand and her head was
imperfect. She could compose verses and phrases long before she could
commit them to paper intelligibly; and it was not the composition of
her note to Sammy that troubled her, but her bad writing. She made a
religious ceremony of the effort, praying fervently, "Lord, let me
write it well." Every day she presented a miscellaneous collection of
petitions to the Lord, offering them up as the necessity arose, being
in constant communication with Him. When she wanted to go out, she
asked for fine weather; when she did not want to go out, she prayed
that it might rain. She begged that she might not be found out when
she went poaching on Uncle James's fields; that she might be allowed
to catch something; that new clothes might be sent her from somewhere,
she felt so ashamed in her dirty old shabby ones. She asked for boots
and shoes and gloves, and for help with her lessons; and, when she had
no special petition to offer, she would ejaculate at intervals, "Lord,
send me good luck!" But, however great the variety of her daily wants,
one prayer went up with the others always, "Lord, let me write well!"
meaning, let me write a good hand; yet her writing did not improve,
and she was much disheartened about it. She took the Lord into her
confidence on the subject very frankly. When she had been naughty, and
was not found out and punished, she thanked Him for His goodness; but
why would He not let her write well? She asked Him the question again
and again, lifting her grey eyes to the grey sky pathetically; and all
the time, though she never suspected it, she was learning to write
more than well, but in a very different sense of the word.