The Beth Book
"Beth! Beth! strike your mother!"
"That was the danger," said Beth, in her slow, distinct, imperturbable
way. "One day she made me so angry I very nearly struck her, and I
told her so. That made her look queer, I can tell you. And she's never
struck me since--except in a half-hearted sort of way, or when she
forgot, and that didn't count, of course. But I think I know now how
it was she used to beat me. I did just the same thing myself one day.
I beat Sammy----"
"Who is Sammy?" said Aunt Victoria, looking over her spectacles.
"Sammy Lee, you know."
Aunt Victoria recollected, and felt she should improve the occasion,
but was at a loss for a moment what to say. She was anxious above
everything that Beth should talk to her freely, for how could she help
the child if she did not know all she had in her mind? It is upon the
things they are never allowed to mention that children brood
unwholesomely.
"I thought that you were not allowed to know Sammy Lee," she finally
observed.
"No more I was," Beth answered casually.
"Yet you knew him all the same?" Aunt Victoria ventured reproachfully.
"Aunt Victoria," said Beth, "did the Lord die for Sammy?"
"Ye--yes," said Aunt Victoria, hesitating, not because she doubted the
fact, but because she did not know what use Beth would make of it.
"Then why can't _I_ know him?" Beth asked.
"Oh, be--because Sammy does not live as if he were grateful to the
Lord."
"If he did, would he be a gentleman?" Beth asked.
"Yes," Aunt Victoria answered decidedly.
Beth stopped snipping, and looked at her as if she were looking right
through her, and out into the world beyond. Then she pursed up her
mouth and shook her head.
"That won't hold water," she said. "If a man must live like the Lord
to be a gentleman, what is Uncle James? And if living like the Lord
makes a man a gentleman, why don't we call on old Job Fisher?"
Aunt Victoria began to fear that the task she had undertaken would
prove too much for her. "It is hard, very hard," she muttered.
"Well, never mind," said Beth, resuming her work. "When I grow up I
mean to write about things like that. But what were we talking about?
Oh, beating Sammy. I did feel bad after I beat him, and I vowed I'd
never do it again however tiresome he was, and I never did. It makes
it easier if you vow. It's just as if your hands were tied then. I'd
like to tell mamma to try it, only she'd be sure to get waxy. You tell
her, Aunt Victoria."
Aunt Victoria made some reply which was lost in the noise of vehicles
passing in the street, followed by the tramp of many feet and a great
chattering. An excursion train had just arrived, and the people were
pouring into the place. Beth ran to the window and watched them.
"More confounded trippers," she ejaculated. "They spoil the summer,
swarming everywhere."
"Beth, I wish, to please me, you would make another vow. Don't say
'confounded trippers.'"
"All right, Aunt Victoria. Jim says it. But I know all the bad words in
the language were made for the men. I suppose because they have all the
bad thoughts, and do all the bad things. I shall say 'objectionable
excursionists' in future." She went to the door. "I'm just going to get
something," she said. "You won't go away now, will you? I shall be a
minute or two, but I want you to be here when I come back. I shall be
wild if you're not."
She banged the door after her and ran downstairs.
Aunt Victoria looked round the room; it no longer seemed the same
place to her. Beth's cheerful chatter had already driven away the evil
spirit of dejection, and taken the old lady out of herself. Untidy
child! She had left her work on the floor, her scissors on the bed,
disarranged the window-curtain, and upset a chair. If she would not do
any more unpicking when she returned, she must be made to put things
straight. There was one little easy-chair in the room. Aunt Victoria
sat down in it, a great piece of self-indulgence for her at that time
of day, folded her hands, and closed her weary old eyes just to give
them a rest, while a nice little look of content came into her face,
which it was good to see there.
When she opened her eyes again, Beth was setting a tray on a tiny
table beside her.
"I think you've been having a nap, Miss Great-Aunt Victoria Bench,"
she said. "Now, have some tea! and buttered toast!!"
"O Beth!" cried the old lady, beaming. "How could you--at this time of
day? Well, to please you. It is quite delicious. So refreshing. What,
another piece of toast! Must I take another?"
"You must take it all," said Beth. "I made it for you. I do like doing
things for you, Aunt Victoria. It makes me feel nice all over. I'll
just unpick a little more. Then I'll tidy up."
"You're a good child to think of that," said Aunt Victoria. "I did not
think you would."
"Didn't you?" said Beth. "How funny! But I like things tidy. I often
tidy up."
"I--I suppose Harriet says tidy up," the old lady observed gently, not
liking to be censorious at this happy moment of relaxation, but still
anxious to do her duty. Beth understood her perfectly and smiled.
"I like you to tell me when I say things wrong," she said; "and I like
to know how Harriet talks too. You can't write if you don't know how
every one talks."
"What are you going to write?" Aunt Victoria asked, taking up another
piece of buttered toast.
"Oh, books," Beth answered casually.
"Write something soul-sustaining then, Beth," said Aunt Victoria. "Try
to make all you say soul-sustaining. And never use a word you would be
ashamed to hear read aloud."
"You mean like those things they read in church?" said Beth. "I don't
think I ever could use such words. When Mr. Richardson comes close to
them, I get hot all over and hate him. But I promise you, Aunt
Victoria, I will never write anything worse than there is in the
Bible. There's a man called Ruskin who writes very well, they say, and
he learnt how to do it from reading the Bible. His mother taught him
when he was a little boy, just as you taught me. I always read the
Bible--search the Scriptures--every day. You say it's a sacred book,
don't you, Aunt Victoria? Harriet says it's smutty."
"Says _what_?" Aunt Victoria exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in her
horror. "What does she mean by such an expression?"
"Oh, she just means stories like Joseph and Potiphar's wife, David and
Bathsheba, Susanna and the elders."
"My _dear_ child!" Aunt Victoria gasped.
"Well, Aunt Victoria, they're all in the Bible, at least Susanna and
the elders isn't. That's in the Apocrypha."
Aunt Victoria sat silent a considerable time. At last she said
solemnly: "Beth, I want you to promise me one thing solemnly, and that
is that all your life long, whatever may be before you, whatever it
may be your lot to learn, you will pray to God to preserve your
purity."
"What is purity?" said Beth.
Aunt Victoria hesitated: "It's a condition of the mind which keeps us
from ever doing or saying anything we should be ashamed of," she
finally decided.
"But what kind of things?" Beth asked.
Unfortunately Aunt Victoria was not equal to the occasion. She blinked
her eyes very hard, sipped some tea, and left Beth to find out for
herself, according to custom.
"We must only talk about nice things," she said.
"Well, I shouldn't care to talk nastily about people as Lady Benyon
does sometimes," Beth rejoined.
"But, my dear child, that is not a nice thing to say about Lady
Benyon."
"Isn't it?" said Beth, then added: "Oh dear, how funny things are!"
meaning how complicated.
"Where did you get this tea, Beth?" said Aunt Victoria. "It is very
good, and I feel so much the better for it."
"I thought you wanted something," said Beth. "Your face went all
queer. That means people want something. I got the tea out of the
store-cupboard. It has a rotten lock. If you shake it, it comes
open."
"But what does your mamma say?"
"Oh, she never notices. Or, if she does, she thinks she left it open
herself. Harriet has a little sometimes. She takes it because she says
mamma should allow her a quarter of a pound of dry tea a week, so it
isn't stealing. And I took it for you because you pay to live here, so
you're entitled to the tea. I don't take it for myself, of course. But
I'm afraid I oughtn't to have told you about Harriet. I'm so sorry. It
slipped out. It wasn't sneaking. But I trust to your honour, Aunt
Victoria. If you sneaked on Harriet, I could never trust you again,
now could I?" She got up as she spoke, folded her work, picked up the
chair, arranged the window-curtain, moved the tray, and put the table
back in its place, at the same time remarking: "I shall take these
things downstairs now, and go for a run."
She left Aunt Victoria with much to reflect upon. The glimpse she had
accidentally given the old lady of Harriet's turpitude had startled
her considerably. Mrs. Caldwell had always congratulated herself on
having such a quiet respectable person in the house as Harriet to look
after Beth, and now it appeared that the woman was disreputable both
in her habits and her conversation, the very last person whom a girl,
even of such strongly marked individuality as Beth, should have been
allowed to associate with intimately. But what ought Miss Victoria to
do? If she spoke to Mrs. Caldwell, Beth would never forgive her, and
the important thing was not to lose Beth's confidence; but if she did
not speak to Mrs. Caldwell, would she be doing right? Of course, if
Mrs. Caldwell had been a different sort of person, her duty would have
been clear and easy; but as it was, Aunt Victoria decided to wait.
The next day Beth returned of her own accord to finish the unpicking.
She wanted to know what "soul-sustaining" meant; and in ten minutes
she had cross-questioned Aunt Victoria into such a state of confusion
that the old lady could only sit silently praying to Heaven for
guidance. At last she got up, and took a little packet out of one of
her trunks. She had to live in her boxes because there was no closet
or wardrobe or chest of drawers in the room.
"See, Beth," she said, "here is some tea and sugar. I don't think it
nice of you to go to your mother's cupboard without her leave. That's
rather a servant's trick, you know, and not honest; so give it up,
like a dear child, and let us have tea together, you and I, up here,
when we want it. I very much enjoy a good cup of tea, it is so
refreshing, and you make it beautifully."
Beth changed colour and countenance while Aunt Victoria was speaking,
and she sat for some time afterwards looking fixedly at the empty
grate; then she said, "You always tell me things nicely, Aunt
Victoria; that's what I like about you. I'll not touch the cupboard
again, I vow; and if you catch me at any other 'servant's tricks' just
you let me know."
The old lady's heart glowed. The Lord was showing her how to help the
child.
But the holidays were coming on; she would have to go away to make
room for the boys; and she dreaded to leave Beth at this critical
time, lest she should relapse, just as she was beginning to form nice
feminine habits. For Beth had taken kindly to the sewing and
tea-drinking and long quiet chats; it was a delight to her to have
some one to wait on, and help, and talk to. "I'm so fond of you, Aunt
Victoria," she said one day; "I even like you to snap at me; and if we
lived quite alone together, you and I, I should do everything for
you."
"Would you like to come away with me these holidays?" said Aunt
Victoria, seized suddenly with a bright idea.
"Oh, wouldn't I!" said Beth. "But then, the expense!"
"I think I can manage it, if your mamma has no objection," said Aunt
Victoria, nodding and blinking, and nodding again, as she calculated.