The Beth Book
separated myself from Aunt Victoria?--and who else is there?"
"You gave Aunt Victoria plenty of trouble while she was here," Mrs.
Caldwell rejoined drily.
"Well, that is true, at all events," Beth answered in a broken voice;
and then she bowed her head on the old French grammar, and sobbed as
if her heart would break.
Mrs. Caldwell looked up from her work at her from time to time
frowning, but she was too much ruffled by some of Beth's remarks to
say anything consoling; and Beth, absorbed in her grief, lost all
consciousness of everything outside herself.
At last, however, a kindly hand was laid on her head, and some one
stroked her hair.
"That is the way she goes on, and I don't know what to do with her,"
Mrs. Caldwell was saying. "Come, Beth, rouse yourself," she added
sharply.
Beth looked up, and found that it was Aunt Grace Mary who was stroking
her hair.
"Poor little body!" said Aunt Grace Mary as if she were speaking to an
infant, then added in a sprightly tone: "Come, dear! Come, dear! Wipe
your eyes. Mamma will be here directly--my mamma--and Uncle James, and
Mr. Watson."
"What are they coming for?" said Beth.
"Oh, _your_ mamma knows," Aunt Grace Mary answered archly. "Mr. Watson
was poor dear Aunt Victoria's lawyer, and he has brought her will, and
is going to read it to us."
"Am I to be sent out of the room?" Beth asked.
"Of course," said Mrs. Caldwell. "It isn't a matter for you at all."
"Everything is a matter for me that concerned Aunt Victoria," Beth
rejoined, "and if Lady Benyon is to be here, _I_ shall stay."
Before Mrs. Caldwell could reply, Lady Benyon herself was ushered into
the little room with great deference by Uncle James. They were
followed by a little old gentleman dressed in black, with spectacles,
and a pair of badly-fitting black kid gloves. He shook hands with Mrs.
Caldwell, and then with Beth, whom he looked at over his spectacles
shrewdly. Uncle James also shook hands, and kissed his sister. "This
is a solemn occasion," he said, with emotion in his voice. Then he
looked at Beth, and added, "Had she not better go?"
Beth sat down beside Aunt Grace Mary, with her mouth obstinately set;
and Mrs. Caldwell, afraid of a scene, merely shrugged her shoulders
helplessly. Meanwhile the lawyer was blowing his nose, wiping his
spectacles, taking papers out of a pocket at the back of his
frock-coat, and settling himself at the table.
"You would like this young lady to retire, I suppose," said Uncle
James blandly.
"By no means," the little old gentleman answered, looking up at him
over his spectacles, and then at Beth. "By no means; let the young
lady remain."
Aunt Grace Mary put her arm round Beth. The lawyer broke the seal,
unfolded the will, and remarked by way of preface: "The document is in
the handwriting of the deceased. Ahem!"
Instantly into every face there came the expression that people wear
in church. Mr. Watson proceeded to read; but in a dry, distinct,
matter-of-fact tone, devoid of all emotion. A lawyer reading a will
aloud is sure of the interest of his audience, and, on this occasion,
it was evident that each member of the little group listened with
strained attention, but with very different feelings. What they
gathered was that Miss Victoria Bench, spinster, being of sound mind,
did will and bequeath everything of which she might die possessed to
her beloved great-niece, Elizabeth Caldwell, commonly called Beth.
Should Beth marry, the money was to be settled upon her for her
exclusive use. The present income from the property, about fifty
pounds a year, was to be devoted to the education of the said
Elizabeth Caldwell, commonly called Beth.
Uncle James's jaw dropped during the reading. "But," he stammered when
it was over, "if the investments recover?"
"Then Miss Elizabeth Caldwell, commonly called Beth, will have an
income of between six and seven hundred a year, _at least_," said the
lawyer, smiling.
Aunt Grace Mary clasped Beth close in a spasm of congratulation. Mrs.
Caldwell burst into tears. Beth herself, with an unmoved countenance,
perceived the disgust of Uncle James, her mother's emotion, and
something like amusement in Lady Benyon's face; and she also
perceived, but at a great distance as it were, that there was a dim
prospect of some change for the better in her life.
"Poor little body!" said Aunt Grace Mary, caressing her.
"Rich little body!" said Lady Benyon. "Come and kiss me, Puck, and let
me congratulate you."
"It is very nice for you, Beth, I am sure," said Mrs. Caldwell
plaintively, holding out her hand to Beth as she passed. Beth accepted
this also as a congratulation, and stooped and kissed her mother. Then
the lawyer got up and shook hands with her, and thereupon Uncle James,
feeling forced for decency's sake to do something, observed pointedly:
"I suppose Miss Victoria Bench was quite sane when she made this
bequest?"
"I should say that your supposition was correct," said the lawyer.
"Miss Victoria Bench always seemed to me to be an eminently sane
person."
There was no allusion whatever to Uncle James in Aunt Victoria's will.
She thanked her niece, Caroline Caldwell, kindly for the shelter she
had given her in her misfortune, and hoped that by providing for Beth
she would relieve her mother's mind of all anxiety about the child, to
whom, she proceeded to state, she left all she had in proof of the
tender affection she felt for the child, and in return for the
disinterested love and duty she had received from Beth. Aunt Victoria
wished Beth to have her room when she was gone, in order that Beth
might, as she grew up, have proper privacy in her life, with
undisturbed leisure for study, reflection, and prayer. She added that
she considered Beth a child of exceptional temperament, that peculiar
care and kindness would be necessary to develop her character; but
Miss Victoria hoped, prayed, and believed that, with the help of the
excellent abilities with which she had been endowed, Beth would not
only work out her own salvation eventually, but do something notable
to the glory of God and for the good of mankind.
Beth's heart glowed when she heard this passage, and ever afterwards,
when she recalled it, she felt strangely stimulated.
After the last solemn words of the will had been read, and the little
scene of congratulation had been enacted, there was a pause in the
proceedings, then Uncle James remarked in his happiest manner: "The
importance which old ladies attach to their little bequests is only to
be equalled by the strength of their sentiments, and the grandeur of
the language in which they are expressed. One would think a
principality was being bequeathed to a princess, instead of a few
pounds to an obscure little girl, to judge by the tone of the whole
document. Well, well!"
Beth looked at him, then drew down the corners of her mouth
impertinently. "There is one thing I can console you with, Uncle
James," she said. "You may be quite sure that when I do come into my
kingdom, I shall carefully conceal the fact that I am any relation of
yours."
Later in the day, Beth found her mother sitting in her accustomed
place by the dining-table, rocking herself sideways over her work, and
with a worried expression of countenance, as if she were uneasy in her
mind.
"Aren't you pleased, mamma," said Beth, "that I should be left the
money?"
"Why, yes, of course, my dear child," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined. Her tone
to Beth had altered very much since the morning. Even in a few short
hours Beth had been made to feel that mere money was making her a
person of more importance than she had ever before been considered.
Her mother had stopped short, but Beth waited, and Mrs. Caldwell
recommenced: "I am delighted on your account. Only, I was just
thinking. The money is of no use to you just now, and it would have
made all the difference to Jim. He ought to be making friends now who
will last him his life and help him on in his career; but he can do
nothing without an allowance, and I cannot make him one. There is no
hurry for your education. In fact, I think it would be better for your
health if you were not taught too much at present. But you shall have
your aunt's room, Beth, to study in if you like. You may even sleep
there, although I shall feel it when you leave mine. It will be
breaking up the family. That remark in the will about proper privacy
seems to me great nonsense, and you know I am not legally bound to
give you a room to yourself. However, it was the dear old lady's last
request to me, and that makes it sacred, so it shall be carried out to
the letter. The room is yours, and I hope you will enjoy your
privacy."
"Oh, I _shall_," Beth exclaimed with uncomplimentary fervour.
Mrs. Caldwell sighed and sewed on in silence for a little.
"The dear old lady left you the money because she believed you would
do some good with it," she resumed. "'For the good of mankind.' Those
are her own words. And I do think that is rather your line, Beth; and
what greater good can you do to begin with than help your brother on
in the world? To spend the money on him instead of on yourself would
really be a fine, unselfish thing to do."
Beth's great grey eyes dilated; the prospect was alluring. "I suppose there
would not be enough for both of us?" she ventured tentatively--"enough
for me to be taught some _few_ things properly, you know--English,
music, French."
"On fifty pounds a year, my dear child!" her mother exclaimed
sorrowfully. "Fifty pounds goes no way at all." Beth sighed.
"Besides," Mrs. Caldwell pursued, "_I_ can teach you all these things.
You've got beyond your childish tiresomeness now, and have only to
ask, and then I will tell you all you don't know. It would be a
pleasure and an occupation for me, and indeed, Beth, I have very
little pleasure in life. The days are long and lonely." Beth looked up
with sudden sympathy. "But if you will let me give you the lessons,
and earn the money, I could send it to Jim, and that would comfort me
greatly, and add also to _your_ happiness, I should think."
It was not in Beth to resist such an appeal. She always forgot herself
at the first symptom of sorrow or suffering in another, and never
considered her own interests if she could help somebody else by
sacrificing them.
"It _would_ add to my happiness," she answered brightly. "And if you
will just explain to me, mamma, when I don't understand things, I
shall remember all right, and not be a bother to you. Will you be kind
to me, and not scold me, and jeer at me, and make my life a burden to
me? When you do that, I hate you."
Mrs. Caldwell stopped short with her needle up in the air, in the act
of drawing the thread through her work. She was inexpressibly shocked.
"Hate your mother, Beth!" she gasped.
"I know it's abominable," said Beth, filled with compunction; "but I
can't help it. It's the devil, I suppose. He gets hold of us both, and
makes you torment me, and makes me--not like you for it."
Mrs. Caldwell quietly resumed her sewing. She was too much startled by
this glimpse of herself from Beth's point of view to say another word
on the subject; and a long silence ensued, during which she saw
herself as a sadly misunderstood mother. She determined, however, to
try and manage Beth on a new principle.
"I should like to help you to make the best of yourself, Beth," she
burst out again abruptly; "and I think I can. You are a tall girl for
your age, and are beginning to hold yourself well already. Your poor
dear aunt was very particular to teach you that. And you have the
complexion of the Bench family, if you will take care of it. You
should wash your face in buttermilk at night after being out in the
sun. I'll get you some, and I'll get you a parasol for the summer.