The Beth Book
light airs, and moved with a gentle roll. The sullen murmur rose to a
morning song, and a boat with bare mast at anchor in the bay, the only
one in sight, rocked to the tune. A great sea-bird sailed by, gazing
down into the depths with piercing eyes, and a grey gull flew so close
to the water, it seemed as if his wings must dip at every flap. The
sky by this time was all a riot of colour, at which Beth gazed in
admiration, but without rapture. Her intellect acknowledged its
loveliness, but did not delight in it--heart and soul were untouched.
The spirit of the dawn refused to speak to her. She had exhausted
herself in her effort to induce the intoxication of devotion which had
come to her spontaneously the day before. The great spirit does not
want martyrs. Joy in beauty and goodness comes of a pure and tranquil
mind, not of a tortured body. The faces of the holy ones are calm and
their souls serene.
A little farm-house stood back from the road just behind the seat
where Beth was sitting, and a tall gaunt elderly man, with a beard on
his chin, came out presently and stood staring grimly at the sunrise.
Then he crossed the road deliberately, sat down at the other end of
the seat, and stared at Beth.
"You're early out," he said at last.
Beth detected something hostile in the tone, and fixed her big
fearless grey eyes upon him defiantly. "It's a free country," she
said.
"Free or not," he answered drily, "it isn't fit fur no young gell to
be out alone at sechun a time. Ye should be indoors gettin' the
breakfast."
"Thank you," said Beth, "I've no need to get the breakfast."
"Well, it makes it all the worse," he rejoined; "fur if ye're by way
o' bein' a lady, it not on'y means that ye're out wi' no one to tak'
care of ye, but that ye've niver been taught to tak' care o' yerself.
Lady!" he ejaculated. "Pride and patches! Tak' my advice, _lady_, go
back to yer bed, get yer meed o' sleep, wak' up refreshed, and set to
work."
He spat on the grass in a self-satisfied way when he had spoken, and
contemplated the sunrise like a man who has done his duty and earned
the right to repose.
Beth got up and walked home despondently. She climbed in at the
acting-room window, and went to her own room. The sun was shining on
the apple-blossom in the orchard opposite, and she looked for the
charm of yesterday, but finding only the garish commonplace of
fruit-trees in flower with the sun on them, she drew down the blind.
Then she took off her hat and jacket, threw herself on her bed, and
fell into a heavy sleep, with her brow puckered and the corners of her
mouth drooping discontentedly.
The next night she determined to take her meed of sleep, and did not
tie the string to her toe. It had been a long lonely day, filled with
great dissatisfaction and vague yearnings for companionship; but when
she fell asleep she had a happy dream, so vivid that it seemed more
real than anything she had seen in her morning ramble. It was eight
o'clock in the evening, she dreamt, and there was some one waiting for
her under the pear-tree in the garden. The night air was fresh and
fragrant. The moonlight shone on the white blossoms overhead, which
clustered so close that no ray penetrated to the ground beneath, so
that there all was shadowy, but still she could see that there was
some one standing in the shade, and she knew that he was waiting for
her. She had never seen him before, yet she knew him well and hurried
to meet him; and he took her in his arms and kissed her, and his
kisses thrilled her with a thrill that remained with her for many a
day.
She got up the moment she awoke, and looked about her in a kind of
amaze, for everything she saw was transfigured. It was in herself,
however, that the light burned which made the world so radiant. As the
old apple-trees, warmed by the sun, suddenly blossomed into bridal
beauty in the spring, so, in the silent night, between sundown and
day-dawn, while she slept, yet another petal of her own manifold
nature had unfolded, and in the glow of its loveliness there was
nothing of commonplace aspect; for a new joy in life was hers which
helped her to discover in all things a hitherto unsuspected charm.
Beth's little life had been full of childish irregularities, the
little duties being continually slurred and neglected that the little
pleasures might be indulged in the sooner. She was apt to regard
bathing, hair-brushing, dressing, and lessons as mere hindrances to
some of the particular great businesses of life which specially
occupied her--verse-making, for instance, piano-playing, poaching, or
praying, whichever happened to be the predominant interest of the
moment. But now, on a sudden, the care of her person became of
extraordinary importance. All the hints, good and bad, she had had on
the subject recurred to her, and she began to put them into practice
systematically. She threw the clothes back from her bed to air it the
moment she got up, that it might be fresh and sweet to sleep in. Her
little bath had hitherto been used somewhat irregularly, but now she
fetched hot and cold water for herself, and bathed every day. She
brushed her hair glossy, and tightened her stays to make her waist
small, and she was sorely dissatisfied because her boots did not pinch
her feet. She began to take great care of her hands too, and would do
no dusting without gloves on, or dirty work of any kind that was
calculated to injure them. She used a parasol when she could, and if
she got sunburnt bathing or boating, she washed her face in buttermilk
at night, fetched from Fairholm regularly for the purpose. The minds
and habits of the young are apt to form themselves in this way out of
suggestions let fall by all kinds of people, the worst and most
foolish as well as the wisest and best.
Beth longed that morning for something new and smart to wear. Her old
black things looked so rusty in the spring sunshine, she could not
satisfy herself with anything she had. All Aunt Victoria's possessions
were hers, and she examined her boxes, looking for something to
enliven her own sombre dress, and found some lace which she turned
into a collar and cuffs and sewed on. When she saw herself in the
glass with this becoming addition to her dress, her face brightened at
the effect. She knew that Aunt Victoria would have been pleased to see
her look like that--she was always pleased when Beth looked well; and
now, when Beth recollected her sympathy, all the great fountain of
love in her brimmed over, and streamed away in happy little waves, to
break about the dear old aunt somewhere on the foreshore of eternity,
and to add, perhaps, who knows how or what to her bliss.
When Beth went down to breakfast, she was very hungry, but there was
only one little bloater, which must be left for mamma to divide with
Bernadine. There was not much butter either, so Beth took her toast
nearly dry, and her thin coffee with very little milk and no sugar in
it, also for economical reasons; but the coffee was hot, and she was
happy. Her happiness bubbled up in bright little remarks, which
brightened her mother too.
"Mamma," said Beth, taking advantage of her mood, "it's a poor heart
that never rejoices. Let's have a holiday, you and I, to celebrate the
summer."
"But the summer hasn't come," Mrs. Caldwell objected, smiling.
"But summer is coming, is coming," Beth chanted, "and I want to make a
song about it."
"_You_ make a song!" Bernadine exclaimed. "Why, you can't spell
summer."
Beth made a face at her. "I know you want a holiday, mamma," she
resumed. "Come, confess! I work you to death. And there's church
to-day at eleven, and I want to go."
"Well, if you want to go to church," said Mrs. Caldwell, relieved.
Beth did not wait to hear the end of the sentence.
She went to the drawing-room first, and sat down at the little
rosewood piano with a volume of Moore's "Lalla Rookh" open before her.
"From the mountain's warbling fount I come,"
she chanted, with her eyes fixed on the words, but she played as if
she were reading notes. She wove all the poems she loved to music in
this way, and played and sang them softly to herself by the hour
together.
The Lenten service in the church at the end of the road was but poorly
attended. There were not more than a dozen people present; but Beth,
seated beside the door, enjoyed it. She was all fervour now, and every
emotional exercise was a pleasure.
After the service she strolled down the quaintly irregular front
street, which was all red brick houses with small window-panes, three
to the width of the window, except where an aspiring tradesman had
introduced plate-glass and a vulgar disguise of stucco, which
converted the warm-toned bricks into commonplace colourless greyness.
It was on one side of this street that the principal shops were, and
Beth stood for some time gazing at a print in a stationer's window--a
lovely little composition of waves lapping in gently towards a
sheltered nook on a sandy beach. Beth, wafted there instantly, heard
the dreamy murmur and felt the delicious freshness of the sea, yet the
picture did not satisfy her.
"I should want somebody," she broke out in herself. "I should want
somebody--somebody to lay my head against. Ah, dear Lord, how I hate
to be alone!"
Old Lady Benyon, at her post of observation in the big bow-window at
the top of the street, saw Beth standing there, and speculated.
"Gracious, how that child grows!" she exclaimed. "She'll be a woman
directly."
As Beth went on down the street, she began to suffer from that dull
irresolute feeling which comes of a want of purpose. She wanted a
companion and she wanted an object. Presently she met a young man who
looked at her intently as they approached each other, and as he looked
his face brightened. Beth's pulse quickened pleasurably and her colour
rose. Her steps became buoyant. She held up her head and glowed with
animation, but was unaware of the source of this sudden happy
stimulant, nor did she try to discover it. She was living her
experiences then, by-and-by she would reflect upon them, then
inevitably she would reproduce them, and all without intention. As the
sun rises, as the birds build, so would she work when the right time
came. Talent may manufacture to order, but works of genius are the
outcome of an irresistible impulse, a craving to express something for
its own sake and the pleasure of expressing it, with no thought of
anything beyond. It is talent that thinks first of all of applause and
profits, and only works to secure them--works for the result, for the
end in view--never for love of the work.
Beth's heart had no satisfaction at home; she had no friend of her own
sex to fill it as most girls have, and a nature like hers, rich in
every healthy possibility, was bound to crave for love early. It was
all very well for her mother and society as it is constituted to
ignore the needs of nature; by Beth herself they would not be ignored.
In most people, whether the senses or the intellect will have the
upper-hand is very much a matter of early training.
Because she was a girl, Beth's intellect had been left to stagnate for
want of proper occupation or to run riot in any vain pursuit she might
happen upon by accident, while her senses were allowed to have their
way, unrestrained by any but the vaguest principles. Thanks to her
free roving outdoor habits, her life was healthy if it were not happy,
and she promised to mature early. Youth and sex already began to hang
out their signals--clear skin, slim figure, light step, white teeth,
thick hair, bright eyes. She was approaching her blossoming time, the
end of her wintry childhood, the beginning of a promising spring. It
was natural and right that her pulses should quicken and her spirits