The Beth Book
rise when a young man met her with a friendly glance. Her whole being
was suffused with the glory of love, and her mind held the vision; but
it was of an abstract kind as yet, not inspired by man. It was in
herself that the emotion arose, in happy exuberance, and bubbled over,
expending itself in various forms of energy until it should find one
object to concentrate itself upon. There comes a time to all healthy
young people when Nature says: "Mate, my children, and be happy." If
the impulse come prematurely, it is not the young people, but the old
ones that are to blame; they should have seen to it that the
intellect, which acts as a curb on the senses when properly trained
and occupied, developed first. Beth was just at the age when the
half-educated girl has nothing to distract her but her own emotions.
Her religion, and the young men who are beginning to make eyes at her,
interest her then about equally, and in much the same way; she owes to
each a pleasurable sensation. If she can combine the two under one
roof, as in church, they suffice and her happiness is complete. It
cannot be said, however, that the senses awoke before the intellect in
Beth; but because of the irregularities of her training, the want of
discipline and order, they took possession of her first.
Passing a shop-window, Beth caught a reflection of herself in the
polished pane, and saw that her skirt hung badly: it dipped too much
behind. She stopped to gauge the length, that she might alter it when
she went in, and then she noticed the pretty light summer things
displayed in the window, and ached to possess some. She was miserably
conscious of her old ill-cut skirt, more especially of the invisible
dirt on it, and she did so yearn for something new and sweet and
clean. Her mother had a bill at that shop--should she--should she just
go in and ask about prices? No, she could not in that horrid old
frock; the shopman would not respect her. She had intended to go down
to the sands and sit by the sea, and wait for things to come to her,
by which she meant ideas; but the discomfort of mind set up by that
glimpse of her uncouth clothes, and the horrible sense of their want
of freshness, gained upon her, and drove her in hurriedly. Beth would
have expressed the dainty refinement of her mind in her dress had she
had the means; but it is difficult to be dainty on nothing a year.
The rest of the day she spent in her room sewing. She found that one
of Aunt Victoria's summer silks would fit her with very little
alteration, and set to work to make a Sunday frock of it. As she
worked she thought of the dear old lady, and of the hours they had sat
there together sewing, and of their teas and talks. She would not have
known how to alter that dress but for Aunt Victoria; it made her both
sad and glad to remember how much she owed her.
Later in the day, after dinner, when the sun had set and the darkness
was beginning to gather, Beth became aware of a curious sensation. It
was as if she were expecting something delightful to happen, and yet,
at the same time, was all aching with anxiety. Then suddenly she
remembered her dream. The old pear-tree was a pyramid of blossom.
Should she go and see the white foam-flowers by moonlight? The moon
had risen.
She stole out into the garden, anxious above everything to go alone.
Her heart throbbed curiously; what did she expect? The young moon hung
in an indigo sky, and there were some white stars. The air was fresh
and fragrant as it had been in her dream, but there was less light.
She had to peer into the shade beneath the pear-tree to see--to see
what? If there were any one there? Of course there was no one there!
How could there be? She did not trust herself closer, however, until
she was quite sure that there was nothing to encounter but the trunk
of the tree. Then she went bravely, and reclined on the see-saw board,
looking up through the black branches to the clustering blossoms that
shone so white on the topmost twigs in the moonlight. And presently
she began to glow with a great feeling of exultation. It began in her
chest, and spread, as from a centre, all over her. The details of her
dream recurred to her, the close clasp, the tender kiss, and she
thrilled again at the recollection.
But, for the present, the recollection was enough.
CHAPTER XXVI
On Sunday morning Beth went down to breakfast dressed in Aunt
Victoria's light lavender silk, remodelled to suit her; and very
becoming she had made it. But Mrs. Caldwell called it an absurd
costume for a girl of her age, and said she looked ridiculously
over-dressed; so Beth went back to her room disheartened, and
reappeared at church-time, with drooping mouth, in the old black frock
she usually wore on Sundays.
Vainly she tried to rouse herself to any fervour of worship during the
first part of the service. She felt ill-dressed, uncomfortable,
dissatisfied, and would have been glad to quarrel with anybody. Then
suddenly, during the singing of a hymn, she ceased to be self-conscious.
All the trouble left her, and was succeeded by that curious thrill of
happy expectation which came to her continually at this time. She looked
about her and saw friendly faces where before she had seen nothing but
criticism and disdain of her shabby clothes.
Those were the days of pew-letting. The nearer you sat to the pulpit,
the higher the price of the pew, and the better your social position.
Mrs. Caldwell was obliged to content herself with a cheap seat in one
of the side aisles near the door, so the vicar had never called on
her. He only called on a few front rows. His own pew was high in the
chancel, where all the parish could gaze at his exhausted wife and her
increasing family. His pupils used to sit in the pew opposite; but the
bishop, having received complaints from the neglected parish, had
lately interfered and stopped the school; and henceforth Mr.
Richardson was only to be allowed to have one pupil. Mr. Richardson
determined to make him profitable.
From where she sat Beth could see the vicar's pew in the chancel, and
she had noticed a tall slender youth sitting at the far end, near the
vestry door, but he did not interest her at first; now, however, she
looked at him again, and wondered who he was, and presently she found
that he was gazing at her intently. Then their eyes met, and it was as
if a spark of fire had kindled a glow in her chest, high up near the
throat, where the breath catches. She looked down at her book, but had
no thought on the subject at all--she was all one sensation. Light had
come to her, a wondrous flood of amber light, that blotted out the
common congregation and all besides, but him and her. Yet she could
hardly sit through the service, and the moment it was over she fled.
Her great desire was to be alone, if that could be called solitude
which contained all the satisfaction of the closest companionship. All
the time that she was flying, however, she felt that she was being
pursued, and there was the strangest excitement and delight in the
sensation. But she never looked behind. She did not dare to.
She made for the cliffs on the Fairholm estate, and when she came to
them her intention was to hide herself. There was a nook she knew,
some distance on, a grassy space on the cliff side, not visible either
from above or below. She climbed down to it, and there ensconced
herself. Beneath was a little cove sheltered from the north and south
by the jutting cliffs, and floored with the firmest sand just then,
for the tide was out. Beth was lying in the shadow of the cliff, but,
beyond, the sun shone, the water sparkled, the sonorous sea-voice
sounded from afar, while little laughing waves broke out into merry
music all along the shore. Beth, lying on her face with her arms
folded in front of her and her cheek resting on them, looked out,
lithe, young, strong, bursting with exultation, but motionless as a
manifestation of inanimate nature. That was a beautiful pause in her
troublous day. Never mind if it only endured for an hour, there was
certainty in it, a happy certainty. From the moment their eyes had met
she was sure, she knew he would come.
The little waves rang out their laughing carillons, light grace notes
to the deep solemn melody of earth and air and sea; and Beth, watching
with dilated pupils and set countenance, listened intently. And
presently, below, on her left, round the headland some one came
striding. Beth's bright eyes flashed with a vivid interest, but she
shrank back, flattening herself down on the rank grass, as though
thereby she made herself the more invisible.
The young man stopped, took off his hat and wiped his forehead,
glanced this way and that round the cove and out to sea, like one
bewildered, who has expected to find something which is not there, and
begins to look for it in the most unlikely places. Hesitating,
disappointed, uncertain, he moved a little on in one direction, a
little back in the other, then, drawn by a sudden impulse, that most
familiar manifestation of the ruling force which disposes of us all,
we know not how, he walked up the cove with swift, strong, buoyant
steps, as if with a purpose, swinging his hat in his hand as he came,
and threw himself full length on the smooth, hard, shining sand, and
sighed a deep sigh of satisfaction, as though he knew himself within
reach of what he sought. In certain states of ecstatic feeling a
faculty is released which takes cognisance of things beyond the ken of
our beclouded intellects, and although in the language of mind he did
not know, it may be that from the region of pure spirit there had come
to him a subtle perception, not to be defined, which made it more
desirable to be there on that spot alone than anywhere else in the
world with no matter whom.
He was a young man of seventeen or eighteen, slenderly built, with
well-shaped feet, and long, delicate, nervous hands. His face was
shaved clean of the down of his adolescence, so that his somewhat
sallow complexion looked smooth to effeminacy. His features were
regular and refined, and his fine brown curly hair was a shade lighter
in colour than his skin--which produced a noticeable effect. His pale
china-blue eyes, too, showed the same peculiarity, which Beth, looking
down on him through the fringe of long rank grass in front of her,
remarked, but uncritically, for every inch of him was a joy to her.
She was passive. But the young man soon grew restless on his sandy
couch. He changed his position a dozen times, then suddenly got on his
knees, and heaped up a mound of sand, which, having patted it and
pressed it down as hard as it would set, he began to model. Beth held
her breath and became rigid with interest as she saw the shapeless
mass gradually transformed into some semblance of a human figure,
conventional as an Egyptian statue. When the young man had finished,
he sat beside the figure for some time, looking fixedly out to sea.
Then he turned to his work once more, and, after surveying it
critically, he began to make alterations, trying to improve upon what
he had done; but the result did not please him, and in a fit of
exasperation he fell upon the figure and demolished it. This seemed
such a wanton outrage to Beth that she uttered a low cry of
remonstrance involuntarily, but the exclamation mingled with the
murmur of wind and wave, and was lost in it. The young man looked
disconcerted himself and ashamed, too, as a child does when it has
broken something in a rage and repents; and presently he began to heap
the mound once more. When it was done, he stretched himself on the
sand and shut his eyes, and for a long time Beth lay still, looking
down upon him.
All at once, however, the noise of the water became importunate. She