The Beth Book
The tide had seemed to come in galloping like a racehorse, but now it
crawled out like a snail; and they were both so utterly worn, that
when at last the water was shallow enough, they just sank down and sat
in it, leaning against each other, and yearning for what seemed to
them the most desirable thing on earth at that moment--a dry spot on
which to stretch themselves out and go to sleep.
"I know now what exhaustion is," said Beth, with her head on Alfred's
shoulder.
"Do you know, Beth," he rejoined with a wan smile, "you've been
picking up information ever since you fell acquainted with me here. I
can count a dozen new experiences you've mentioned already. If you go
on like this always, you'll know everything in time."
"I hope so!" Beth muttered. "Fell acquainted with you, isn't bad; but
I wonder if _tumbled_ wouldn't have been better----"
She dozed off uncomfortably before she could finish the sentence. He
had settled himself with his head against the uncertain cliff, which
beetled above them ominously; but they were both beyond thinking or
caring about it. Vaguely conscious of each other, and of the sea-voice
that gradually grew distant and more distant as the water went out
beyond the headland, leaving them stranded in the empty cove, they
rested and slept uneasily, yet heavily enough to know little of the
weary while they had to wait before they could make their escape.
For it was not until the sun had set and the moon hung high above the
sea in a sombre sky, that at last they were able to go.
CHAPTER XXVII
It was dark night when Beth got back to the little house in Orchard
Street. She had hoped to slip in unobserved, but her mother was
looking out for her.
"Where have you been?" she demanded angrily.
Beth had come in prepared to tell the whole exciting story, but this
reception irritated her, and she answered her mother in exactly the
same tone: "I've been at Fairholm."
"What have you been doing there?" Mrs. Caldwell snapped.
"Getting myself into a mess, as any one might see who looked at me,"
Beth rejoined. "I must go and change."
"You can go to bed," said her mother.
"Thank you," said Beth, and went off straight away.
Mrs. Caldwell would have liked to have followed her, and given her a
good beating, as in the old days, had she dared. Her harshness,
however, had much the same effect upon Beth that a beating used to
have; it shut her up in herself, and deprived her of the power to take
her mother into her confidence.
Harriet followed her to her room. "Whativer 'ave you been doin'?" she
exclaimed. "You're draggled from top to toe, and your Sunday dress
too!"
"I got caught by the tide," said Beth; "and I'm done."
"Just you get into bed, then," said Harriet; "and I'll fetch you up
some tea when she goes out. She's off in a moment to Lady Benyon's."
"Bless you, Harriet!" Beth exclaimed. "I read in a book once that
there is no crime but has some time been a virtue, and I am sure it
will be a virtue to steal me some tea on this occasion, if it ever
is."
"Oh, all's fair in love and war," Harriet answered cheerfully, as she
helped Beth off with her boots; "and you and yer ma's at war again, I
guess."
"Seems like it," Beth sighed. "But stay, though. No, you mustn't steal
the tea. I promised Aunt Victoria. And that reminds me. There's some
still left in her little canister. Here, take it and make it, and have
some yourself as a reward for the trouble. Hot tea and toast, an you
love me, Harriet, and to save my life. I've had nothing but salt water
since breakfast."
When Beth went downstairs next morning, her mother scowled at her.
"What did you mean by telling me you had been at Fairholm yesterday?"
she asked.
"I meant to tell you where I had been," Beth answered impertinently.
"I saw your Aunt Grace Mary last night, and she told me she had not
seen you."
"Well, Aunt Grace Mary is a good size," Beth rejoined, "but she
doesn't cover the whole estate."
Mrs. Caldwell flushed angrily. "You're an ill-conditioned girl, and
will come to a bad end, or I'm much mistaken," she exclaimed.
"With the help of my relations, it's likely," Beth retorted.
Her mother said no more until breakfast was over, and then she ordered
her peremptorily to get out her lessons.
"Oh, lessons!" Beth grumbled. "What's the use of the kind of lessons
_I_ do? I'm none the better for knowing that Henry VIII. had six
wives, nor the happier, nor the richer; and my wit and wisdom
certainly don't increase, nor my manners improve, if you speak the
truth."
Mrs. Caldwell changed countenance. If Beth rebelled against the
home-teaching, what would happen about the money that Jim was
enjoying? Upon reflection, her mother saw she was making a mistake.
"I think," she began in a conciliatory tone, "you are right perhaps.
You had better not do any lessons this morning, for I am sure you
cannot be well, Beth, or you would never speak to your mother in such
a way."
"Well, I'm sorry, mamma," Beth rejoined in a mollified tone. "But you
know I cannot stand these everlasting naggings and scoldings. They
make me horrid. I'm pugnacious when I'm rubbed the wrong way; I can't
help it."
"There, there, then; that will do," Mrs. Caldwell replied. "Run out
and amuse yourself, or have a rest. You take too much exercise, and
tire yourself to death; and then you are _so_ cross there is no
speaking to you. Go away, like a good child, and amuse yourself until
you feel better."
Beth went back to her own room at once, only too glad to escape and be
alone. She was not well. Every bone in her body ached, and her head
was thumping so she had to lie down on her bed at last, and keep still
for the rest of the day. But her mind was active the whole time, and
it was a happy day. She expected nothing, yet she was pleasurably
satisfied, perfectly content.
The next morning at eleven there was service in the church at the end
of the road. Beth and her mother had been having the usual morning
misery at lessons, and both were exhausted when the bell began to
ring. Beth's countenance was set sullen, and Mrs. Caldwell's showed
suppressed irritation. The bell was a relief to them.
"Can I go to church?" Beth asked.
Her mother's first impulse was to say no, out of pure contrariness;
but the chance of getting rid of Beth on any honourable pretext was
too much of a temptation even for her to withstand. "Yes, if you
like," she answered ungraciously, after a moment's hesitation; "and
get some good out of it if you can," she added sarcastically.
Beth went with honest intention. There was a glow in her chest which
added fervency to her devotions, and when Alfred entered from the
vestry and took his seat in the chancel pew, happiness, tingling in
every nerve, suffused her. His first glance was for her, and Beth knew
it, but bent her head. Her soul did magnify the Lord, however, and her
spirit did rejoice in God her Saviour, with unlimited love and trust.
He had saved them, He would hear them. He would help them, He would
make them both--_both_ good and great--great after a pause, as being
perhaps not a worthy aspiration.
She did not look at Alfred a second time, but she sat and stood and
knelt, all conscious of him, and it seemed as if the service lasted
but a moment.
Directly it was over, she fled, taking the narrow path by the side of
the church to the fields; but before she was half way across the first
field, she heard a quick step following her. Beth felt she must stop
short--or run; she began to run.
"Beth! Beth! wait for me," he called.
Beth stopped, then turned to greet him shyly; but when he came close,
and put his arm round her, she looked up smiling. They gazed into each
other's eyes a moment, and then kissed awkwardly, like children.
"Were you any the worse for our adventure?" he asked. "I've been
longing to know."
"I had a headache yesterday," said Beth. "How were you?"
"All stiff and aching," he replied, "or I should have been to ask
after you."
"I'm glad you didn't come," Beth ejaculated.
"Why? I ought to know your people, you know. Why don't the Richardsons
know them?"
"Because we're poor," Beth answered bluntly; "and Mr. Richardson
neglects his poor parishioners."
"All the more reason that I should call," Alfred Cayley Pounce
persisted. "You are people of good family like ourselves, and old Rich
is a nobody."
"Yes," said Beth; "but my mother would not let me know you. She and I
are always--always--we never agree, you know. I don't think we can
help it; we certainly don't do it on purpose--at least _I_ don't; but
there's something in us that makes us jar about everything. I was
going to tell her all about you on Sunday night; but when I got in I
couldn't. She began by being angry because I was late, without waiting
to know if I were to blame, and that--that shut me up, and I never
told her; and now I don't think I could."
"But what objection can she have to me?" he asked loftily. "I really
must make her acquaintance."
"Not through me, then," said Beth. "Do you know the Benyons?"
"No, I don't know anybody in the neighbourhood as yet. I'm here with
old Rich to be crammed. My people are trying to force me into the bar
or the church or something, because I want to be a sculptor."
"Don't be forced," said Beth with spirit. "Follow your own bent. I
mean to follow mine."
"I didn't know girls had any bent," he answered dubiously.
There was a recoil in Beth. "How is it people never expect a girl to
do anything?" she exclaimed, firing up.
"I don't see what a girl can do," he rejoined, "except marry and look
after her husband and children."
"That's all right at the proper time," Beth said. "But meanwhile, and
if she doesn't marry, is she to do nothing?"
"Oh, there are always lots of little things a woman can do," he
answered airily.
"But supposing little things don't satisfy her, and she has power to
follow some big pursuit?"
"Oh, well, in that case," he began, somewhat superciliously. "But it's
too rare to be taken into account--talent in women."
"How do you know?" Beth said. "Robbing women of the means to develop
their talents doesn't prove they haven't any. The best horseman in the
world could never have ridden if he hadn't had a horse. I certainly
think a woman should see to the ordering of her household; but if she
has it in her to do more why shouldn't she? _I_ shall want to do more,
I know. I shall want to be something; and I shall never believe that I
cannot be that something until I have tried the experiment. If you
have it in you to be a sculptor, be a sculptor. _I_ certainly should,
girl and all as I am. I couldn't help it."
"You're very valiant!" he said drily; "but you don't know what it is
to have your whole family against you."
"Don't I?" said Beth, laughing. "I've known that all my life; but I've
known something besides. I've known what it is to be myself. If you
know yourself, and yourself is a sculptor, you're bound to be a
sculptor in spite of your family."
He looked at her admiringly. "When you talk like that, I feel I could
be anything or do anything that you like, I love you so," he ventured,
flipping the grass with his stick to cover his boyish embarrassment.
"I am thinking of you always, all day long."
"Isn't it strange!" Beth answered softly. "And only two days ago we
had never met!"
"But now we shall never part," he said. "Only I don't want you to be
anything, or to care to be anything, but just my wife."
The word wife came upon Beth with the shock of a sweet surprise. She
had not realised that she would ever be asked to be any one's wife;
that seemed something reserved for the honour of beings above her,
beautiful beings in books; and the hot flush of joy that suffused her