The Beth Book
at the word rendered her oblivious to the condition attached. She
looked up in the young man's face with eyes full of love and
gratitude, her transparent skin bright with a delicate blush, and her
lips just parted in a smile.
"You _are_ sweet, Beth!" he exclaimed. "How sweet you are!"
For the next few weeks they saw each other every day, if it were only
for a few minutes; but even when they contrived to spend long hours
together it was not enough. Beth scarcely ate or slept at that time;
the glow and spring and flood of feeling that coursed through her
whole being sustained her.
"When we are married we shall always be together," Alfred would
whisper when they had to separate; and then their eyes would dilate
with joy at the heavenly prospect; each was covered the while with
smiles and confusion neither of which they could control. They made
each other no formal vows. It was all taken for granted between them.
Now they were engaged; but when they were old enough, and had an
income, they were to be married.
Alfred had given up the idea of making Mrs. Caldwell's acquaintance
before it was absolutely necessary. For the present, it delighted them
to think that their secret was all their own, and no one suspected it,
except Dicksie, the vicar's hunchback son, whom Alfred had taken into
his confidence. Dicksie was as old as Alfred, but his deformity had
stunted his growth, and the young lovers, looking down into his
pathetic face, were filled with compassion, and eagerly anxious to
make atonement to him for his misfortune by sharing as much of their
happiness with him as might be. They encouraged him to accompany them
in their walks when he could, which was a joy to him, for he was
content to live upon the fringe of their romance unselfishly. When
they separated, Beth and Alfred kissed each other frankly, and then
Beth would stoop and kiss Dicksie also, in pure affection.
Neither of the three troubled themselves about other people in those
days, and they never suspected that their own doings could be of
consequence to anybody. They therefore remained serenely unaware of
the fact that the whole place was talking about them, their own
relations being the only people who did not know of the intimacy; and,
worse still, everybody objected to it. All the forces of Nature
combined, and the vast scheme of the universe itself had been ordered
so as to unite those two young things; but, on the other hand, the
whole machinery of civilisation was set in readiness to keep them
apart. And the first intimation they had of this fact took them by
surprise.
The whole happy summer had passed, and autumn was with them, mellow,
warm, and still. The days were shorter then, and the young people
delighted to slip out at dusk, and wander about the fields, all three
together. A gate opened from the vicarage grounds into the field-path
beside the church, and there Alfred and Dicksie waited till Beth
appeared, and often waited in vain, for Beth could not always get out.
Her mother told Lady Benyon that Beth was tiresome rather than naughty
in those days. She seemed to have no idea of time. She would stay out
so late that her mother became quite fidgety about her, not knowing
what had become of her; and when Beth came in at last in a casual way,
beaming blandly at every one, it was certainly provoking. Beth thought
her mother unreasonable to object to her late rambles. She was not
giving her any trouble; and she could not understand why her mother
was not content to let her be happy in her own way.
Beth's lessons became more perfunctory than ever that summer. Mrs.
Caldwell salved her own conscience on the subject by arguing that it
is not wise to teach a girl too much when she is growing so fast, and
Lady Benyon agreed. Lady Benyon had no patience with people who
over-educate girls--with boys it was different; but let a girl grow up
strong and healthy, and get her married as soon as possible, was what
she advised. Had any one asked what was to become of a girl brought up
for that purpose solely, if no one were found to marry her, Lady
Benyon would have disposed of the question with a shrug of the
shoulders. She laid down the principle, and if it did not act,
somebody must be to blame. The principle itself was good, she was sure
of that. So Beth was kept without intellectual discipline to curb her
senses at this critical period, and the consequence was that her
energy took the form of sensuous rather than intellectual pursuits.
Her time was devoted not to practising, but to playing; to poetry, and
to dreamy musings. She wove words to music at the piano by the hour
together, lolled about in languorous attitudes, was more painfully
concerned than ever about her personal adornment, delighted in scents
and in luxurious imaginings, and altogether fed her feelings to such
excess, that if her moral nature were not actually weakened, it was
certainly endangered.
Fortunately she had an admirable companion in Alfred. The boy is not
naturally like a beast, unable to restrain his passions, a bit more
than the girl. To men as to women the power to control themselves
comes of the determination. There are cases of natural depravity, of
course, but they are not peculiar to either sex; and as the girl may
inherit the father's vices, so may the boy have his mother to thank
for his virtues. Depravity is oftener acquired than inherited. As a
rule, the girl's surroundings safeguard her from the acquisition; but
when they do not, she becomes as bad as the boy. The boy, on the
contrary, especially if he is sent to a public school, is
systematically trained to be vicious. He learns the Latin grammar from
his masters, and from the habitual conversation of the other boys,
the books secretly circulated by them, and their traditional code of
vice, he becomes familiarised with the most hoggish habits. He may
escape the practical initiation by a miracle at the time; but it is
from the mind familiar with ideas of vice that the vicious impulse
eventually springs; and the seed of corruption once sown in it, bears
fruit almost inevitably.
Alfred had escaped this contamination by being kept at home at a
day-school, and when Beth knew him he was as refined and high-minded
as he was virile for his age, and as self-restrained as she was
impetuous. She wanted to hurry on, and shape their lives; but he was
content to let things come about. She lived in the future, he in the
present; and he was teaching her to do the same, which was an
excellent thing for her. Often when she was making plans he would
check her by saying, "Aren't you satisfied? I can't imagine myself
happier than I am at this moment."
One thing neither of them ever anticipated, and that was interference.
They expected those happy days to last without interruption until the
happier ones came, when they should be independent, and could do as
they liked.
"When I am king, diddle, diddle, you shall be queen," Alfred used to
sing to Beth; "and Dicksie shall be prime minister."
One night they were out in the fields together. Beth was sitting on a
rail, with her arm round Dicksie's neck, as he stood on one side of
her; Alfred being on the other, with his arm round her, supporting
her. They were talking about flowers. Alfred was great on growing
flowers. The vicar had given him a piece of the vicarage garden for
his own, and he was going to build a little green-house to keep Beth
well supplied with bouquets. They were deeply engrossed in the
subject, and the night was exceedingly dark, so that they did not
notice a sailor creep stealthily up the field behind them on the other
side of the hedge, and crouch down near enough to hear all that they
said. Certainly that sailor was never more at sea in his life than he
was while he listened to their innocent prattle.
When at last Beth said it was time to go home, and they strolled away
arm in arm, Alfred and Dicksie discovered that they were late, and
Beth insisted on parting from them at the field-gate into the vicarage
grounds instead of letting them see her safe into the street. When
they left her, she hurried on down the path beside the church alone,
and she had not taken many steps before she was suddenly confronted by
a tall dark man, who made as if he would not let her pass. She stopped
startled, and then went straight up to him boldly and peered into his
face.
"Is that you, Gard?" she exclaimed. "How dare you!"
"How dare you!" he rejoined impudently. "I've had my eye on you for
some time. I saw you out there just now in the field. I was determined
to know what you were up to. There's mighty little happens here that I
don't know."
"Oh," said Beth, "so you're the town spy, are you? Well, you're not
going to spy upon me, so I warn you, Mr. Gard. The next time I come
here, I'll come armed, and if I catch you dogging me about again, I'll
shoot you as dead as my father's pistols can do it. And as it is, you
shall pay for this, I promise you. Just step aside now, you cowardly
black devil, and let me pass. Do you think that it's milk I've got in
my veins that you come out on a fool's errand to frighten me?"
Without a word the man stepped aside, and Beth walked on down the path
with her head in the air, and deliberately, to let him see how little
she feared him.
The next morning, directly after breakfast, she went down to the pier.
Count Bartahlinsky's yacht was alongside, and Gard was on deck. He
changed countenance when Beth appeared. She ran down the ladder.
"I want to see your master," she said.
"He can't see you, miss. He's given orders that he's not to be
disturbed for no one whatsoever," Gard answered with excess of
deference; "and it's as much as my billet is worth to go near him;
he's very much occupied this morning."
"Don't tell lies," said Beth. "I'm going to see him."
She went forward to the skylight as she spoke, and called down, "Below
there, Count Gustav!"
"Hello!" a voice replied. "Is that you, Beth? You know you're too big
to be on the yacht now without a chaperon."
"Rot!" said Beth.
"Don't be coarse, Beth," Count Gustav remonstrated from below in
rather a precious tone. "You know how I dislike hoyden English."
"Well, then, _nonsense_! if that's any better," Beth rejoined. "You've
got to see me--this once at all events, or there'll be a tragedy."
"Oh, in that case," was the resigned reply, "I'll come on deck."
Beth walked aft and waited for him, enthroned on the bulwark, with a
coil of rope for her footstool.
When Count Gustav appeared, he looked at her quizzically. "What is the
matter, Beth?" he asked. "What are you boiling with indignation about
now?"
"About that man Gard," Beth replied. "What do you think he was doing
last night? and not for the first time, by his own account. Spying!"
"Spying!" said Bartahlinsky. "Gard, come here."
Gard, who had been anxiously watching them from amidships, approached.
"Now, Beth, what do you mean?" said the Count.
"I mean that I was out sitting on a rail in the church-fields last
night with Alfred Cayley Pounce and Dicksie Richardson talking, and
this man came and listened; and then when I left them, he met me on
the path beside the church, and spoke impudently to me, and would not
let me pass. I know what you thought," she broke out, turning upon
Gard. "You thought I was doing something that I was ashamed of, and
you'd find it out, and have me in your power. But I'll have you know
that I do nothing I'm ashamed of--nothing I should be ashamed to tell
your master about, so you may save yourself the trouble of spying upon
me, Black Gard, as they well call you."
Gard was about to say something, but Count Gustav stopped him
peremptorily. "You can go," he said. "I'll hear what you have to say
later."