The Beth Book
sitting smoking and chatting over their whiskeys-and-sodas.
Beth, becoming conscious of her night-dress the moment she saw them,
turned and fled back to her bed; greatly relieved in her mind by the
shock of her own indiscretion.
"What a mad thing to do!" she thought. "I hope to goodness they didn't
see me."
_A mad thing to do!_
The words, when they recurred to her, were a revelation. What had she
been doing all day? Mad things! What was this sudden haunting horror
that had seized upon her? Why, madness! Dan was just as he had always
been. The change was in herself, and only madness could account for
such a change. There was madness in the family. She remembered her
father and the "moon-faced Bessie"--the familiarities with servants,
too; surely her mother had suffered, and doubtless this misery which
had come upon her had been communicated to her before her birth.
Jealous-mad she was; that was what it meant, the one idea goading her
on to do what would otherwise have been impossible, possessing her in
spite of herself, and not to be banished by any effort of will.
"Heaven help me!" she groaned. "What will become of me?"
Then, as if in reply, there rose to her lips involuntarily the
assurance which recurred to her now for her help and comfort in every
hard moment of her life like a refrain: "I shall succeed."
And she set herself bravely to conceal her trouble, whatever it cost
her, and to conquer it.
But it was a hard battle. For months the awful worry in her head
continued, the same thoughts haunted her, the same jealous rage
possessed her, and she knew no ease except when Dan was at hand. The
trouble always passed when she had him under observation. She could
not read, she could not write, she was too restless to sit and sew for
more than a few moments at a time. Up and down stairs she went, out of
the house and in again, fancying always, when in one place, that she
would be better in another, but finding no peace anywhere, no
brightness in the sunshine, no beauty in nature, no interest in life.
Through the long solitary hours of the long solitary days she fought
her affliction with her mouth set hard in determination to conquer it.
She met the promptings of her disordered fancy with answers from her
other self. "He and Bertha Petterick are together, that is why he is
so late," the fiend would asseverate. "Very likely," her temperate
self would reply. "But they may have been together any day this two
years, and I knew it, and pitied and despised them, but felt no pain;
why should I suffer now? Because my mind is disordered. But I shall
recover! I shall succeed!"
She would look at the clock, however, every five minutes in an agony
of suspense until Dan came in. Then she had to fight against the
impulse to question him, which beset her as strongly as the impulse to
follow him, and that was always upon her except when his presence
arrested it. Never once through it all, however, did she think of
death as a relief; it was life she looked to for help, more life and
fuller. She could interest herself in nothing, care for nothing; all
feeling of affection for any one had gone, and was replaced by
suspicion and rage. In her torment her cry was, "Oh, if some one would
only care for me! for me as I am with all my faults! If they would
only forgive me my misery and help me to care again--help _me_ also to
the luxury of loving!"
Forgive her her misery! The world will forgive anything but that; it
tramples on the wretched as the herd turns on a wounded beast, not to
put it out of its pain, but because the sight of suffering is an
offence to it. If we cannot enliven our acquaintances, they will do
little to enliven us. Sad faces are shunned; and signs of suffering
excite less sympathy than repulsion. The spirit of Christ the Consoler
has been driven out from among us.
Beth poured herself out in letters at this time rather more than was
her habit; it was an effort to get into touch with the rest of the
world again. In one to Jim, speaking of her hopes of success, she said
she should get on better with her work if she had more sympathy shown
her; to which he replied by jeering at her. What did she mean by such
nonsense? But that was the way with women; they were all sickly
sentimental. Sympathy indeed! She should think herself devilish lucky
to have a good husband and a home of her own. Many a girl would envy
her. He wrote also to other members of the family on the subject, as
if it were a rare joke worth spreading that Beth wanted more sympathy;
and Beth received several letters in which the writers told her what
their opinion was of her and her complaints as compared to that good
husband of hers, who was always so bright and cheery. All their
concern was for the worthy man who had done so much for Beth. They had
no patience with her, could scarcely conceal their amusement with this
last absurdity, but thought she should be laughed out of her fads and
fancies. That was the only time Beth sought sympathy from any of her
relations. Afterwards she took to writing them bitter letters in which
she told them what she thought of them as freely as they told her.
"What is the use," she said to Jim, "what is the use of sisters and
wives being refined and virtuous if their fathers, brothers, husbands,
are bar-loafers, men of corrupt imagination and depraved conversation?
Surely, if we must live with such as these, all that is best in us
adds to our misery rather than helps us. If we did not love the higher
life ourselves, it would not hurt us to be brought into contact with
the lower."
On receiving this letter, Jim wrote kindly to Dan, and said many
things about what women were coming to with their ridiculous notions.
But men were men and women were women, and that was all about it,--a
lucid conclusion that appealed to Dan, who quoted it to Beth in
discussions on the subject ever afterwards.
Beth broke down and despaired many times during the weary struggle
with her mental affliction. She felt herself woefully changed; and not
only had the light gone out of her life, but it seemed as if it never
would return. When she awoke in the morning, she usually felt better
for awhile, but the terrible torment in her mind returned inevitably,
and rest and peace were banished for the day. It was then she learnt
what is meant by the inner calm, and how greatly to be desired it
is--desired above everything. The power to pray left her entirely
during this phase. She could repeat prayers and extemporise them as
of old, but there was no more satisfaction in the effort than in
asking a favour of an empty room. Sometimes, and especially during the
hideous nights, when she slept but little, and only in short snatches,
she felt tempted to take something, stimulant or sedative; but this
temptation she resisted bravely, and, the whole time, an extra cup of
tea or coffee for the sake of the momentary relief was the only excess
she committed. If she had not exercised her will in this, her case
would have been hopeless; but, as it was, her self-denial, and the
effort it entailed, kept up her mental strength, and helped more than
anything to save her.
To beguile the long hours, she often stood in the dining-room window
looking out. The window was rather above the road, so that she looked
down on the people who passed, and she could also see over the hedge
on the opposite side of the road into the meadow beyond. Small things
distracted her sometimes, though nothing pleased her. If two rooks
flew by together, she hoped for a better day; if one came first, she
would not accept the omen, but waited, watching for two. By a curious
coincidence, they generally passed, first one for sorrow, then two for
mirth, then three for a wedding; and she would say to herself, first,
bad luck, then good luck, then a marriage; and wonder how it would
come about, but anyhow--"I shall succeed!" would flash from her and
stimulate her.
One day, as she stood there watching, she saw a horseman come slowly
down the road.
"A bowshot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Launcelot."
Beth's attention sharpened to sudden interest. As he came abreast of
the window, the rider looked up, and Beth's heart bounded at the sight
of his face, which was the face of a man from out of the long ago,
virile, knightly, high-bred, refined; the face of one that lives for
others, and lives openly. He had glanced up indifferently, but, on
seeing Beth, a look of interest came into his eyes. It was as if he
had recognised her; and she felt herself as if she had seen him
before, but when or where, in what picture, in what dream, she could
not tell.
With the first flush of healthy interest she had experienced for a
long time, she watched him till he was all but out of sight, then shut
her eyes that she might not see him vanish, for fear of bad luck; a
superstition she had not practised since she was a child. When he had
gone, she found herself with a happy impression of him in her mind, an
impression of quiet dignity, and of strength in repose. "A man to be
trusted," she thought; "true and tender, a perfect knight." The flash
of interest or recognition that came into his countenance when he saw
her haunted her; she recalled the colour of his blue eyes, noted the
contrast they were to his dark hair and clear dark skin, and was
pleased. In the afternoon she sat and sewed, and smiled to herself
over her work with an easy mind. Her restlessness had subsided; Dan
scarcely cost her a thought; the tension was released and a reaction
had set in; but, at the time, she herself was quite unaware of it. All
she felt was a good appetite for her tea.
"Minna," she said to the parlour-maid, "bring me a big cup of tea and
a good plate of buttered toast. I'm famishing."
"That's good news, ma'am," Minna answered, for it was long since Beth
had had any appetite at all.
The next day Beth stood at the window again, but without intention.
She was thinking of her knight of the noble mien, however, and at
about the same hour as on the day before, he came again, riding slowly
down the road; and again he looked at Beth with a flash of interest in
his face, to which she involuntarily responded. When he was out of
sight she opened the window, and perceived to her glad surprise that
the air was balmy, and on all things the sun shone, shedding joy.
The horrid spell was broken.
CHAPTER XLVI
"A bowshot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves."
The words made music in Beth's heart as she dressed next morning, and,
instead of the torment of mind from which she had suffered for so
long, there was a great glad glow. Dan went and came as usual, but
neither his presence nor absence disturbed her. She had recovered her
self-possession, her own point of view, and he and his habits resumed
their accustomed place in her estimation. During that dreadful phase
she had seen with Dan's suspicious eyes, and seen evil only, but had
not acquired his interest and pleasure in it; on the contrary, her own
tendency to be grieved by it had been intensified. Now, however, she
had recovered herself, her sense of proportion had been restored, and
she balanced the good against the evil once more, and rejoiced to find
that the weight of good was even greater than she had hitherto
supposed.
But although the spell had been broken in a moment, her right mind was
not permanently restored all at once. It was only gradually, as the
tide goes out after a tempest, and leaves the storm-beaten coast in
peace, that the worry in her head subsided. She had lapse after lapse.