Part 25 (1/2)

”Oh, as to that, 'ow could it make any difference?” Harriet answered.

Beth was fascinated by the folk-lore of the place, and soon surpa.s.sed Harriet herself in the interpretation of dreams and the reading of signs and tokens. She began to invent methods of divination for herself too, such as, ”If the boards don't creak when I walk across the room I shall get through my lessons without trouble this morning,”

a trick which soon became a confirmed habit into which she was apt to lapse at any time; and so persistent are these early impressions that to the end of her days she would always rather have seen two rooks together than one alone, rooks being the birds of omen in a land where magpies were scarce. Mrs. Caldwell knew nothing of Beth's proficiency in the black arts. She would never have discussed such a subject before the children, and took it for granted that Harriet was equally discreet; while Beth on her part, with her curious quick sense of what was right and proper, believed her mother to be above such things.

Harriet was a person of varied interests, all of which she discussed with Beth impartially. She had many lovers, according to her own account, and was stern and unyielding with them all, and so particular that she would dismiss them at any moment for nothing almost. If she went out at night she had always much to tell the next morning, and Beth would hurry over her lessons, watch her mother out of the way, and slip into the kitchen or upstairs after Harriet, and question her about what she had said, and he had said, and if she had let him kiss her even once.

”Well, last night,” Harriet said on one occasion, in a tone of apology for her own weakness and good-nature. ”Last night I couldn't 'elp it.

'E just put 'is arm round me, and, well, there! I was sorry for 'im.”

”Why don't you say _he_ and _him_ and _his_, Harriet?”

”I do.”

”No, you don't. You say 'e and 'im and 'is.”

”Well, that's what you say.”

Beth shouted the aspirates at her for answer, but in vain; with all the will in the world to ”talk fine,” as she called it, Harriet could never acquire the art, for want of an ear to hear. She could not perceive the slightest difference between him and 'im.

Even at this age Beth had her own point of view in social matters, and frequently disconcerted Harriet by a word or look or inflection of the voice which expressed disapproval of her conduct. Harriet had been at home on one occasion for a week's holiday, a charwoman having done her work in her absence, and on her return she had much to relate of Charles Russell, the groom at Fairholm, who continued to be an ardent admirer of hers, but not an honourable one, because he did not realise what a very superior person Harriet was. He thought she was no better than other girls, and when they were sitting up one night together in her mother's cottage, the rest of the family having gone to bed, he made her a proposal which Harriet indignantly rejected.

”And ah _ses_ to 'im, 'Charles _Russell_,' ah ses to 'im, 'not was it ever so,' ah ses to 'im”--she was proceeding emphatically when Beth interrupted her.

”Did you say you sat up with him alone all night?” she asked.

”Yes, there's no 'arm, you know,” Harriet answered on the defensive, without precisely knowing why.

”Well, what did he say?” Beth rejoined without comment.

But Harriet, put out of countenance, omitted the details, and brought the story to an abrupt conclusion.

Another of Harriet's interests in life was the _Family Herald_, which she took regularly, and as regularly read aloud to Beth, to the best of her ability--from the verses to ”Violet,” or ”My own Love,” on the first page, to the ”Random Readings” on the last. They laughed at the jokes, tried to guess the riddles, were impressed with the historical anecdotes and words of wisdom, and became so hungry over the recipes for good dishes that they frequently fried eggs and potatoes, or a slice stolen from the joint roasting at the fire, and feasted surrept.i.tiously.

Beth tried in after years to remember what the stories in the _Family Herald_ had been about, but all she could recall was a vague incident of a falling scaffold, of a heroine called Margaret taking refuge in the dark behind a h.o.a.rding, and of a fascinating hero whom Harriet called Ug Miller. Long afterwards it dawned upon Beth that his name was Hugh.

When Mildred went to her aunt, Beth and Bernadine became of necessity constant companions, and it was a curious kind of companions.h.i.+p, for their natures were antagonistic. Like rival chieftains whose territories adjoin, they professed no love for each other, and were often at war, but were intimate nevertheless, and would have missed each other, because there was no one else with whom they could so conveniently quarrel. Harriet took the liveliest interest in their squabbles, which, under her able direction, rapidly developed from the usual little girls' scrimmages into regular stand-up fights.

One day Beth pulled Bernadine's hair pa.s.sionately, and Bernadine retaliated by clawing Beth's face, and then howled as a further relief to her feelings. Mrs. Caldwell rushed to see what accident had happened to the dear child, and Harriet came to see the sport.

”Mamma, Beth pulled my hair,” Bernadine whined.

Mrs. Caldwell immediately thumped Beth, who seldom said a word in her own defence. Harriet was neutral till her mistress had disappeared, and then she supported Beth.

”Just you wait till after dinner,” she said. ”Come into the kitchen when your ma's asleep, and fight it out. Don't you be put upon by tell-pie-t.i.ts.”

”What's the use of my going into the kitchen?” Beth rejoined; ”Bernadine doesn't fight fair. She's a horrid, low little coward.”

”Am I!” Bernadine howled. ”Just you wait till after dinner! I'm as brave as you are, and as strong, though you _are_ the biggest.” Which was true. Bernadine was sallow, thin, wiry, and muscular; Beth was soft, and round, and white. She had height, age, and weight on her side; Bernadine had strength, agility, and cunning.