Part 29 (2/2)

Mrs. Caldwell felt that she was being found fault with, and was indignant. She went upstairs at once, with her head held high, expecting to find Beth in a healthy sleep. The relief, however, of finding that the child was well, would not have been so great at the moment as the satisfaction of proving Aunt Victoria in the wrong.

But Beth was wide awake, pet.i.tioning G.o.d in an agony to spare her friends. When Mrs. Caldwell entered she started up.

”O mamma!” she exclaimed, ”I'm so glad you've come; I've been so frightened about you.”

”What is the matter with you, Beth?” Mrs. Caldwell asked, not over-gently. ”What are you frightened about?”

”Nothing,” Beth faltered, shrinking back into herself.

”Oh, that's nonsense,” her mother answered. ”It's silly to be frightened at nothing, and cowardly to be frightened at all. Lie down and go to sleep, like a good child. Come, turn your face to the wall, and I'll tuck you in.”

Beth obeyed, and her mother left her to her fears, and returned to Aunt Victoria in the drawing-room.

”Well?” Aunt Victoria asked anxiously.

”She was awake,” Mrs. Caldwell acknowledged. ”She said she was frightened, but didn't know what of. I expect she'd been dreaming. And I'm sure there is nothing the matter with her. She's been subject to queer fits of alarm at night ever since she was a baby. It's the dark, I think. It makes her nervous. At one time the doctor made us have a night-light for her, which was great nonsense, _I_ always said; but her father insisted. When it suits her to play in the dark, she's never afraid.”

It was at this time that Rainharbour set up a band of its own. Beth was always peculiarly susceptible to music. Her ear was defective; she rarely knew if any one sang flat; but the poorest instrument would lay hold of her, and set high chords of emotion vibrating, beyond the reach of words. The first time she heard the band, she was completely carried away. It was on the pier, and she happened to be close beside it when it began to play, and stood still in astonishment at the crash of the opening bars. Her mother, after vainly calling to her to come on, s.n.a.t.c.hed impatiently at her arm to drag her away; and Beth, in her excitement, set her teeth and slapped at her mother's hand--or rather at what seemed to her the importunate thing that was trying to end her ecstasy.

Of course Mrs. Caldwell would not stand that, so Beth, victim of brute force, was hustled off to the end of the pier, and then slapped, shaken, and reviled, for the enormity of her offence, until, in an acute nervous crisis, she wrenched herself out of her mother's clutches, and sprang over into the harbour. It was high-water happily, and Count Gustav Bartahlinsky, who was just going out in his yacht, saw her drop, and fished her out with a boat-hook.

”Look here, young woman,” he said, ”what do you mean by tumbling about like this? I shall have the trouble of turning back and putting you on sh.o.r.e.”

”No, don't; no, don't,” Beth pleaded. ”Take me along with you.”

He looked at her an instant, considering, then went to the side of the yacht, and called up to her frantic mother: ”She's all right. I'll have her dried, and bring her back this afternoon,”--with which a.s.surance Mrs. Caldwell was obliged to content herself, for the yacht sailed on; not that she would have objected. Beth and Count Gustav were sworn allies by this time, and Mrs. Caldwell knew that Beth could not be in better hands. Beth had seen Count Gustav pa.s.sing their window a few days after their first meeting, and had completed her conquest of him by tearing out, and running down Orchard Street after him with nothing on her head, to ask what copyright was; and since then they had often met, and sometimes spent delightful hours together, sitting on the cliffs or strolling along by the sea. He had discovered her talent for verse-making, and given her a book on the subject, full of examples, which was a great joy to her. When the yacht was clear of the harbour, he took her down to the saloon, and got out a silk s.h.i.+rt. ”I'm going to leave you,” he said, ”and when I'm gone, you must take off all your things, and put this s.h.i.+rt on. Then tumble into that berth between the blankets, and I'll come back and talk to you.” Beth promptly obeyed. She was an ill-used heroine now, in the hands of her knightly deliverer, and thoroughly happy.

When Count Gustav returned, he was followed by Gard, a tall, dark, handsome sailor, a descendant of black Dane settlers on the coast, and for that reason commonly called Black Gard. He brought sandwiches, cakes, and hot tea on a tray for Beth. She had propped herself up with pillows in the berth, and was looking out of an open port-hole opposite, listening enraptured to the strains of the band, which, mellowed by distance, floated out over the water.

”What a radiant little face!” the Count thought, as he handed her the tea and sandwiches.

Beth took them voraciously.

”Did you have any breakfast?” the Count asked, smiling.

”Yes,” Beth answered.

”What did you have?”

”Milk and hot water and dry toast. I made the toast myself.”

”No b.u.t.ter?”

”No. The b.u.t.ter's running short, so I wouldn't take any.”

”When do you lunch?”

”Oh, we don't lunch. Can't afford it, you know. The boys have got to be educated, and Uncle James Patten won't help, though Jim's his heir.”

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