Part 31 (1/2)

Beth flushed with surprise and pleasure at this; but her heart had hardly time to expand before she observed the puzzling discrepancy between what Jim said to her and what he had been saying to other people, and found it impossible to reconcile the two, so as to have any confidence in Jim's sincerity.

Before the end of the holidays she had learned to enjoy Jim's companions.h.i.+p, but she had no respect for his opinions at all. He had taught her a good deal, however. He had taught her, for one thing, the futility of discussion with people of his capacity. The small intellect should be treated like the small child--with tenderest consideration. It must not hear too much of anything at a time, and there are certain things that it must never be told at all. Simple familiar facts, with obvious little morals, are the right food for it, and constant repet.i.tion of what it knows is safe; but such heavy things as theories, opinions, and arguments must be kept carefully concealed from it, for fear of causing congestion or paralysis, or, worse still, that parlous condition which betrays itself in distressing symptoms such as one sees daily in society, or sits and shudders at in one's own friends, when the victim, swelling with importance, makes confident mis-statements, draws erroneous conclusions, sums up and gives advice so fatuous that you blush to be a biped of the same species.

There was an hotel in Rainharbour called the ”United Kingdom,” where Jim spent much of his time playing billiards, drinking beer, and smoking pipes. He had to coax money out of his mother continually for these pursuits.

”It's the kind of thing a fellow must do, you know, mamma,” he said.

”You can't expect him to stick at home like a girl. He must see life, or he'll be a m.u.f.f instead of a man of the world. How shall I get on at Fairholm, when I come in for the property, if I'm not up to things?”

This was said at breakfast one morning, and Mrs. Caldwell, sitting opposite the window, raised her worn face and looked up at the sky, considering what else there was that she could do without.

”Do you learn how to manage estates at the 'United Kingdom'?” Beth put in innocently.

”Now, look here, Beth, just you shut up,” said Jim. ”You're always putting your oar in, and its deuced impertinent of a child like you, when I'm talking to my mother. _She_ knows what I'm talking about, and you don't; but you'll be teaching her next, I expect. You're far too cheeky.”

”I only wanted to know,” Beth protested.

”That will do,” said Mrs. Caldwell impatiently. She was put out by Jim's demand for money, which she had not got to spare, and found it a relief to expend some of her irritation on Beth. ”Jim is quite right, and I won't have you hanging about always, listening to things you don't understand, and rudely interrupting.”

”I thought we were at breakfast,” Beth exclaimed, furious at being unjustly accused of hanging about.

”Be good enough to leave the table,” said Mrs. Caldwell; ”and you shall have nothing but bread and water for the rest of the day.”

”It will be a dinner of herbs with contentment, then, if I have it alone,” said Beth; for which impertinence she was condemned to be present at every meal.

Having extracted the money from his mother, Jim went off to the ”United Kingdom,” and came back in the afternoon, somewhat the worse for beer; but Mrs. Caldwell did not perceive it. He complained of the poor dinner, the cooking, and Beth's shabby appearance.

”How can you go out with me like that?” he said. ”Why can't you dress properly? Look at my things! I'm decent.”

”So should I be,” said Beth, without malice, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with mortification. ”So should I be if anybody bought me decent clothes.”

She did not think it unfair, however, that she should go shabby so that Jim might be well dressed. Nor did she feel it wrong, when the holidays were over, and the boys had gone, that she should be left idly drumming on the window-pane; that they should have every advantage while she had none, and no prospect but the uncertain chance of securing a husband if she held herself well and did as she was told--a husband whom she would be expected to obey whatever he might lack in the way of capacity to order. It is suffering which makes these things plain to a generous woman; but usually by the time she has suffered enough to be able to blame those whom it has been her habit to love and respect, and to judge of the wrong they have done her, it is too late to remedy it. Even if her faculties have not atrophied for want of use, all that should have been cultivated lies latent in her; she has nothing to fall back upon, and her life is spoilt.

Beth stood idly drumming on the window-pane for long hours after the boys had gone. Then she got her battered old hat, walked out to Fairholm, and wandered over the ground where she had been wont to retrieve for Jim. When she came to the warren, the rabbits were out feeding, and she amused herself by throwing stones at them with her left hand. She had the use of both hands, and would not have noticed if her knife had been put where her fork should have been at table; but she threw stones, bowled, batted, played croquet, and also tennis in after years, with her left hand by preference, and she always held out her left hand to be handed from a carriage.

She succeeded in killing a rabbit with a stone, to her own surprise and delight, and carried it off home, where it formed a welcome addition to the meagre fare. She skinned and cleaned it herself, boiled it, carved it carefully so that it might not look like a cat on the dish, covered it with good onion-sauce, and garnished it with little rolls of fried bacon, and sent it to table, where the only other dish was cold beef-bones with very little meat on them.

”Where did it come from?” Mrs. Caldwell asked, looking pleased.

”From Fairholm,” Beth answered.

”I must thank your uncle,” said Mrs. Caldwell.

”It was not my uncle,” Beth answered, laughing; ”and you're not to send any thanks.”

”Oh, very well,” said Mrs. Caldwell, still more pleased, for she supposed it was a surrept.i.tious kindness of Aunt Grace Mary's. She ate the rabbit with appet.i.te, and Beth, as she watched her, determined to go hunting again, and see what she could get for her. Beth would not have touched a penny of Uncle James's, but from that time forward she did not scruple to poach on his estate, and bring home anything she could catch. She had often prayed to the Lord to show her how to do something to help her mother in her dire poverty, and when this idea occurred to her, she accepted it as a direct answer to her prayer.

Mrs. Caldwell and the three girls slept in the largest bedroom in the house. It was at the back, looking into the little garden, and out to the east. The early morning sun, making black bars of the window-frame on the white blind, often awoke Beth, and she would lie and count the white s.p.a.ces between the bars, where the window-panes were,--three, six, nine, twelve; or two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve. One morning after Jim left she was lying awake counting the window-panes when Harriet knocked at the door with the hot water. Mildred had not yet gone back to her aunt, and was sleeping with Beth, Bernadine being with her mother.

”Come, get up, children,” said Mrs. Caldwell, as she got out of bed herself.