Part 43 (1/2)
When she had eaten all she could, she went back to Aunt Victoria.
”Shall we read the psalms?” she said.
”Yes, dear,” the old lady answered. ”I have been waiting for you a long time, Beth.”
”Aunt Victoria, I am very sorry,” Beth protested. ”I didn't think.”
”Ah, Beth,” the old lady said sorrowfully, ”how often is that to be your excuse? You are always thinking, but it is only your own wild fancies that occupy you. When will you learn to think of others?”
”I try always,” Beth answered sincerely; ”but what am I to do when 'wild fancies' come crowding in spite of me, and all I ought to remember slips away?”
”Pray,” Aunt Victoria answered austerely. ”Prayer shapes a life; and those lives are the most beautiful which have been shaped by prayer.
Prayer is creative; it transposes intention into action, and makes it inevitable for us to be and to do more than would be possible by any other means.”
There was a short silence, and then Miss Victoria began the psalm. It was a joy to Beth to hear her read, she read so beautifully; and it was from her that Beth herself acquired the accomplishment, for which she was afterwards noted. Verse by verse they read the psalms together as a rule, and Beth was usually attentive; but that evening, before the end, her attention became distracted by a loud ticking; and the last word was scarcely p.r.o.nounced before she exclaimed, looking about her--”Aunt Victoria, what is that ticking? I see no clock.”
The old lady looked up calmly, but she was very pale. ”You do hear it then?” she replied. ”It has been going on all day.”
Beth's heart stood still an instant, and, in spite of the heat, her skin crisped as if the surface of her body had been suddenly sprayed with cold water. ”The Death Watch!” she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.
The ticking stopped a moment as if in answer to the words, and then began again. A horrible foreboding seized upon Beth.
”Oh, no--no, not that!” she exclaimed, shuddering; and then, all at once, she threw herself upon her knees beside Aunt Victoria, clasped her arms round her, and burst into a tempest of tears and sobs.
”Beth, Beth, my dear child,” the old lady cried in dismay, ”control yourself. It is only a little insect in the wood. It may mean nothing.”
”It does mean something,” Beth interrupted vehemently; ”I know--I always know. The smell of death has been about me all the afternoon, but I did not understand, although the words were in my mouth. When things mean nothing, they don't make you feel queer--they don't impress you. Nine times running you may see a solitary crow, or spill the salt, or sit down thirteen to table, and laugh at all superst.i.tious nonsense; then the sign was not for you; but the tenth time, something will come over you, and you won't laugh; then be warned and beware! I sometimes feel as if I were listening, but not with my ears, and waiting for things to happen that I know about, but not with my head; and I try always to understand when I find myself listening, but not with my ears, and something surely comes; and so also when I am waiting for things to happen that I know about, but not with my head; they do happen. Only most of the time I know that something is coming, but I cannot tell what it is. In order to be able to tell exactly, I have to hold myself in a certain att.i.tude--not my body, you know, _myself_--hold myself in suspense, as it were, or suspend something in myself, stop something, push something aside--I can't get it into words; I can't always do it; but when I can, then I know.”
”Who taught you this?” Aunt Victoria asked, as if she were startled.
”Oh, no one taught me,” Beth answered. ”I just found myself doing it.
Then I tried to notice how it was done. I wanted to be able to do it myself when I liked. And it was just as if there were two doors, and one had to be shut before I could look out of the other--the one that is my nose and eyes and ears; when that is shut, then I know; I look out of the other. Do things come to you so, Aunt Victoria?”
The old lady had taken Beth's hand, and was stroking it and looking at her very seriously. ”No,” she said, shaking her head, ”no, things do not come to me like that. But although I have only one set of faculties myself, my outlook is not so limited by them that I cannot comprehend the possibility of something beyond. There are written records of people in olden times who must have possessed some such power--some further faculty such as you describe. It may be that it lies latent in the whole race, awaiting favourable conditions to develop itself, and some few rare beings have come into possession of it already. We are complex creatures--body, soul, and spirit, says the saint; and there is spiritual power. Beth, lay hold of that which you perceive in yourself, cherish it, cultivate it, live the life necessary to develop it; for be sure it is a great gift--it may be a divine one.”
When the old lady stopped, Beth raised her head and looked about her, as if she had just awakened from sleep. ”What were we talking about before that?” she said. ”Oh, I know--the Death Watch. It has stopped.”
The equinoctial gales set in early that year, and severely. Great seas washed away the silver sands which had been the delight of the summer visitors, leaving miles of clay exposed at low water to add to the desolation of the scene. The bay was full of storm-stayed vessels, all headed to the wind, close reefed, and straining at their anchors.
There were days when the steamers had to steam full speed ahead in order to keep at their berths; and then the big sailing s.h.i.+ps would drag their anchors and come drifting, drifting helplessly towards the sh.o.r.e, and have to fly before the gale if they could, or take their chance of stranding if the water were low, or being battered to bits against the cliffs if the tide were in. Many a time Beth stood among the fishermen watching, waiting, praying; her whole being centred on some hapless crew, making for the harbour, but almost certain to be carried past. There was a chain down the middle of the pier in the winter to prevent people from being washed off, and she had stood clinging to this, and seen a great s.h.i.+p, with one ragged sail fluttering from a broken mast, carried before the wind right on to the pier-head, which it struck with a crash that displaced great blocks of granite as if they had been sponge-cakes; and when it struck, the doomed sailors on its decks sent up an awful shriek, to which those on the pier responded. Then there was a pause. Beth held her breath and heard nothing; but she saw the s.h.i.+p slip back, back--down amongst the mountainous waves, which sported with it once or twice, tossed it up, and sucked it down, tossed it again, then suddenly engulfed it. On the water afterwards there were ropes and spars, and dark things bobbing like corks, but she knew they were men in mortal agony; and she found herself shouting encouragement, telling them to hold on bravely, help was coming--the lifeboat! the lifeboat! She joined in the sob of excitement too, and the cheers of relief when it returned with its crew complete, and five poor wretches rescued--only five out of fifteen, but still----
”Blessed be G.o.d,” said the old priest, ”for those whom He has received into glory; and blessed be His holy name for those whom He deigns to let live.”
Beth, standing beside him, heard the words, and wonderingly contrasted him with Parson Richardson, who remained shut up with his fourth wife in his fat living, making cent. per cent. out of his school, and heedless of the parish, while one so old and feeble as Canon Hunter stood by his people at all times, careless of himself, enduring hards.h.i.+p, braving danger, a man among men in spite of age and weakness, by reason of great love.
The pinch of poverty was severely felt again that winter in the Caldwell household. Beth, who was growing rapidly, became torpid from excessive self-denial; she tried to do without enough, to make it as if there were one mouth less to feed, and the privation told upon her; her energy flagged; when she went out, she found it difficult to drag herself home, and the exuberant spirit of daring, which found expression in naughty enterprises, suddenly subsided. She poached on principle still for the benefit of the family; but the cool confidence born of a sort of inward certainty, which is a premonition of success, if it is not the power that compels it, was wanting; and it was as if her own doubts when she set the snares released the creatures from the fascination that should have lured them, so that she caught but little. The weather, too, was very severe; every one in the house, including Beth, was more or less ill from colds and coughs, and Aunt Victoria suffered especially; but none of them complained, not even to themselves; they just endured. They felt for each other, however.
”Mamma, don't you think Aunt Victoria should have a fire in her room?”
Beth said one day.