Part 46 (1/2)
She made for a lonely spot on the cliff, where a stream fell in a cataract on to the sand, and there was a rustic seat with a lovely view of the bay. Beth dropped on to the seat out of breath and looked curiously about her. The tide was high. The water, smooth, sullen, swollen and weary, broke on the sh.o.r.e in waves so small that it seemed as if the sea, tired of its endless task, were doing dispiritedly as little as it dared, and murmuring at that. The curving cliffs on the left looked like white curtains, closely drawn. The low grey sky was unbroken by cloud or rift except low down on the horizon, where it had risen like a blind drawn up a little to admit the light. It was a melancholy prospect, and Beth s.h.i.+vered and sighed in sympathy. Then a sparrow cheeped somewhere behind her, and another bird in the hedge softly fluted a little roulade. Beth looked round to see what it was, and at that moment the light brightened as if it had been suddenly turned up. She looked at the sea again. The rift in the leaden sky had lengthened and widened, and the first pale primrose of the dawn showed beyond. A faint flush followed, and then it seemed as if the night sky slowly rolled itself up and was put away, leaving a floor of silver, deepening to lilac, for the first bright beam to disport itself upon.
Then the sea smiled, and the weariness of it, back and forth, back and forth, pa.s.sed into animation. Its smooth surface became diapered with light airs, and moved with a gentle roll. The sullen murmur rose to a morning song, and a boat with bare mast at anchor in the bay, the only one in sight, rocked to the tune. A great sea-bird sailed by, gazing down into the depths with piercing eyes, and a grey gull flew so close to the water, it seemed as if his wings must dip at every flap. The sky by this time was all a riot of colour, at which Beth gazed in admiration, but without rapture. Her intellect acknowledged its loveliness, but did not delight in it--heart and soul were untouched.
The spirit of the dawn refused to speak to her. She had exhausted herself in her effort to induce the intoxication of devotion which had come to her spontaneously the day before. The great spirit does not want martyrs. Joy in beauty and goodness comes of a pure and tranquil mind, not of a tortured body. The faces of the holy ones are calm and their souls serene.
A little farm-house stood back from the road just behind the seat where Beth was sitting, and a tall gaunt elderly man, with a beard on his chin, came out presently and stood staring grimly at the sunrise.
Then he crossed the road deliberately, sat down at the other end of the seat, and stared at Beth.
”You're early out,” he said at last.
Beth detected something hostile in the tone, and fixed her big fearless grey eyes upon him defiantly. ”It's a free country,” she said.
”Free or not,” he answered drily, ”it isn't fit fur no young gell to be out alone at sechun a time. Ye should be indoors gettin' the breakfast.”
”Thank you,” said Beth, ”I've no need to get the breakfast.”
”Well, it makes it all the worse,” he rejoined; ”fur if ye're by way o' bein' a lady, it not on'y means that ye're out wi' no one to tak'
care of ye, but that ye've niver been taught to tak' care o' yerself.
Lady!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. ”Pride and patches! Tak' my advice, _lady_, go back to yer bed, get yer meed o' sleep, wak' up refreshed, and set to work.”
He spat on the gra.s.s in a self-satisfied way when he had spoken, and contemplated the sunrise like a man who has done his duty and earned the right to repose.
Beth got up and walked home despondently. She climbed in at the acting-room window, and went to her own room. The sun was s.h.i.+ning on the apple-blossom in the orchard opposite, and she looked for the charm of yesterday, but finding only the garish commonplace of fruit-trees in flower with the sun on them, she drew down the blind.
Then she took off her hat and jacket, threw herself on her bed, and fell into a heavy sleep, with her brow puckered and the corners of her mouth drooping discontentedly.
The next night she determined to take her meed of sleep, and did not tie the string to her toe. It had been a long lonely day, filled with great dissatisfaction and vague yearnings for companions.h.i.+p; but when she fell asleep she had a happy dream, so vivid that it seemed more real than anything she had seen in her morning ramble. It was eight o'clock in the evening, she dreamt, and there was some one waiting for her under the pear-tree in the garden. The night air was fresh and fragrant. The moonlight shone on the white blossoms overhead, which cl.u.s.tered so close that no ray penetrated to the ground beneath, so that there all was shadowy, but still she could see that there was some one standing in the shade, and she knew that he was waiting for her. She had never seen him before, yet she knew him well and hurried to meet him; and he took her in his arms and kissed her, and his kisses thrilled her with a thrill that remained with her for many a day.
She got up the moment she awoke, and looked about her in a kind of amaze, for everything she saw was transfigured. It was in herself, however, that the light burned which made the world so radiant. As the old apple-trees, warmed by the sun, suddenly blossomed into bridal beauty in the spring, so, in the silent night, between sundown and day-dawn, while she slept, yet another petal of her own manifold nature had unfolded, and in the glow of its loveliness there was nothing of commonplace aspect; for a new joy in life was hers which helped her to discover in all things a hitherto unsuspected charm.
Beth's little life had been full of childish irregularities, the little duties being continually slurred and neglected that the little pleasures might be indulged in the sooner. She was apt to regard bathing, hair-brus.h.i.+ng, dressing, and lessons as mere hindrances to some of the particular great businesses of life which specially occupied her--verse-making, for instance, piano-playing, poaching, or praying, whichever happened to be the predominant interest of the moment. But now, on a sudden, the care of her person became of extraordinary importance. All the hints, good and bad, she had had on the subject recurred to her, and she began to put them into practice systematically. She threw the clothes back from her bed to air it the moment she got up, that it might be fresh and sweet to sleep in. Her little bath had hitherto been used somewhat irregularly, but now she fetched hot and cold water for herself, and bathed every day. She brushed her hair glossy, and tightened her stays to make her waist small, and she was sorely dissatisfied because her boots did not pinch her feet. She began to take great care of her hands too, and would do no dusting without gloves on, or dirty work of any kind that was calculated to injure them. She used a parasol when she could, and if she got sunburnt bathing or boating, she washed her face in b.u.t.termilk at night, fetched from Fairholm regularly for the purpose. The minds and habits of the young are apt to form themselves in this way out of suggestions let fall by all kinds of people, the worst and most foolish as well as the wisest and best.
Beth longed that morning for something new and smart to wear. Her old black things looked so rusty in the spring suns.h.i.+ne, she could not satisfy herself with anything she had. All Aunt Victoria's possessions were hers, and she examined her boxes, looking for something to enliven her own sombre dress, and found some lace which she turned into a collar and cuffs and sewed on. When she saw herself in the gla.s.s with this becoming addition to her dress, her face brightened at the effect. She knew that Aunt Victoria would have been pleased to see her look like that--she was always pleased when Beth looked well; and now, when Beth recollected her sympathy, all the great fountain of love in her brimmed over, and streamed away in happy little waves, to break about the dear old aunt somewhere on the foresh.o.r.e of eternity, and to add, perhaps, who knows how or what to her bliss.
When Beth went down to breakfast, she was very hungry, but there was only one little bloater, which must be left for mamma to divide with Bernadine. There was not much b.u.t.ter either, so Beth took her toast nearly dry, and her thin coffee with very little milk and no sugar in it, also for economical reasons; but the coffee was hot, and she was happy. Her happiness bubbled up in bright little remarks, which brightened her mother too.
”Mamma,” said Beth, taking advantage of her mood, ”it's a poor heart that never rejoices. Let's have a holiday, you and I, to celebrate the summer.”
”But the summer hasn't come,” Mrs. Caldwell objected, smiling.
”But summer is coming, is coming,” Beth chanted, ”and I want to make a song about it.”
”_You_ make a song!” Bernadine exclaimed. ”Why, you can't spell summer.”
Beth made a face at her. ”I know you want a holiday, mamma,” she resumed. ”Come, confess! I work you to death. And there's church to-day at eleven, and I want to go.”
”Well, if you want to go to church,” said Mrs. Caldwell, relieved.
Beth did not wait to hear the end of the sentence.
She went to the drawing-room first, and sat down at the little rosewood piano with a volume of Moore's ”Lalla Rookh” open before her.
”From the mountain's warbling fount I come,”