Part 49 (2/2)
Beth went with honest intention. There was a glow in her chest which added fervency to her devotions, and when Alfred entered from the vestry and took his seat in the chancel pew, happiness, tingling in every nerve, suffused her. His first glance was for her, and Beth knew it, but bent her head. Her soul did magnify the Lord, however, and her spirit did rejoice in G.o.d her Saviour, with unlimited love and trust.
He had saved them, He would hear them. He would help them, He would make them both--_both_ good and great--great after a pause, as being perhaps not a worthy aspiration.
She did not look at Alfred a second time, but she sat and stood and knelt, all conscious of him, and it seemed as if the service lasted but a moment.
Directly it was over, she fled, taking the narrow path by the side of the church to the fields; but before she was half way across the first field, she heard a quick step following her. Beth felt she must stop short--or run; she began to run.
”Beth! Beth! wait for me,” he called.
Beth stopped, then turned to greet him shyly; but when he came close, and put his arm round her, she looked up smiling. They gazed into each other's eyes a moment, and then kissed awkwardly, like children.
”Were you any the worse for our adventure?” he asked. ”I've been longing to know.”
”I had a headache yesterday,” said Beth. ”How were you?”
”All stiff and aching,” he replied, ”or I should have been to ask after you.”
”I'm glad you didn't come,” Beth e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.
”Why? I ought to know your people, you know. Why don't the Richardsons know them?”
”Because we're poor,” Beth answered bluntly; ”and Mr. Richardson neglects his poor paris.h.i.+oners.”
”All the more reason that I should call,” Alfred Cayley Pounce persisted. ”You are people of good family like ourselves, and old Rich is a n.o.body.”
”Yes,” said Beth; ”but my mother would not let me know you. She and I are always--always--we never agree, you know. I don't think we can help it; we certainly don't do it on purpose--at least _I_ don't; but there's something in us that makes us jar about everything. I was going to tell her all about you on Sunday night; but when I got in I couldn't. She began by being angry because I was late, without waiting to know if I were to blame, and that--that shut me up, and I never told her; and now I don't think I could.”
”But what objection can she have to me?” he asked loftily. ”I really must make her acquaintance.”
”Not through me, then,” said Beth. ”Do you know the Benyons?”
”No, I don't know anybody in the neighbourhood as yet. I'm here with old Rich to be crammed. My people are trying to force me into the bar or the church or something, because I want to be a sculptor.”
”Don't be forced,” said Beth with spirit. ”Follow your own bent. I mean to follow mine.”
”I didn't know girls had any bent,” he answered dubiously.
There was a recoil in Beth. ”How is it people never expect a girl to do anything?” she exclaimed, firing up.
”I don't see what a girl can do,” he rejoined, ”except marry and look after her husband and children.”
”That's all right at the proper time,” Beth said. ”But meanwhile, and if she doesn't marry, is she to do nothing?”
”Oh, there are always lots of little things a woman can do,” he answered airily.
”But supposing little things don't satisfy her, and she has power to follow some big pursuit?”
”Oh, well, in that case,” he began, somewhat superciliously. ”But it's too rare to be taken into account--talent in women.”
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