Jim of Hellas, or In Durance Vile; The Troubling of Bethesda Pool

Part I

Some people in the village (but they were the spiteful ones) used to say that Bethesda Pool might e'en so well be a dummy and done with it, if she never could open her mouth when a person spoke to her. But there were always others who were ready to respond that "it was a comfort there was one woman who knew enough to hold her tongue when she had nothing to say!" This retort was apt to provoke the reply churlish; and many a pretty quarrel had been hatched up over the silence of Bethesda Pool, who never quarrelled herself, because it entailed talking.

She was the Lady of the Inn, Miss Bethesda. Her mother, the late Mrs. Pool, had married the inn-keeper, and led a sad life of it. She was a woman of a lively fancy, and had been in the habit of saying that if she had been fool enough to get drownded in a pool, she meant to get all the good she could out of the name! So she named her eldest daughter Siloama (pronounced Silo-amy), her second Bethesda, and the son, who came just after her husband had drowned himself in his special pool of whiskey, Heshbon. The neighbours thought this triflin' with Scriptur', and had their own opinion of Ma'am Pool's eccentricities; but the good lady cared little for anybody's opinion; indeed, if she had had any such care, she would not have married Father Pool, whose failings were well known. All that was long ago, however; Father and Mother Pool were gone to their places, the pensive Silo-amy and the fishy Heshbon had followed, and Miss Bethesda was Queen of the Inn.

The Inn was the only one in the village. Perhaps there was little need even of this; but it had always been there since the old stage-coach days, when the village was a favourite stopping-place for gay parties of travellers, and when old Gran'ther Pool kept open house, and smiled over his bar on all comers, like a rising sun a little the worse for wear. It was a quaint old house, with a stone veranda in front, and mossy roofs pitching this way and that. Inside was maze upon maze of long, narrow corridors, with queer little rooms opening out of them, – some square, some long; all low of ceiling and wavy of floor, with curious dolphin-shaped latches, and doors set as if the builder had thrown them at the wall and made the opening wherever they happened to strike. Few of these doors were on a level with the floor; they might be two steps above it, or three steps below; it was a matter of fancy, purely. There was one room that could only be entered through the closet, unless you preferred to get in at the window; but you could easily do that, as it opened on the balcony. Then there was a square chamber containing a trap-door; the Kidderminster carpet fitted the trap perfectly, and it was a dangerous room for strangers to enter. Here the Freemasons used, in old times, to hold their meetings, and carry on their mystic rites. Later, it was the favourite playroom of the Pool children, and they and their playmates were never tired of popping up and down the "Tumplety Hole," as they called it.

In the middle of the second story was a long ballroom, where in old days merry dances had been held, and young feet jigged it to the tune of "Money Musk" or "Hull's Victory."

This room, with its wonderful wall-paper, representing the Carnival at Rome, and its curious clock, was an object of wonder to the whole village; and strangers or visitors were pretty sure to present themselves at the Inn door, sometimes begging to be taken in for a few days, sometimes merely asking the privilege of going over the quaint old house. The reception of these visitors was apparently a matter of caprice with the Lady of the Inn; one never could tell how she would take it. Sometimes an eager statement that "We heard of your beautiful house, and we have driven over from South Tupham, ten miles, on purpose to see it!" would be met by the monosyllable "Have!" delivered in Miss Bethesda's mildest tone, and the door would be softly but firmly shut in the travellers' faces. Or the visitor might try another tack, and begin with the bold assumption that the Inn was a place of public entertainment, and that man and beast were welcome there, as a matter of course.

"I should like two bedrooms and a sitting-room, please! And will you send someone to look out for my horses? And – I should like supper, something hot, as soon as convenient!" To which Miss Bethesda might reply, "Should you?" and smile, and again shut the door.

But there were other times when something in the asking face or voice touched one knew not what chord in the good lady's breast. On these occasions she could be very gracious, and would say, perhaps, that she really didn't know, she didn't take boarders – mebbe – just this once – if't would accommodate – she didn't know – but she might compass it somehow, and the door would be opened wide; and, once inside, the guest was sure to be made so comfortable that he was loth to go away again.

The fact was, that being clothed with means, as they say in the village, the Lady of the Inn felt that it was merely a matter of personal fancy, the taking in of guests, and that if she were not in the mood for visitors there was no manner of reason why she should be bothered with them.

She had one servant, a grim elder, by name Ira Goodwin. The spiteful people before alluded to said that Ira – or Iry, to give the name its actual pronunciation – and his mistress never spoke to each other, but communicated by means of signs. That could not be true, however, for Mrs. Peake, next door, had been shaking a carpet in her yard one day, close by the fence, and had heard Iry say, in a growling manner, "Guess I can hold my tongue as well as others!" To which Miss Bethesda's crisp tones replied: "You'd better, for the outside of your head does you more credit than the inside!"

Thus Miss Bethesda Pool lived in solitude for the most part, and content with her lot; and no breeze ruffled the still waters of her life.

It was very peaceful to be alone there in the great rambling Inn, and hear no sound save the purring of the yellow cat, and the drip of the water from the roofs. The roofs all leaked in the Inn, whenever there was a possible chance for leaking, and the walls were covered with strange patterns and hieroglyphics that were not included in the design of the wall-paper.

It happened one day that Miss Bethesda Pool was sitting in her own comfortable room, toeing off a stocking, and thinking of many things, when she heard a knock at the door. She took no notice of the first summons, for she found that in many cases the knocker, after one, or at most two, trials, was apt to go away, which saved a world of trouble, and showed that he had no business that amounted to anything, anyhow. But this was a persistent knocker, who kept on with a timid yet steady "rat-tat-tat – " till Miss Bethesda concluded that, whoever it was, he had not sense enough to know when he wasn't wanted, and that she must answer the knock.

She folded her knitting deliberately, and after examining the draughts of the stove, and stroking the yellow cat two or three times, she went to the door, holding her chin a little high, and looking, if the truth must be told, rather uncompromising.

When she opened the door, however, the lines of her face softened and her chin went down. A bright-faced girl stood there, with a shawl wrapped round her, for the day was cold. She was trying to smile, but there were tears in her brown eyes, and her lip was quivering.

"Miss Pool," she said, "I don't suppose I can come in, can I? I'd like ever so much to speak to you, if you wouldn't mind!"

Miss Bethesda opened the door wide, and without wasting breath, led the shivering child in, and closed the door after her with a bang. That bang carried defiance across the way, and gave Miss Bethesda as much comfort as if she had let loose a torrent of angry words. There is great comfort in a door sometimes. Still in silence, she led the girl into the sitting-room, drew a chair near the stove for her, and motioned her to sit down. Then resuming her own seat, she took up her knitting again, and gazing calmly on her visitor, evidently felt that she had done her part.

"It's Father, Miss Pool!" said the pretty girl, whose name was Nan Bradford. Miss Pool nodded comprehension, and set her lips more firmly. "Father, he's going on dreadful!" said Nan. "You know Will Newell has been – well, he has thought a sight of me, and I of him, these two years past.

"It came about while I was staying to grandma's, over to Cyrus, and grandma knew all his folks, and there aint any better folks in the country, grandma said. And yet – Father – he acts as though Will was one thief and I was another. He won't let him come to the house, nor he won't let me write to him, nor he won't do anything – 'cept just be ugly! There! I hadn't ought to say it, I know, – my own father, and just as good a father as ever a girl has in the wide world, I do believe, till this come up. But he won't hear of my marrying anybody, – that is the plain truth, Miss Pool, not if it was a seraph with six wings! And – and – what am I to do, I should like to know? I come to you, 'cause you've always been good to me, and I seem to know you better than anyone else, now grandma's dead. And I wouldn't complain of Father to anyone else in the village, so I wouldn't!"

She paused for breath; Miss Pool looked at her and nodded. It was an expressive nod, and the girl seemed to feel better for it. She began to cry softly, wiping her pretty eyes with the corner of her shawl. "I'm just beat out!" she said, plaintively. "Be!" said Miss Bethesda, soothingly; she went to the cupboard and brought out some of the famous cookies which a few privileged children were allowed to taste from time to time, but seldom anyone who had passed the boundary of childhood. Nan, who was still a child in some ways, brightened at sight of the cookies, and was soon nibbling them in comparative comfort, sighing from time to time, and glancing up under her long eyelashes at Miss Bethesda, who sat knitting as if her life depended upon it, her lips set very tight, and apparently taking no notice of her guest. But Nan Bradford knew Miss Pool, and was content to wait. She would not have been let in, she knew, if the Lady of the Inn had not been in a good mood. So, she nibbled the cookies, and thought of Will, and was as comfortable as a lovelorn and persecuted damsel could be.

Miss Bethesda kept her eyes fixed on her work, but she did not see it. Instead of the gray wool and shining needles, a stalwart figure stood before her, the figure of Buckstone Bradford. He had been her neighbour for all the years of their life; he was four years her senior, and they had been playmates in childhood. A breezy, rosy-cheeked boy he had been, and her sworn ally. The children were apt to divide into two parties: Bethesda and Buckstone on one side, Siloama and Heshbon on the other. Thus arrayed, they were wont to do battle around the yawning gulf of the Tumplety Hole, shouting their respective war-cries, which alluded, in an unfriendly spirit, to the qualities of the enemy.

Siloama and Heshbon would pipe shrilly; to which Bethesda and Buckstone would reply, in deeper tones,

A general combat would ensue, in the course of which both parties were apt to fall down the trap-door into the basement room below, and be rescued by Mother Pool, and summarily dealt with by her slipper.

Then came the days of youth, when Buckstone courted her, and might have won her if he had gone to work in the right way. But he was headstrong, and she was obstinate; and he didn't get on with Siloama, and he was hard on Heshbon, and so it had all blown over; he had married another wife, and lost her while Nan was a baby. Miss Bethesda had forgotten all about Nan by this time: before her stood the man of her choice, with his feet apart and his chin stuck out, much as her own sometimes was; his brows were knit, his eyes gleamed with sombre fire.

"Bethesda," he said, and the words seemed to force the way through his strong white teeth, "Bethesda, I'm going to marry you, anyway, and I'd like to see you get out of it! Mind that!"

Ah, well, that was all men knew! She had got out of it, – was it a sigh that came at the thought, or a sniff of triumph, or a combination of the two? And Buckstone had married a pindlin' soul that hadn't no more life in her than a November chicken – and – that was all there was to it, Miss Bethesda reckoned.

And now, here he was hectoring this little girl of his, that always favoured him, and had no look of her mother – hectoring and bullying, just as he used; and Miss Bethesda wondered if the child was a-going to stand it. She wouldn't have stood it, not a day, for her part, if she was his daughter, let alone his – his – wife! And then she found herself wondering whether he would have been so hectoring if she had been – and brought herself up again with an indignant start. Why in Tunkett should she be fretting herself about Buck Bradford's girl, she wanted to know! And yet, – she had got the better of Buckstone Bradford once; it would beat the world if she could put him down again, wouldn't it?

While these thoughts were passing through her mind, the Lady of the Inn sat, to all appearance, absorbed in her work, never dropping a stitch, never failing to count with the regularity of a self-respecting clock; and Nan Bradford watched her anxiously over the edge of her cooky.

Part II

"Miss Pool asks the pleasure of your company at a social dance, on Thursday evening, at seven o'clock.

This was the bomb-shell that fell into every respectable household in the village two days after Nan Bradford's visit. Such a sensation had never been known since old man Pool rode a saw-horse across the common and into meeting the Sunday before he died; and, indeed, that was nothing to be compared to this. Bethesdy Pool! Bethesdy Pool give a party!! Well, what next? everybody wanted to know. Half-an-hour after the notes had been delivered by Iry Goodwin (who carried them round in a basket and handed them out as if they were death warrants), every woman in the village, with two exceptions, was in another house than her own.

"Have you got one?" "Have you?" "Let me see!" "Lemme see if 'tis like mine?" "Yes, they're all the same!" "Well, I do declare! don't you?" "Is the mile-ennion coming, or what, do you s'pose?" "A social dance! Bethesdy Pool, as hasn't set down to a table, nor yet asked a soul to set down to hers these fifteen years, – well of all! but so't is! You can't tell where to have some folks, even though you've had 'em all your life, as you may say!"

The general verdict was that the Pools were all "streaky," and Bethesda the most streakèd of any of them; and that most likely she was going clean out of her mind this time, and there would be an end of it.

However, the unanimity on this point was equalled by the determination of everybody, old and young, rich and poor, to go to the party. In fact, it seemed probable that every house in the village would be deserted on the eventful evening; for not a soul was willing to lose the sight of a party in the old Inn.

Report said, as the day came nearer and nearer, that great preparations were going on. Every woman who had any skill in cookery had offered her services eagerly, hoping to have some share in the great doings; Mrs. Fullby had "presumed likely" that Bethesda would have more'n she could manage with her own two hands, and had assured her that she, Mrs. Fullby, would jis lives's not bring her apurn and eggbeater and put right in on the cake and frostin'! while Miss Virginia Sharpe hinted delicately that there was "a certain twist" in the making of pastry that was considered peculiar to the Sharpe family, and that no festivity would be complete without "Sharpe tarts;" but Miss Bethesda was of the opinion that she and Iry could do what was necessary, and just as much obleeged to them! and in point of fact, not a soul, with the exception of Nan Bradford, who was seen to emerge once from the Inn, looking rather frightened but very happy, was permitted to set foot within the mysterious doors. Mrs. Peake said that she saw Nan coming home, looking as if she had seen a ghost and lost her heart to it; but Mrs. Peake had a poetic way with her, and her remarks were not much heeded in the village.

It was thought more likely that Nan had been poking her nose in where her betters wouldn't ha' thought of poking theirs, and got it taken off for her pains, and served her right! But it happened that Mrs. Peake was right this time.

Thursday evening came! The moon was full, the sleighing perfect; Nature was evidently in league with Miss Bethesda Pool, and meant to do her share in making the party a success. Miss Pool, standing in state at the end of the ballroom, waiting for her guests to arrive, made a pleasant picture in her old-fashioned flowered brocade, one of the self-supporting kind, little beholden to any figure inside it. Her hair was still brown, still pretty, with its crinkles that caught the light, and gave her a wonderful look of youth, well carried out by her bright hazel eyes, and trim figure. In truth, she was not old, Miss Bethesda; her fortieth birthday was only just past, and she was straight as a dart, and strong as a tree; but when one has played old woman for fifteen years, one gets to think the play a reality, and one's neighbours are not slow to adopt the view. On looking in the glass, this evening, Miss Bethesda experienced a slight shock, and a decided impression of good looks. She wondered if Buckstone Bradford would find her much changed; she regretted that she had worn her old "punkin" hood quite so uniformly for the last ten years, and meditated on the attractions of a certain sky-blue "fascinator," which had been lying in her top-drawer ever since Siloama died. Fond of bright colours Siloama always was, and dressy to the day of her death. Anyhow, the brocade was handsome enough to please any one! Miss Bethesda smoothed down the shining folds, examined her white silk mitts carefully, and glanced up at the clock, to see how much longer she had to wait. Nearly seven! Folks would most likely be on time, Miss Bethesda thought, with a grim smile; curiosity could hurry the laziest folks that ever forgot to draw their breath! She reckoned every old podogger in the village would turn out to see Bethesdy Pool make a fool of herself; but let 'em come! There'd be more than one fool to-night, if things went as they should! 'Twas strange, though, that she hadn't heard no word from —

Here her meditations were interrupted; for the door at the end of the ballroom flew open and revealed a tall young man, wrapped to his eyes in fur, who rushed forward and took her hand, and tried to say something, and failed egregiously.

"Will Newell!" cried Miss Bethesda, "do you mean to tell me this is you? For gracious sake, what do you want? Didn't you get my note?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did," cried the big fellow, drawing the sleeve of his fur coat across his eyes. "I've done as you said; but I couldn't go farther without thanking you, not if 'twas ever so! Miss Bethesda, I – I'd do anything in the world for you, I believe. You don't know what a time we've had, – Nan and me. We – I – well, I'm not one to talk, never was! but I would do anything for you, now, I would!"

"Dance the Virginia Reel with me, then," said Miss Bethesda, smiling grimly at her joke. "Or else, if you don't want to do that, take yourself out of this as quick as you can, Will Newell, and get ready! Hark! There's the bell this minute. You've fixed it all right with Nan?"

"All right!" panted Will. "I've got the team hid away where you said, in the old cow-shed. Now I'll go and fix me; and maybe we will have the reel, Miss Pool, if you'll have it early enough on the programme. I won't promise to wait for you, though, more'n the first half of the evening."

He ran out, his eyes shining with joy; and Miss Bethesda folded her white mitts again, and waited calmly for the first guests.

The clock struck seven, and Miss Bethesda glanced up again. It was a wonderful clock, this of the old Inn. More than a hundred years it had hung there, having been brought over from England by Gran'ther Pool, before he lost his money and took to keeping the Inn. Its dial and frame were gayly painted with dancing figures, with garlands of flowers, from which peeped laughing faces of loves and fairies. The great weights that hung against the wall were curious, too, – dolphin-shaped, like the door-latches, and shining with remnants of gilding. And now, following closely on the seventh stroke, came notes of music, faint, rustling notes, the very spirit of sound; a waltz, sweet and delicate as the tiny faces that peeped from the painted garlands on its dial, faltered forth from the old clock: "Tra-la-la, lira-la, la-la! – " and between the notes of the swinging measure the wheels creaked and groaned, and the wires wheezed, and the weights lamented as they slid up and down. "Just like any other old fool," thought Miss Bethesda, "doing things she has no business to!" and for a moment she felt as old as the clock, and repented her of her purpose.