"I have had no opportunity of thinking anything about her," Bertha rejoined. "She has never spoken to me. I have heard her speak, though, and like her voice. It's so cooing. She makes me think of a dove."
"And I shouldn't be surprised to find," said Beth, with cruel insight, "that, like the dove, she conceals a villainous disposition and murderous proclivities by charms of manner and a winning voice. What are you going to do this afternoon, Bertha?"
Bertha glanced at Dan. "I am going to read 'The Moonstone' out in the garden the whole afternoon," she replied.
"Then you won't mind if I disappear till tea-time?" said Beth. "I want to do some work upstairs."
"No, I would rather be alone," Bertha answered frankly. "That book's entrancing."
"I shall go round on foot this afternoon, for exercise," Dan announced as he left the room.
Beth saw Bertha settled on a seat in the garden, and then retired to her secret chamber. She had not yet come to any conclusion with regard to Mrs. Kilroy's invitation, and she felt it was time she decided. She took her sewing, her accustomed aid to thought, and sat down on a high chair near the window. She always sat on a high chair, that she might not be enervated by lolling; that was one of her patient methods of self-discipline; and while she meditated, she did quantities of work for herself, making, mending, remodelling, that she might get all the wear possible out of her clothes, and not add a penny she could help to those terrible debts, the thought of which had weighed on her youth, and threatened to crush all the spirit out of her ever since her marriage. Dan had never considered her too young to be worried.
From where she sat she could see Bertha on a seat just below, with "The Moonstone" on her lap, but Bertha could not see her because of the curtain of creepers that covered the iron rail which formed a little balcony round the window. Besides, it was supposed that that was a blank window. It was the only one on that side of the house, too, and Bertha had settled herself in that secluded corner of the garden precisely because she thought she could not be overlooked.
Beth glanced at her from time to time mechanically, but without thinking of her. It struck her at last, however, that Bertha had never opened her book, which seemed odd after the special point she had made of being left alone to read it undisturbed. Then Beth noticed that she seemed to be on the look-out, as if she were expecting something or somebody; and presently Dan appeared, walking quickly and with a furtive air, as if he were afraid of being seen. Bertha flushed crimson and became all smiles as soon as she saw him. Beth's work dropped on her lap, she clasped her hands on it, her own face flushed, and her breath became laboured. Dan, after carefully satisfying himself that there was nobody about, sat down beside Bertha, put his arm round her waist, and kissed her. She giggled, and made a feeble feint of protesting. Then he took a jewel-case from his pocket, opened it, and held it out to her admiring gaze. It contained a handsome gold bracelet, which he presently clasped on her arm. She expressed her gratitude by lifting up her face to be kissed. Then he put his arm round her again, and she sat with her head on his shoulder, and they began to talk; but the conversation was interrupted by frequent kisses.
Beth had seen enough. She turned her back to the window, and sat quite still with her hands clasped before her. It was her first experience of that parasite, the girl who fastens herself on a married woman, accepts all that she can get from her in the way of hospitality and kindness, and treacherously repays her by taking her husband for a lover. Beth pitied Bertha, but with royal contempt. It all seemed so sordid and despicable. Jealous she was not. "Jealousy is a want of faith in one's self," she had said to Bertha's mother once, and now, in the face of this provocation, she was of the same mind. She had no words to express her scorn for a man who is false to his obligations, nor for the petty frauds and deceits which had made the position of those two tenable. As for Dan, he was beneath contempt; but – "I shall succeed!" The words sprang to her lips triumphantly. "Let him wallow with his own kind in congenial mire as much as he likes. No wonder he suspects me! But I – I shall succeed!"
Meanwhile down in the garden Dan was gurgling to Bertha: "What should I do without you, darling? Life wasn't worth having till I knew you. I won't say a word against Beth. She has her good points, as you know, and I believe she means well; but she's spoilt my life, and my career too. I'm one that requires a lot of sympathy; but she never shows me any. She thinks of nobody but herself. Her own mother always said so. And after all I've done for her too! If only you knew! But of course I can't blow my own trumpet. They're all alike in that family, though. Her mother used to keep me playing cards till I was ruined. And Beth has no gratitude, and you can't trust her. She comes of a lying lot, and I'm of the same mind as my old father, who used to say he'd rather have a thief any day than a liar. You can watch a thief, but you can't watch a liar."
"Still, Dan," Bertha murmured, "I somehow think you ought to stick to her."
"So I would," said Dan. "No one can accuse me of not sticking to my duty. I'm an honourable man. It was she who cast me off. I'm nothing to her. And I should have been broken-hearted but for you, Bertha, I should indeed." Dan's fine eyes filled with tears, which Bertha tenderly wiped away.
"Of course it makes a great difference her having cast you off," Bertha conceded, after a little interlude.
"It makes all the difference," Dan rejoined. "She set me at liberty, and you are free too; so who have we to consider but ourselves? I admire a woman who has the pluck to be free!" he added enthusiastically.
"Then why don't you encourage Beth more to go her own way?" Bertha reasonably demanded. "She's always yearning for a career."
Dan hesitated. "Because I've been a fool, I think," he said at last. "I'll encourage her now, though. It would be a great blessing to us if she could get started as a writer. I see that now. She'd think of nothing else. And it would be a blessing to her too," he added feelingly.
"That's what I like about you, Dan," Bertha observed. "You always make every allowance for her, and consider her interests, although she has treated you badly."
Dan pressed her hand to his lips. "I'll do what I can for her, you may be sure," he said, quite melted by his own magnanimity. "I wish I could do more. But she's been extravagant, and my means are dreadfully crippled."
"Then why do you buy me such handsome presents, you naughty man?" Bertha playfully demanded, holding up her arm with the bracelet on it.
"I must have a holiday sometimes," he rejoined. "Besides, I happen to be expecting a handsome cheque, an unusual occurrence, by any post now."
Beth's dividends were due that day.
Just as dinner was announced, Beth swept into the drawing-room in the best evening dress she had, a diaphonous black, set off by turquoise velvet, a combination which threw the beautiful milk-white of her skin into delicate relief. There was a faint flush on her face; on her forehead and neck the tendrils of her soft brown hair seemed to have taken on an extra crispness of curl, and her eyes were sparkling. She had never looked better. Bertha Petterick, in her common handsomeness, was as a barmaid accustomed to beer beside a gentlewoman of exceptional refinement. She wore the showy bracelet Dan had given her that afternoon, and it shone conspicuous in its tawdry newness on her arm; her dress was tasteless too, and badly put on, and altogether she contrasted unfavourably with Beth, and Dan observed it.
"Are you expecting any one in particular to-night?" he asked.
"No," Beth answered smiling. "I dressed for my own benefit. Nothing moves me to self-satisfaction like a nice dress. I have not enjoyed the pleasure much since I married. But I am going to begin now, and have a good time."
She turned as she spoke and led the way to the dining-room alone. Dr. Maclure absently offered his arm to Miss Petterick. He was puzzled to know what this sudden fit of self-assertion, combined with an unaccountable burst of high spirits on Beth's part, might portend. To conceal a certain uneasiness, he became extra facetious, not to say coarse. There was a public ball coming off in a few days, and he persisted in speaking of it as "The Dairy Show."
"Don't you begin to feel excited about it? I do!" Miss Petterick said to Beth. "I wish it were to-night."
"I am indifferent," Beth answered blandly, "because I am not going."
"Not going!" Dan exclaimed. "Then who's to chaperon me?"
"I should scarcely suppose," Beth answered, looking at him meditatively, "that you are in the stage of innocence which makes a chaperon necessary. Bertha, how you are loving that new bracelet! You've done nothing but fidget with it ever since we sat down."
"Ah!" Bertha answered archly, "you want to know where I got it, Madam Curious! Well, I'll tell you. It was sent me only to-day – by my young man!"
Dan looked at his plate complacently, but presently Beth saw a glance of intelligence flash between them – a glance such as she had often seen them exchange before, but had not understood; and she was thankful that she had not! – thankful that she had been able to live so long with Dr. Maclure without entertaining a single suspicion, without thinking one low thought about him. It was a hopeful triumph of cultivated nice-mindedness over the most evil communications.
When they were at dessert, the postman's knock resounded sharply. Dr. Maclure, who had been anxiously listening for it, and was peeling a pear for Miss Petterick at the moment, waited with the pear and the knife upheld in his hands, watching the door till the servant entered. She brought a letter on a salver, and was taking it to her master, when Beth said authoritatively, "That letter is for me, Minna; bring it here."
The girl obeyed.
Dan put down the knife and the pear. "What's yours is mine, I thought," he observed, with a sorry affectation of cheeriness.
"Not on this occasion," Beth answered quietly, taking up the letter and opening it as she spoke. "This happens to be peculiarly my own."
"Why, it's a cheque," he rejoined, with an affectation of surprise. "What luck! I haven't been able to sleep for nights thinking of the butcher's bill."
"For shame!" Beth said, bantering – "talking about bills before your guest! But since you introduced the subject I may add that the butcher must wait. I want this myself. I am going to stay with Mrs. Kilroy at Ilverthorpe on Wednesday, and it will just cover my expenses."
"This is the first I have heard of the visit," Dan ejaculated.
"I only decided to go this afternoon," Beth replied.
"You decided without consulting me? Well – I'm damned if you shall go; I shall not allow it."
"The word 'allow' is obsolete in the matrimonial dictionary, friend Daniel," Beth rejoined good-humouredly.
"But you are bound to obey me."
"And I'm ready to obey you when you endow me with all your worldly goods," she said; then, suddenly dropping her bantering tone, she spoke decidedly: "I am going to stay with Mrs. Kilroy on Wednesday, understand that at once, and do not let us have any vulgar dispute about it."
"But you can't leave Miss Petterick here alone with me!" he remonstrated.
"No, but she can go home," Beth answered coolly. "Her mother wants her, you know, and I have written to tell her to expect her to-morrow. Now, if you please, we will end the discussion."
She put the letter in her pocket, and began to crack nuts and eat them. But Dan could not keep away from the subject. "Gad!" he ejaculated, "I thought they'd get hold of you, that lot, and flatter you, and make a convenience of you – that's what they do! I know them! They think you're clever – how easy it is to be mistaken! But you'll see for yourself in time, and then you'll believe me – when it's too late. For then you'll have got your name mixed up with them, and you'll not get over that, I can tell you – they are well known for a nice lot. Your Mrs. Kilroy was notorious before she married. She was Angelica Hamilton-Wells, and she and her brother were called the Heavenly Twins. They are grandchildren of that blackguard old Duke of Morningquest. Nobody ever speaks of any of the family with the slightest respect. It's well known that Miss Hamilton-Wells asked old Kilroy to marry her, and when a girl has to do that, you may guess what she is! But they are all besmirched, that lot," Dan concluded with his most high-minded manner on.
"I never believe anything I hear against anybody," said Beth, unconsciously quoting Ideala; "so please spare me the recital of all invidious stories."
"You'll only believe what suits yourself, I know," he said. "And I've no doubt you'll enjoy yourself. Galbraith will be there, and Mr. Theodore Hamilton-Wells, the fair-haired 'Diavolo,' who will suit your book exactly, I should think."
"I beg your pardon?" said Beth politely.
Dan poured himself out another glass of wine, and said no more.
He and Bertha managed to have a moment's conversation together before they retired that night.
"What does it mean?" Bertha anxiously demanded. "Does she suspect anything?"
"God knows!" Dan said piously, then added, after a moment's consideration, "How the devil can she? We've played our cards too well for that! No, she's just bent on making mischief; that's the kind of pill she is. If she keeps that money it will be downright robbery. But now you see what I have to put up with, and you can judge for yourself if I deserve it."
When he went to Beth, however, he assumed a very different tone. He entered the room with an air of deep dejection, and found her sitting beside her dressing-table in a white wrapper, reading quietly. She smiled when she saw his pose. It was what she had expected.
"I can't do without that money, Beth, on my word," he began plaintively. "I've been reckoning on it. I wouldn't take it from you, God knows, if I could help it; but I'm sore pressed." He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, imagining that he still had to deal with the gentle sensitive girl, upon whom he had imposed so long and so successfully.
Beth watched him a moment with contempt, and then she laughed.
"It is no use, friend Daniel," she said in her neat, incisive, straightforward way. "I am not going to take you seriously any more. I am neither to be melted by your convenient tears, nor dismayed by your bogey bills. I have never seen any of those bills, by the way; the next time you mention them, please produce them. Let us be business-like. And in the meantime, just understand, once for all, like a good man, that I am not going to be domineered over by you as if I were a common degraded wife with every spark of spirit and self-respect crushed out of me by one brutal exaction or another. I shall do my duty – do my best to meet your reasonable wishes; but I will submit to no ordering and no sort of exaction." She rose and faced him. "And as we are coming to an understanding," she pursued, "just explain. Why did you tell me that Miss Petterick was to be a paying patient?"
"I never told you anything of the kind," said Dan, losing his head, and lying stupidly in his astonishment.
Beth shrugged her shoulders. "It is your own business," she rejoined – "at least it is you who will have to pay for her entertainment."
She returned to her book as she spoke, and continued to read with apparent calmness.
Now that she had taken up her position, she found herself quite strong enough to hold it against any Dan Maclure or Bertha Petterick. But Beth was being forced into an ugly and vulgar phase, and she knew and resented it, and was filled with dismay. She was taking on something of the colour of her surroundings involuntarily, inevitably, as certain insects do, in self-defence. She had spoken to Dan in his own tone in order to make him understand her; but was it necessary? Surely if she had resisted the impulse to try that weapon, she might have found another as effective, the use of which would not have compromised her gentlehood and lessened her self-esteem. Her dissatisfaction with herself for the part she had played was a cruel ache, and she thanked Heaven for the chance which would mercifully remove her from that evil atmosphere for a while, and prayed for time to reflect, for strength to be her better self. She was angry with herself, and grieved because she had fought Dan with his own weapons, and it did not occur to her for her comfort that she had only done so because he was invulnerable to that which she would naturally have used – earnest, reasonable, calm discussion – and that fight him she must with something, somehow, or sink for ever down to the degraded level required of their wives by husbands of his way of thinking.
CHAPTER XLIV
Ilverthorpe was at the other side of the county, and Beth had to go from Slane to Morningquest by train in order to get there. Dan continued to be disagreeable in private about her going, but he took her to the station, and saw her off, so that the public might know what an admirable husband he was.
On his way from the station he met Sir George Galbraith, and greeted him with effusion.
"I hope you were coming to see us," he said, "for that would show that you don't forget our humble existence. But my wife isn't at home, I am sorry to say. She has just gone to stay with Mrs. Kilroy."
Sir George looked keenly at him. "I hope she is quite well," he said formally.
"Not too well," Dan answered lugubriously; "and that is why I encouraged her to go. The fact is, Sir George, I think I've been making a mistake with Beth. My mother was my perfection of a woman. She didn't care much for books; but she had good sound common-sense, and she attended to her husband and her household, and preferred to stay at home; and I confess I wanted my wife to be like her. Especially I wanted to keep her pure-minded and unsuspicious of evil; and that she could not remain if she got drawn into Mrs. Kilroy's set, and mixed up with the questions about which women are now agitating themselves. I know you're with them and not with me in the matter, but you'll allow for my point of view. Well, with regard to Beth, I find I've made a mistake. I should have let her follow her own bent, see for herself, and become a woman of the day if she's so minded. As it is, she is growing morbid for want of an outlet, and hanging back herself, and it is I who have to urge her on. It's an heroic operation so far as I'm concerned, for the whole thing is distasteful to me; but I shall go through with it, and let her be as independent as she likes."
"This sounds like self-sacrifice," said Sir George. "I sincerely hope it may answer. We are going different ways, I think. Good-morning." He raised his hand to his hat in a perfunctory way, and hurried off. The next time he saw Mrs. Kilroy, he described this encounter with Dr. Maclure.
"This is a complete change of front," said Angelica; "what does it mean?"
"When a man of that kind tells his wife to make the most of her life in her own way and be independent, he means 'Don't bother me; another woman is the delight of my senses!' When he says to the other woman 'Be free!' he means 'Throw yourself into my arms!'"
Angelica sighed. "Poor Beth!" she said, "what a fate to be tied to that plausible hog!"
From having been so much shut up in herself, Beth showed very little of the contrasts of her temperament on the surface, – her joy in life, her moments of exaltation, of devotion, of confidence, of harshness, of tenderness; her awful fits of depression, her doubts, her fears, her self-distrust; her gusts of passion, and the disconnected impulses wedged into the well-disciplined routine of a consistent life, ordered for the most part by principle, reason, and reflection. Few people, meeting her casually, would have suspected any contrasts at all; and even of those who knew her best, only one now and then appreciated the rate at which the busy mind was working, and the changes wrought by the growth which was continually in progress beneath her equable demeanour. Those about her, for want of discernment, expected nothing of her, and suffered shocks of surprise in consequence, which they resented, blaming her for their own defects.
But it was of much more importance to Beth that she should be able to pass on with ease from one thing to another than that she should have the approval of people who would have had her stay where they found her, not for her benefit, but for their own convenience in classifying her. Beth made stepping-stones of her knowledge of other people rather than of her own dead self. She picked to pieces the griefs they brought upon her, dissected them, and moralised upon them; and, in so doing, forgot the personal application. While in the midst of what might have been her own life tragedy, she compared herself with those who had been through theirs and did not seem a bit the worse or the better, which observation stimulated her fortitude; when she contemplated the march of events, that mighty army of atoms, any one of which may be in command of us for a time, none remaining so for ever under healthy conditions, she perceived that life is lived in detail, not in the abstract. The kind of thing that makes the backbone of a three-volume novel, is but a phase or an incident; everything is but an incident with all of us, a heart-break to-day, a recollection to-morrow, a source of encouragement and of inspiration eventually perhaps; the which, if some would remember, there would be less despair and fewer suicides. The recognition of this fact had helped Beth's sense of proportion and was making her philosophical. She believed that life could be lived so as to make the joys as inevitable as the sorrows. We are apt to cultivate our sense of pleasure less than our sense of suffering, by appreciating small pleasures little, while heeding small pains excessively. Beth's deliberate intention, as well as her natural impulse, was to reverse this in her own case as much as possible; she would not let her physical sense of well-being on a fine morning and her intellectual delight in a good mood for work be spoilt because of some trouble of the night before. The trouble she would set aside so that it might not detract from the pleasure.
But fine mornings and good moods for work had not come to her aid since she discovered the mean treachery of Dan and Bertha, and when she left Slane she was still oppressed by the sense of their hypocrisy and deceit. As the train bore her swiftly away from them both, however, her spirits rose. The sun shone, the country looked lovely in its autumn bravery of tint and tone; she felt well, and the contemplation of such people as Dan and Bertha was not elevating; they must out of her mind like any other unholy thought, that she might be worthy to associate with the loyal ladies and noble gentlemen whose hands were outheld to help her. The people we cling to are those with whom we find ourselves most at home. It is not the people who amuse us that we like best, but those who stir our deeper emotions, rouse in us possibilities of generous feeling which lie latent for the most part, and give form to our higher aspirations; and Beth anticipated with a happy heart that it was with such she was bound to abide.
Mrs. Kilroy met her at the station at Morningquest. "What a bonny thing you are!" she exclaimed in her queer abrupt way. "I didn't realise it till I saw you walking up the platform towards me. There's a cart to take your luggage to Ilverthorpe. Do you mind coming to lunch with Mrs. Orton Beg? She has a dear little house in the Close, and we thought you might like to see the Cathedral. Here's the carriage. No, you get in first."
"But does Mrs. Orton Beg want me?" Beth asked when they were seated.
"We all want you," said Mrs. Kilroy, "if you will forgive our first mistake with regard to you, and come out of yourself and be one of us. And you'll be specially fond of Mrs. Orton Beg when you know her, I fancy. She's just sweet! She used to hate our works and ways, and be very conventional; but Edith Beale's marriage opened her eyes. She would never have believed that men countenanced such an iniquity had she not seen it herself. The first effect of the shock was to narrow her judgment and make her severe on men generally; but she will get over that in time. Man, like woman, is too big a subject to generalise about. He has his faults, you know, but he must be educated; that is all he wants. He must be taught to have a better opinion of himself. At present, he wallows because he thinks he can't keep out of the mire; but of course he can when he learns how. He's not a bit worse than woman naturally, only he has a lower opinion of himself, and that keeps him down. With his training we shouldn't be a bit better than he is. In all things that concern men and women, you dear, you will find that, when they start fair, one is not a bit better or worse than the other. Here we are."
Mrs. Orton Beg came into the hall to greet her guest. She was a slender, elegant, middle-aged woman, in graceful black draperies, with hair prematurely grey, and a face that had always been interesting, but never handsome – a refined, intellectual, but not strong face; the face of a patient, self-contained, long-enduring person, of settled purpose, slowly arrived at, and then not easily shaken. She welcomed Beth cordially, and placed her at table so that she might look out at the old grey Cathedral. It was the first time Beth had seen it, and she could have lost herself in the sensation of realising its traditions, its beauty, and its age; but the conversation went on briskly, and she had to take her part. Lady Fulda Guthrie, an aunt of Mrs. Kilroy's, was the only other guest. She was a beautiful saint, with a soul which had already progressed as far as the most spiritual part of Catholicism could take it, and she could get no farther in this incarnation.
"I hope you are prepared to discuss any and every thing, Mrs. Maclure," Mrs. Orton Beg warned Beth; "for that is what you will find yourself called upon to do among us. The peculiarity of man is that he will do the most atrocious things without compunction, but would be shocked if he were called upon to discuss them. Do what you like, is his principle, but don't mention it; people form their opinions in discussion, and opinions are apt to be adverse. Our principle is very much the opposite."
"I have just begun to know the necessity for open discussion," Beth answered tranquilly. "I do not see how we can arrive at happiness in life if we do not try to discover the sources of misery. I know of nothing that earnest men and women should hesitate to discuss openly on proper occasions."
"Oh, I'm thankful to hear you say 'men and women,'" Angelica broke in. "That is the right new spirit! Let us help one another. Any attempt to separate the interests of the sexes, as women here and there, and men generally, would have them separated, is fatal to the welfare of the whole race. The efforts of foolish people to divide the interests of men and women make me writhe – as if we were not utterly bound up in one another, and destined to rise or fall together! But this woman movement is towards the perfecting of life, not towards the disruption of it. I asked a sympathetic woman the other day why she took no part in it, and she answered profoundly, 'Because I am a part of it.' And I am sure she was right. I am sure it is evolutionary. It is an effort of the race to raise itself a step higher in the scale of being. For see what it resolves itself into! Men respond to what women expect of them. When warriors were the women's ideal, men were warriors. When women preferred knights, priests, or troubadours, a man's ambition was to be a knight, priest, or troubadour. When women thought drunkenness fine, men were drunken. Now women want husbands of a nobler nature, strong in all the attributes, moral and physical, of the perfect man, that their children may be noble too, and thus the ascent of man to higher planes of being become assured."
"Great is the power of thought," said Lady Fulda. "By thinking these things the race is evolving them. Thought married to suggestion is a creative force. If the race believed it would have wings; in the course of ages wings would come of the faith."
"And discussion is not enough," Beth resumed. "We should experiment. It is very well to hold opinions and set up theories, but opinions and theories are alike valueless until they are tested by experiment."
"I see you are a true radical," said Mrs. Orton Beg. "You would go to the root of the matter."
"Oh yes, I am a radical in that sense of the word," Beth answered. "I have a horror of conservatism. Nothing is stationary. All things are always in a state of growth or decay; and conservatism is a state of decay."
"Yes," said Angelica. "That is very true, especially as applied to women – if they are ever to advance."
"Then don't you think they are advancing?" Beth asked.
"Yes," said Angelica, "but not as much as they might. When you mix more with them in the way of work you will be disheartened. Women are their own worst enemies just now. They don't follow their leaders loyally and consistently; they have little idea of discipline; their tendency is to go off on side issues and break up into little cliques. They are largely actuated by petty personal motives, by petty jealousies, by pettinesses of all kinds. One amongst them will arise here and there, and do something great that is an honour to them all; but they do not honour her for it – perhaps because something in the way she dresses, or some trick of manner, does not meet with the approval of the majority. Women are for ever stumbling over trifling details. To prove themselves right pleases them better than to arrive at the truth; and a vulgar personal triumph is of more moment than the triumph of a great cause. In these things they are practically not a bit better than men."