CHAPTER XLIX
At breakfast next morning Beth described the way in which Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce had forced his attentions upon her the night before. Mr. Kilroy was exceedingly angry. "He shall not come into any house of mine again," he declared, and gave the old butler Roberts, who happened to be the only servant in the room at the moment, orders to that effect. "Do you mean to say," he asked Beth, "that the fellow had the assurance to tell you he had actually been hanging about the house?"
"He seemed rather proud of that, as of something poetical and romantic," Beth answered.
"I suppose the illness was all an excuse," Angelica observed.
"I don't know," Beth said. "He certainly looked ill, but he's a poor neurotic creature now, and might easily work himself up into a state of hysterical collapse, I should think. What was your impression, Roberts?"
"He looked real bad, ma'am; and well he might, the way he's been goin' on, 'anging about 'alf the night We've all seen im," Roberts rejoined imperturbably.
"Why didn't you report it to me?" Mr. Kilroy wanted to know.
"Well, sir, I couldn't be sure it was this 'ouse, sir, in partic'lar. You see there's a good many in the square, sir. I was just waitin' to make sure. He come after you'd gone last night, and said he 'ad to meet the ladies, but he'd forgotten where they were goin' to, and James, suspectin' nothin', told 'im."
"Well, I don't think he will trouble me again," Beth said cheerfully, concerned to see Mr. Kilroy so seriously annoyed. "I told him what I thought of him in such unmistakable terms that he walked out of the house without any form of farewell."
Angelica looked grave. "I am afraid you've made a spiteful enemy, Beth," she observed. "That kind of cat-man is capable of any meanness if his vanity is wounded; if he can injure you, he will."
"Oh, as to that, I don't see what he can do," said Mr. Kilroy.
"He can supply the press with odious personal paragraphs, spread calumnies at the clubs, and write scratch-cat criticisms on the book when it appears," Angelica said. "There are plenty of people who will listen to that kind of man, and take their opinions from him."
"But what does it matter," said Beth in her tolerant way. "All you whom I love and respect will judge me and my work for yourselves. If you are pleased, I shall rejoice; if you find fault, I shall be grateful and profit. But I should be a poor shallow thing, like society itself, if I allowed myself to be disturbed or influenced by the Alfred Cayley Pounces of the press. And as to society!" Beth laughed. "At first, when I went anywhere, I used to ask myself all the time when would the pleasure begin! But now I am younger, thanks to you; and I enjoy everything. I look on and laugh. But for the rest, I must be indifferent. It would be an insult to one's intellect to set any store on such tinsel as that of which the verdicts of society are made."
Beth had been thinking a good deal about Dan lately, and had come to the conclusion that, with all his faults, he was very much to be preferred to the Alfred Cayley Pounce kind of creature. She had more hope of him, somehow; and she went back determined that it should not be her fault if they did not arrive at a better understanding. He gave her a good opportunity on the evening of her arrival. They were sitting out in the garden after dinner, on that comfortable seat by the privet hedge which Beth overlooked from her secret chamber. Behind them the hedge was thick, and in front a border of flowers surrounded a little green lawn, which was shut in beyond by a belt of old trees in full foliage. It was an exquisite evening, warm and still; and Dan, having dined well, and begun a good cigar, was in a genial mood. As he grew older he attached a more enormous importance than ever to meals. If the potatoes were boiled when he wanted them mashed or baked, it made a serious difference to him, and he would grow red in the face and shout at the servants if his eggs for breakfast were done a moment more or less than he liked. He was a ridiculous spectacle in his impatience if dinner were late, and a sad one in his sensual satisfaction if it answered to his expectations. Beth watched him at such times with sensations that passed through various degrees of irritation from positive contempt to the kindly tolerance one feels for the greed of a hungry child. Dan had been "doing himself well," as he called it, during her absence, and was looking somewhat bloated and blotched. His wonderful complexion was no longer so clear and bright as it had been; the red was redder and the white opaque. A few more years and his character would be seen distinctly in the shape and colour of his face; and Beth, who had marked the first signs of deterioration slowly set in, was saddened by the progress it had made. Alfred Cayley Pounce would succumb to his nerves, Daniel Maclure to his tissues; the one was earning atrophy for himself, the other fatty degeneration. Beth was right. The real old devil is disease, and our evil appetites are his ministers.
"You seem solemn this evening," Daniel said to her. "I suppose you're regretting your friends."
"Yes," said Beth; "but I have been away long enough, and I am glad to be back. I saw some things in the great wicked city that made me think – Dan," she broke off abruptly, "I wish you and I were better friends. So very little would bring us to a right understanding, and I am sure we should both be the better and the happier."
"Speak for yourself," said Dan complacently. "Personally, I feel good enough and happy enough. We have our differences, like other people, I suppose; but whose fault is that, I should like to know?"
"Partly mine," Beth acknowledged. "I don't think I should have been so defiant. But if you had been different, I should have been different."
"If I had been different!" he ejaculated, knocking the ash from the end of his cigar. "Well, I'd like to know what fault you have to find with me? Different indeed!"
"That is the principal one," Beth answered, smiling. "Your great fault is that you don't believe you have any faults."
"Oh, well," he conceded, "of course I know I've my faults. Who hasn't? But I'll undertake to say that they're a man's faults. Now, come!"
This reflection seemed to deepen his self-satisfaction, as if it must be allowed that he was all the better for the faults to which he alluded. As he spoke, Beth seemed to see him at her wardrobe with his hand in the pocket of one of her dresses, hunting for treasonable matter to satisfy his evil suspicions, and she sighed. She would not acknowledge to herself that she was fighting for the impossible, yet even at the outset she half despaired of ever making him understand. It is pitiful to think of her, with her tender human nature, seeking a true mate where human law required that she should find one, only to be repulsed and baffled and bedraggled herself in the end if she persevered. A good man might have failed to comprehend Beth, but a good man would have felt the force of goodness in her, and would have reverenced her. Maclure recognised no force in her and felt no reverence; all that was not animal in her was as obscure to him as to the horse in his stable that whinnied a welcome to her when she came because he expected sugar. It is pleasant to give pleasure; but there must be more in marriage for it to be satisfactory than free scope to exercise the power to please.
"Well, look here, Dan," Beth pursued. "I'll make a bargain with you. If you will do your best to correct your faults – what I think your faults – I'll do my best to correct all you find in me. Only let us discuss them temperately, and try conscientiously to live up to some ideals of thought and conduct."
Dan smoked on silently for a little, then he said, with some show of irritation tempering his self-satisfaction, "Well, all I can say is, I cannot for the life of me see what you have to complain of."
"I have to complain of your conduct with Bertha Petterick, for one thing," Beth answered desperately. "Let us be frank with each other. I know that you have not been loyal to me. I saw you together here on this seat the day you gave her the bracelet. I saw you put it on her arm and kiss her; and that decided me to go to Ilverthorpe."
Dan looked round about him with an altered countenance, but nothing that he knew to be a window overlooked the spot, neither was it possible to see through the thickness of the privet hedge, nor from any other point, without being seen.
"You must have imagined it!" he exclaimed.
"I did not imagine that bracelet," Beth replied.
"Well, even if I did give her the bracelet," he said, "you're not going to be nasty-minded enough to insinuate that there was anything in that!"
"There was deceit in it," Beth answered, "and in your whole attitude towards that girl while she was under this roof. If we act so that we cannot be open and honest about our dealings with people, then there must be something wrong. Life would be intolerable if it had to be lived among people any one of whom, while professing friendship for us, was deceiving us in some vital particular. From the moment that we act on our own inclinations rather than up to what the noblest of our friends expect of us, we have gone wrong. But you and I are both young enough, Dan, to put the past behind us, and forget it. Let us start together afresh in another place, where there will be no evil associations, nothing to vex us by reminding us of unhappy days; and let us be loyal to each other, and honest and open in every act, making due allowance for each other, and doing our best to help and please each other. We shall be happy, I am sure. You will see we shall be very happy."
Dan took his cigar out of his mouth, and flicked the ash from the end of it with his little finger: "You'd have me give up my appointment here, I suppose, and the half of my income with it?"
"Most of all I would have you give up your appointment here," she answered earnestly. "No honest woman can endure to have her husband pandering to vice. It would not be so much of a sacrifice either," she added, "for the next session will end this iniquity."
"Thanks to the influence of you cursed women," he exclaimed.
"Thanks to our influence, yes," she answered dispassionately, "and to some sense of justice in men."
"If you knew how men talk about women who meddle in these matters," he said, "you would keep out of them, I think."
"Oh, I know the kind of thing they say," she answered, smiling; "but the people you mean have no influence nowadays. The blatant protest of the debauched against our demand for a higher standard of life is not the voice of the community. It is the cry of those who feel their existence threatened, who only live upon lies, and must be extinguished when the inevitable day of reckoning comes which shall expose them. Even now the kind of man who catches at every straw of opinion which shall secure to him his sacred carnal rights, at no matter what cost of degradation and disease to women, is out of date, and we pay no attention to him."
"Oh, women!" Dan jeered. "That is all very fine! But who the devil cares what women think?"
"Now don't be old-fashioned, Dan," Beth answered, laughing. "When women only did what they were told, men used to vow at their feet that there was nothing they couldn't accomplish, their influence was so great. But now that women have proved that what they choose to do they can do, men sneer at their pretensions to power, and try to depreciate them by comparing the average woman with men in the front rank of their professions. Really, men are disheartening."
The evening calm had deepened about them, a big bright star was shining above the belt of trees, and waves of perfume from the flowers made the air a delight to inhale.
"What a heavenly night!" Beth pursued. "Who would live in London when they might be here?"
"Well, that's consistent!" he exclaimed, "after entreating me to leave the place!"
"This is not the only peaceful spot in the world," she said with a little sigh; "and I would rather live in London even than have you here in an invidious position. Dan, give it up, there's a good fellow! and learn to look on life from this newer, wider point of view. You will find interests and pleasures in it you have never even suspected, I assure you, and you will never regret it."
"For the life of me," he said again, throwing the end of his cigar into the bushes with an irritated jerk of his arm, – "for the life of me, I cannot see what you have to complain of; and I shall certainly not give up any bird in the hand for two such birds in the bush as you promise me." He rose as he spoke, and shook out first one leg and then the other to straighten his trousers. "I'm going out," he added. "I've a patient to see. Ta! ta! Take care of yourself."
Some little time after Beth's return, they were sitting at lunch together, and Maclure was reading a daily paper.
"Matters look bad for that fellow, Cayley Pounce," he observed.
"Why, what has he been doing?" Beth asked.
"Poking a fellow's eye out with his umbrella," Dan answered. "He was talking to a girl in the street one night, and got into a row with some roughs, and jabbed one in the eye with his umbrella, and the fellow died. The inquiry is now going on, and it's likely the coroner's jury will bring in a verdict of manslaughter against Mr. Cayley Pounce. His defence is that he wasn't anywhere near that part of London on that particular night, and it's a case of mistaken identity; but as he refuses to say where he was, and produces no evidence by way of an alibi, that story won't avail him much."
"What night was it?" said Beth.
"On the 30th, just after midnight," Dan read out of the paper.
"Why, that was the night he insisted on escorting me home from the theatre," Beth exclaimed. "He did not leave the Kilroys' until four o'clock in the morning."
"Then why on earth doesn't he say so?" Dan asked.
"I can't imagine," Beth said. "I let him out myself; everybody else had gone to bed. And I'm sure of the time, because I thought he was never going away, and I was tired; and I looked at the clock and said, 'It's four o'clock, and I must go to bed.'"
Dan's face had darkened. "Do you mean to say you were sitting up with him alone?" he demanded.
"Yes, for my sins!" Beth answered in a tone of disgust. "The Kilroys were out when I returned from the theatre, and did not come in till very late; and they went straight upstairs, supposing I had gone to bed. As a rule they come into the library first. So Mr. Cayley Pounce was left on my hands."
"Then," said Dan, pushing his plate away from him with a clatter, "it is obvious why he is holding his tongue. He is determined not to compromise you."
"Thank you!" said Beth, bridling. "I should think I am not so easily compromised."
"Gad!" Dan ejaculated, "I don't know what you call easily compromised! A man takes you home from a theatre, and stays with you alone till four o'clock in the morning; if that isn't compromising I don't know what is. No jury in the world would acquit you, and the fellow knows that perfectly well, and is holding his tongue to screen you."
"I should think it's a great deal more likely he's holding his tongue in order to get the credit of it," Beth observed drily. "It is a mere pose. He knows I shall have to come forward to clear him if he doesn't explain himself. I suppose I must go at once and stop the case; but if it were not for his wife I declare I should hesitate. What is the form of procedure? You will come with me, of course?"
"I go with you!" Dan exclaimed brutally, "and see you make a public exhibition of yourself, and bring disgrace on my name in a court of justice! I'm damned if I do! And what's more, if you go, you don't return to this house. I've too much self-respect for that. You hadn't much of a reputation when I married you, and if you lose the little you've got, you can go and I shall divorce you. My wife must be above suspicion."
Beth folded her serviette slowly while he was speaking, and, when he stopped, she rose from the table.
"It is unfortunate for me," she said, "that the Kilroys have gone abroad. They know the man and the facts of the case, and would have advised me. In their absence I must do what seems right without advice. I cannot see that I have any choice in the matter. You could make it perfectly easy for me by supporting me; if you do not support me I must go alone. I shall pack up and go to town at once in order to appear in court to-morrow morning, and I shall telegraph to Roberts, the Kilroys' butler, to meet me there, and confirm my story. There are the coachman and footman too, and the police constable – witnesses enough, in all conscience."
"You are determined to go?" Dan demanded angrily.
"I must go," she rejoined.
"It is going to the devil, then," said Dan deliberately; "and I always said you would. Remember, you don't return to this house!"
When Beth arrived in town, she found that there would be no need to appear in the case at all, for the Kilroys' old butler Roberts had seen the name of Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce in the papers, and had unwittingly frustrated his manœuvre by going to the coroner's court himself and volunteering to give evidence. He was accompanied by the footman who had been out with the carriage on the night in question, and the two together had no difficulty in proving an alibi. Thus, in an ordinary commonplace manner, what had promised to be the triumph of his life, the moment when he should stand confessed to the world a chivalrous gentleman, sacrificing himself to save a lady of prepossessing appearance, was converted into another of the many failures of Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce. This ended the case so far as he and Beth were concerned; but with regard to Dan, Beth recognised that her position remained the same. There was no return for her from the step she had taken, and she would have to begin her life anew.
CHAPTER L
Beth went out into the world alone, knowingly and willingly. The prospect had no terrors for her, neither did she feel any regret for the past. She took it all as a matter of course. The days with Dan at Slane were over, but life had still to be lived, and she set to work to arrange it and live it to the best of her ability; what she most urgently felt being merely that there were things she must see to at once and settle about, and that she was rather pushed for time. The first thing she did in London was to buy a map so that she might find her way about economically, and some newspapers recommended to her by the stationers as likely to have advertisements of respectable lodgings in them. She studied these over a cup of coffee and a roll, cut all the promising addresses out of the papers, found on the map the best way to go by omnibus or railway, and then set off on her quest, taking the red Hammersmith 'bus first of all, and explored West Kensington. Her efforts in that direction were not successful. Everything she saw at first was dear, dingy, and disheartening. Landladies, judging her by her appearance, would only show her their best rooms. When she explained that all she wanted was a nice, clean, roomy attic because she was poor, they became suspicious, and declared that she wasn't likely to get anything of that sort in a good neighbourhood. Beth wondered what the bad neighbourhoods were like if the one she was in were a good one. Later in the afternoon she found herself on the Bayswater side in a street of tall houses off the main thoroughfare. They were good houses, that must have been built for the families of affluent people, and Beth was afraid it would be useless to ask at any of them for the modest kind of accommodation which was all she could afford. While she hesitated, however, standing in the street before the one she had come to find, the hall-door opened, and a young man came out. He and Beth looked at each other as he ran down the steps, and Beth saw something so attractive in his face that she spoke to him without hesitation.
"Can you tell me," she said, "if they have any attics to let at a moderate price in this house?"
"Well, I got one out of them," he said, smiling, "and I guess there's another empty that would just about hold you, dress boxes and all. I'll ring the bell, if you'll allow me, and get Ethel Maud Mary to show you up. You'll make a better bargain with her than with her ma."
The door was opened at this moment by a grimy servant.
"Gwendolen, will you give my compliments to Miss Ethel, if you please," the young man said with grave formality, "and ask her if she will be so good as to speak to me here for a moment."
Gwendolen nodded and retired to the back regions, whence presently a plump, fair-complexioned, yellow-haired young person came hurrying with a look of inquiry on her face.
"Oh, Miss Ethel," the young man began, taking off his hat, "I'm real sorry to trouble you, but I want to introduce this young lady. I've been recommending her to get a room here. I know she'll find you moderate and comfortable, and the situation is one of the best for getting into town."
Beth recognised the wording of the advertisement that had brought her to the house.
"It is handy," Miss Ethel agreed. "But we've nothing but an attic unlet. Are you in Art, miss?"
"No, Literature," Beth answered, with presence of mind.
"Lady's, I suppose?" Ethel Maud Mary observed, meaning lady's papers, and glancing at Beth's dress. "You've got to be smart for that, and it doesn't leave much for living. Come this way, miss, please. And thank you, Mr. Brock, for mentioning us."
She led the way upstairs, talking all the time with cheerful inconsequence. "He's a real gentleman is Mr. Brock, as doubtless you know, though an American, and dry, and you never know which is his fun; and in Art, which is not much to reckon on, and that's why I thought that you might be, though you do look more like Fashion. Art is apt to be towzled, but why, goodness knows. You're not used to the stairs, I see. I wish it wasn't such a height up."
"Oh, I don't mind the height, if the price is proportionately low," Beth said. "I must live within my means, and keep out of debt, you know."
"That's a rhyme – low and you know. Did you do it on purpose?" Ethel Maud Mary asked with interest.
"No," said Beth.
"Then that's for luck," said Ethel. "You'll keep out of debt all right. I see it in your face. And I know a face when I see it. They'll keep you on the Lady's for the sake of your appearance, even if you're not much use. You're elegant and speak nice, and that's what they want to go about for them, particularly if it's a man."
"If what is a man?" Beth asked.
"The editor, you know. We 'ad a young lady here who used to say she'd undertake to get an extra half-sovereign out of any editor in town; but editresses there was no managing. Which is yours?"
"I don't know yet," said Beth. "I've only just arrived."
"What are you getting?"
"A pound a week," Beth answered, that being her exact income; "but I have a little by me besides, to keep me going till I get started, you know."
Ethel Maud Mary nodded her yellow head intelligently, and began to climb the narrow flight of stairs which led to the attics, moving her lips the while, as if she were making calculations. There was no carpet on this last flight of stairs, but the boards were well washed, and the attic itself smelt sweet and clean.
"This is it," Ethel explained. "Mr. Brock is in the other, next door. There's only two of them. This is the biggest room, but the other is north, and has the biggest window, and being in Art, he's got to think of the light. If you look out there to the right, you'll see some green in the Park. You'll like the Park. It's no distance if you're a walker. Now, just let's see. I've been calculating about the money. Mr. Brock pays fourteen shillings, but you'll not be able to afford more than seven out of a pound. You shall have it for seven."
"But surely that will be a loss to you!" Beth exclaimed.
Ethel sat herself down on the side of the bed and smiled up at her. "I'll not pretend we couldn't get more if we waited," she said; "but waiting's a loss, and we're doing very well downstairs, and can afford to pick and choose. You'll find in business that it pays better in the end to get a good tenant you can trust, who'll stay, than one who gives you double the amount for a month, and then goes off with the blankets."
"You don't deceive me a bit," said Beth, sitting down opposite to her on a cane-bottomed chair. "Your good-heartedness shines out of your face. But I'm not going to take a mean advantage of it. There's an honest atmosphere in this house that would suit me, I feel, and I am sure I shall do well here; but all the same I won't come unless you make a bargain with me. If I take the rooms for such a small sum now, while I am poor, will you let me make it up to you when I succeed? I shall succeed!" The last words burst from her involuntarily, forced from her with emphasis in spite of herself.
"That's what I like to hear; that's spirit, that is!" Ethel Maud Mary exclaimed, nodding approvingly. "You'll do all right. So it's a bargain. Washing's included, you know. You didn't bring your box, did you?"
"No, I left my luggage at Charing Cross when I arrived last night. I slept at the hotel," Beth answered.
"At the Charing Cross Hotel? Gracious! that must have cost you a small fortune."
"I didn't know what to do," Beth explained apologetically.
"You should have tried the Strand, Surrey Street, and there. You'd have got bed and breakfast for five shillings, and that's more than enough. However, it's no use crying over spilt milk. You'll have to fetch your luggage, I suppose. You can go by train from Nottinghill Gate to Charing Cross. It's about as cheap as the 'bus, and much quicker. I'll come with you, and show you the way, if you like. A breath of fresh air will do me good."
"Yes, do come," Beth answered gratefully, glad of the kindly human fellowship. "What is your name, may I ask?"
"Ethel Maud Mary Gill; and what is yours, if you please?"
"Elizabeth Caldwell Maclure."
Beth had emptied her secret chamber and packed all her little possessions before she left Slane. She had sometimes suspected that Dan would be glad of an excuse to get rid of her, to relieve himself of the cost of her keep; and that he would do it in some gross way, and so as to put all the blame of it upon her, if possible, she also expected. She was therefore prepared to consider the matter settled the moment he threatened her, and would have felt it useless to remonstrate even had she been inclined. But she was not inclined. She had for years done everything patiently that any one in any code of morality could expect of her in such a marriage, and no good had come of it. As Daniel Maclure was, so would he remain for ever; and to associate with him intimately without being coarsened and corrupted was impossible. Beth had fought hard against that, and had suffered in the struggle; but she had been lowered in spite of herself, and she knew it, and resented it. She was therefore as glad to leave Maclure as he was to get rid of her; and already it seemed as if with her married life a great hampering weight had fallen from her, and left her free to face a promising future with nothing to fear and everything to hope. Poverty was pleasant in her big bright attic, where all was clean and neat about her. There she could live serenely, and purify her mind by degrees of the garbage with which Dan's habitual conversation had polluted it.
The settling-in occupied her for some days, and the housekeeping was a puzzle when she first began. She had only been able to bring the most precious of her possessions, her books and papers, and clothes enough for the moment, away with her from Slane; the rest she had left ready packed to be sent to her when she should be settled. When she wrote to Maclure for them, she sent him some housekeeping keys she had forgotten to leave behind, and an inventory of everything she had had charge of, which she had always kept carefully checked. He acknowledged the receipt of this letter, and informed her that he had gone over the inventory himself, and found some of the linen in a bad state and one silver teaspoon missing. Beth replied that the linen had been fairly worn out, but she could not account for the missing spoon, and offered to pay for it. Dr. Maclure replied by return of post on a post-card that the price was seven shillings. Beth sent him a postal order for that amount. He then wrote to say that the cost of the conveyance of the luggage to the station was half-a-crown. Beth sent him half-a-crown, and then the correspondence ended. She received letters from some of her relations, however, to whom Maclure had hastened to send his version of the story. Poor old Aunt Grace Mary was the only one, who did not accept it. "Write and tell me the truth of the matter, my dear," she said. The others took it for granted that Beth could have nothing to say for herself, and her brother Jim was especially indignant and insulting, his opinion of her being couched in the most offensive language. Having lived with disreputable women all his life, he had the lowest possible opinion of the whole sex, his idea being that any woman would misconduct herself if she had the chance and was not well watched. He warned Beth not to apply to him if she should be starving, or to claim his acquaintance should she meet him in the street. Beth's cheeks burned with shame when she read this letter and some of the others she received, and she hastened to destroy them; but the horror they set up in her brought on a nervous crisis such as she had suffered from in the early days when Dan first brought her down to his own low level of vice and suspicion, and turned her deadly sick. She answered none of these letters, and, by dint of resolutely banishing all thought of them and of the writers, she managed in time to obliterate the impression; but she had to live through some terrible hours before she succeeded.