That autumn Beth was married to Daniel Maclure, M.D., &c., &c. At the
time of her marriage she hardly knew what his full name was. She had
always heard him called "the doctor" or "Dr. Dan," and had never
thought of him as anything else, nor did she know anything else about
him--his past, his family, or his prospects, which, considering her
age, is not surprising; but what did surprise her in after years, when
she discovered it, was to find that her friends who made the match
knew no more about him than she did. He had scraped acquaintance with
her brother Jim in a public billiard-room in Rainharbour, and been
introduced by him to the other members of her family, who, because his
address was good and his appearance attractive, had taken it for
granted that everything else concerning him was equally satisfactory.
Beth decided to keep her surname for her father's sake, and also
because she could not see why she should lose her identity because she
had married. Everybody said it was absurd of her; but she was
determined, and from the time of her marriage she signed herself
Elizabeth Caldwell Maclure.
Dan confided to Mrs. Caldwell that he was troubled by some few small
debts which he was most anxious to pay in order that he might start
his married life clear, and the poor lady generously reduced her
slender income by selling some shares to raise the money for him. When
he accepted it, his eyes filled with tears, as was usual with him in
moments of emotion.
"O mamma!" Beth exclaimed when she heard of the sacrifice, "how could
you? I do not deserve such generosity, for I have never been any
comfort to you; and I shall always be miserable about it, thinking how
badly you want the money."
"There will be one mouth less to feed when you have gone, you know,
Beth," Mrs. Caldwell answered bravely, "and I shall be the happier for
thinking that you start clear. Debt crushed us our whole married life.
I shall be the easier if I know you haven't that burden to bear.
Besides, Dan will repay me as soon as he can. He is a thoroughly good
fellow."
"You shall be repaid, mamma, in more ways than one, if I live," Beth
vowed.
Uncle James Patten doled out a five-pound-note to Beth by way of a
wedding present from the long rent-roll her mother should have
inherited.
"This is to help with your trousseau, but do not be extravagant," he
said in his pleasant way. "As the wife of a professional man, you
will descend from my class to the class below, the middle class, and
you should dress according to your station. But you are doing as well
as we could expect you to do, considering your character and conduct.
Some doubted if you would ever receive an offer of marriage, or have
the sense to accept it if one were made you; but I always said you
would have the doctor if he would have you."
Beth's impulse was to throw the note at him, but she restrained
herself on her brother Jim's account. It was suspected that Uncle
James was only waiting for a plausible excuse to disinherit Jim; and
he found it the next time Jim stayed at Fairholm. They were in the
drawing-room together one day, and a maid was mending the fire. Uncle
James was sitting at a writing-table with a mirror in front of him,
and he declared that in that mirror he distinctly saw his nephew chuck
the maid-servant under the chin, which was conduct such as Mr. James
Patten could not be expected to tolerate in his heir; so he altered
his will, and after that all communication ceased between the two
families, except such as Aunt Grace Mary managed to keep up
surreptitiously.
Aunt Grace Mary was very generous to Beth, and so also was old Lady
Benyon. Had it not been for these two, Beth would have left home
ill-provided for. Thanks to them, however, she was spared that
humiliation, and went with an ample outfit.
In the days preceding her marriage, Beth sometimes thought of
Charlotte, and of the long fiction of that wonderful time when they
were friends. Her busy brain had created many another story since
then, but none that had the fascination of that first sustained
effort. Hector's mysterious establishment on the other side of the
headland, the troubles in Spain, the wicked machinations of their
enemies, the Secret Service of Humanity, the horses, yacht, and useful
doctor--who had not held a high place in their estimation, being
merely looked upon as a trustworthy tool of Hector's; yet it was he
whom Beth was to marry. She wondered what Charlotte would think of her
when she heard it, and of Hector and the whole story; but she never
knew, for Charlotte was at school in France during this period, and
never came into Beth's life again.
During the early days of her married life a sort of content settled
upon Beth; a happy sense of well-being, of rest and satisfaction, came
to her, and that strange vague yearning ache, the presence of which
made all things incomplete, was laid. The atmosphere in which she now
lived was sensuous, not spiritual, and although she was unaware of
this, she felt its influence. Dan made much of her, and she liked
that; but the vision and the dream had ceased. Her intellectual
activity was stimulated, however, and it was not long before she
began to think for herself more clearly and connectedly than she had
ever done before.
They spent the first few weeks in London in a whirl of excitement,
living at sumptuous restaurants, and going to places of amusement
every night, where Beth would sit entranced with music, singing,
dancing, and acting, never taking her eyes from the stage, and
yearning in her enthusiasm to do the same things herself--not doubting
but that she could either, so perfectly had she the power to identify
herself with the performers, and realise, as from within, what their
sensations must be.
When she had been in London as a girl at school, she had seen nothing
but the bright side of life, the wholesome, happy, young side. A poor
beggar to be helped, or a glimpse in the street of a sorrowful face
that saddened her for a moment, was the worst she knew of the great
wicked city; but now, with Dan for a companion, the realities of vice
and crime were brought home to her; she learnt to read signs of
depravity in the faces of men and women, and to associate certain
places with evil-doers as their especial haunts. Her husband's
interest in the subject was inexhaustible; he seemed to think of
little else. He would point out people in places of public amusement,
and describe in detail the loathsome lives they led. Every
well-dressed woman he saw he suspected. He would pick out one because
she had yellow hair, and another because her two little children were
precocious and pretty, and declare them to be "kept women." That a
handsome woman could be anything but vicious had apparently never
occurred to him. He was very high-minded on the subject of sin if the
sinner were a woman, and thought no degradation sufficient for her. In
speaking of such women he used epithets from which Beth recoiled. She
allowed them to pass, however, in consideration of the moral
exasperation that inspired them, and the personal rectitude his
attitude implied. The subject had a horrible kind of fascination for
her; she hated it, yet she could not help listening, although her
heart ached and her soul sickened. She listened in silence, however,
neither questioning nor discussing, but simply attending; collecting
material for which she had no use at the moment, and storing it
without design--material which she would find herself forced to turn
to account eventually, but in what way and to what purpose there was
no knowing as yet.
They were to live at Slane, an inland town near Morningquest, where
modern manufactures had competed successfully with ancient
agricultural interests, and altered the attitude of the landed gentry
towards trade, and towards the townspeople, beguiling them to be less
exclusive because there was money in the town, self-interest weighing
with them all at once in regard to the neighbours whom Christian
precept had vainly urged them to recognise.
Dr. Maclure had taken an old-fashioned house in a somewhat solitary
position on the outskirts of Slane, but near enough to the town to
secure paying patients, as he hoped, while far enough out of it to
invite county callers. It stood just on the highroad, from which it
was only divided by a few evergreen shrubs and an iron railing; but it
was picturesque, nevertheless, with creepers--magnolia, wisteria, and
ivy--clustering on the dark red bricks. At the back there was a good
garden, and in front, across the road, were green meadows with
hedgerows--a tangle of holly, hawthorn, and bramble--and old trees,
surviving giants of a forest long uprooted and forgotten. It was a
rich and placid scene, infinitely soothing to one fresh from the
turmoil of the city, and weary of the tireless motion, the incessant
sound and tumult of the sea. When Beth looked out upon the meadows
first, she sighed and said to herself, "Surely, surely one should be
happy here!"
The house was inconveniently arranged inside, and had less
accommodation than its outside pretensions promised; but Beth was
delighted with it all, and took possession of her keys with pride. She
was determined to be a good manager, and make her housekeeping money
go a long way. Her dream was to save out of it, and have something
over to surprise Dan with when the bills were paid. To her chagrin,
however, she found that she was not to have any housekeeping money at
all.
"You are too young to have the care of managing money," said Dan.
"Just give the orders, and I'll see about paying the bills."
But the system did not answer. Beth had no idea what she ought to be
spending, and either the bills were too high or the diet was too low,
and Dan grumbled perpetually. If the housekeeping were at all frugal,
he was anything but cheery during meals; but if she ordered him all he
wanted, there were sure to be scenes on the day of reckoning. He
blamed her bad management, and she said nothing; but she knew she
could have managed on any reasonable sum to which he might have
limited her. She had too much self-respect to ask for money, however,
if he did not choose to give it to her.
It surprised her to find that what he had to eat was a matter of great
importance to him. He fairly gloated over things he liked, and in
order to indulge him, and keep the bills down besides, she went
without herself; and he never noticed her self-denial. He was apt to
take too much of his favourite dishes, and was constantly regretting
it. "I wish I had not eaten so much of that cursed _vol au vent_; it
never agrees with me," he would say; but he would eat as much as ever
next time. Beth could not help observing such traits. She did not set
them down to his personal discredit, however, but to the discredit of
his sex at large. She had always heard that men were self-indulgent,
and Dan was a man; that was the nearest she came to blaming him at
first. Being her husband had made a difference in her feeling for him;
before their marriage she was not so tolerant.
Her housekeeping duties by no means filled her day. An hour or so in
the morning was all they occupied at most, and the time must have hung
heavy on her hands had she had no other pursuit to beguile her.
Fortunately she had no intention of allowing her plans for the
improvement of her mind to lapse simply because she had married. On
the contrary, she felt the defects of her education more keenly than
ever, and expected Dan to sympathise with her in her efforts to remedy
them. He came in one day soon after they were settled, and found her
sitting at the end of the dining-room table with her back to the
window and a number of books spread out about her.
"This looks learned," he said. "What are you doing?"
"I am looking for something to study," she answered. "What writers
have helped you most?"
"Helped me most!--how do you mean?"
"Well, helped you to be upright, you know, to make good resolutions
and keep straight."
"Thank you," he said; "I have not felt the need of good resolutions,
and this is the first hint I have had that I require any. If you will
inquire among my friends, I fancy you will find that I have the credit
of going pretty straight as it is."
"O Dan!" Beth exclaimed, "you quite misunderstand me. I never meant to
insinuate that you are not straight. I was only thinking of the way in
which we all fall short of our ideals."
"Ideals be hanged!" said Dan. "If a man does his duty, that's ideal
enough, isn't it?"
"I should think so," Beth said pacifically.
Dan went to the mantelpiece, and stood there, studying himself with
interest in the glass. "A lady told me the other day I looked like a
military man," he said, smoothing his glossy black hair and twisting
the ends of his long moustache.
"Well, I think you look much more military than medical," Beth
replied, considering him.
"I'm glad of that," he said, smiling at himself complacently.
"Are you?" Beth exclaimed in surprise. "Why? A medical man has a finer
career than a military man, and should have a finer presence if
ability, purpose, and character count for anything towards
appearance. Personally I think I should wish to look like what I am,
if I could choose."
"So you do," he rejoined, adjusting his hat with precision as he
spoke, and craning his neck to see himself sideways in the glass. "You
look like a silly little idiot. But never mind. That's all a girl need
be if she's pretty; and if she isn't pretty, she's of no account, so
it doesn't matter what she is."
When he had gone, Beth sat for a long time thinking; but she did no
more reading that day, nor did she ever again consult Dan about the
choice of books, or expect him to sympathise with her in her work.
For the first few months of her married life, she had no pocket-money
at all. Aunt Grace Mary slipped two sovereigns into her hand when they
parted, but these Beth kept, she hardly knew why, as she had her
half-year's dividend to look forward to. About the time that her money
was due, Dan began to talk incessantly of money difficulties. Bills
were pressing, and he did not know where on earth to look for a
five-pound-note. He did not think Beth too young to be worried
morning, noon, and night on the subject, although she took it very
seriously. One morning after he had made her look anxious, he suddenly
remembered a letter he had for her, and handed it to her. It was from
her lawyer, and contained a cheque for twenty-five pounds, the
long-looked-forward-to pocket money.
"Will this be of any use to you?" Beth asked, handing him the cheque.
His countenance cleared. "Of use to me? I should think it would!" he
exclaimed. "It will just make all the difference. You must sign it,
though."
When she had signed it, he put it in his pocket-book, and his spirits
went up to the cheery point. He adjusted his hat at the glass over the
dining-room mantelpiece, lit a shilling cigar, and went off to his
hospital jauntily. Beth was glad to have relieved him of his anxiety.
She half hoped he might give her something out of the cheque, if it
were only a pound or two, she wanted some little things so badly; but
he never offered her a penny. She thought of Aunt Grace Mary's two
sovereigns, but the dread of having nothing in case of an emergency
kept her from spending them.
There was one thing Dan did which Beth resented. He opened her
letters.
"Husband and wife are one," he said. "They should have no secrets from
each other. I should like you to open my letters, too, but they
contain professional secrets, you see, and that wouldn't do."
He spoke in what he called his cheery way, but Beth had begun to feel
that there was another word which would express his manner better, and
now it occurred to her.
"You have no right to open my letters," she said; "and being facetious
on the subject does not give you any."
"But if I chose to?" he asked.
"It will be a breach of good taste and good feeling," she answered.
No more was said on the subject, and Dan did not open her letters for
a little, but then he began again. He had always some excuse,
however--either he hadn't looked at the address, or he had been
impatient to see if there were any message for himself, and so on; but
Beth was not mollified although she said nothing, and her annoyance
made her secretive. She would watch for the postman, and take the
letters from him herself, and conceal her own, so that Dan might not
even know that she had received any.
She had a difficulty with him about another matter too. His lover-like
caresses while they were engaged had not been distasteful to her; but
after their marriage he kept up an incessant billing and cooing, and
of a coarser kind, which soon satiated her. She was a nicely balanced
creature, with many interests in life, and love could be but one among
the number in any case; but Dan almost seemed to expect it to be the
only one.
"Oh dear! must I be embraced again?" she exclaimed one day, with quite
comical dismay on being interrupted in the middle of a book that was
interesting her at the moment.
Dan looked disconcerted. In his cheerful masculine egotism it had not
occurred to him that Beth might find incessant demonstrations of
affection monotonous. He would smile at pictures of the waning of the
honeymoon, where the husband returns to his book and his dog, and the
wife sits apart sad and neglected; it was inevitable that the man
should tire, he had other things to think of; but that the wife should
be the first to be bored was incredible, and worse: it was unwomanly.
Dan went to the mantelpiece, and stood looking down into the fire, and
his grey-green eyes became suffused.
"Have I hurt you, Dan?" Beth exclaimed, jumping up and going to him.
"Hurt me!" he said, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, "that is not
the word for it. You have made me very unhappy."
"Oh!" said Beth, her own inclinations disregarded at once, "I _am_
sorry!"
But he had satiated her once for all, and she never recovered any zest
for his caresses. She found no charm or freshness in them, especially
after she perceived that they were for his own gratification,
irrespective of hers. The privileges of love are not to be wrested
from us with impunity. Habits of dutiful submission destroy the power
to respond, and all that they leave to survive of the warm reality of
love at last is a cold pretence. By degrees, as Beth felt forced to be
dutiful, she ceased to be affectionate.
Although Dan dressed to go out with scrupulous care, he took no
trouble to make himself nice in the house. Care in dress was not in
him a necessary part and expression of a refined nature, but an
attempt to win consideration. He never dressed for dinner when they
were alone together. It was a trouble rather than a refreshment to him
to get rid of the dust of the day and the associations of his
walking-dress. This was a twofold disappointment to Beth. She had
expected him to have the common politeness to dress for her benefit,
and she was not pleased to find that the punctiliousness he displayed
in the matter on occasion was merely veneer. It was a defect of
breeding that struck her unpleasantly. They had been poor enough at
home, but Beth had been accustomed all her life to have delicate china
about her, and pictures and books, to walk on soft carpets and sit in
easy-chairs; possessions of a superior class which, in her case, were
symbols bespeaking refinement of taste and habits from which her soul
had derived satisfaction even while her poor little fragile body
starved. She dressed regularly and daintily herself, and Dan at the
bottom of the table in his morning coat was an offence to her. She
said nothing at first, however, so his manners still further
deteriorated, until one night, after she had gone to her room, he
walked in with his hat on, smoking a cigar. It was this last
discourtesy that roused her to rebel.
"This is my bedroom," she said significantly.
"I know," he answered.
"You know--yet you keep your hat on, and you are smoking," she
proceeded.
"Why," he rejoined, "and if I do, what then? I know ladies who let
their husbands smoke in bed."
"Probably," she said. "I have heard of more singularly coarse things
than that even. But I am accustomed to pure air in my room, and I must
have it."
"And suppose I should choose to stay here and smoke?" he said.
"Of course I could not prevent you," she answered; "but I should go
and sleep in another room."
"H'm," he grunted. "You're mighty particular."
But he went away all the same, and did not appear there again either
with his hat on or smoking a cigar.
Beth suffered miserably from the want of proper privacy in her life.
She had none whatever now. It had been her habit to read and reflect
when she went to bed, to prepare for a tranquil night by setting aside
the troubles of the day, and purifying her mind systematically even as
she washed her body; but all that was impossible if her husband were
at home. He would break in upon her reading with idle gossip, fidget
about the room when she wished to meditate, and leave her no decent
time of privacy for anything. He had his own dressing-room, where he
was secure from interruption, but never had the delicacy to comprehend
that his presence could be any inconvenience to Beth. And it was worse
than an inconvenience. It was a positive hardship--never to be sure of
a moment alone.
One afternoon, when she had locked herself in her bedroom, he came and
turned the handle of the door noisily.
"Open the door," he said.
"Do you want anything?" she asked.
"Open the door," he repeated.
She obeyed, and he came in, and glanced round suspiciously.
"What were you doing?" he asked.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "this is intolerable!"
"What is intolerable?" he demanded.
"This intrusion," she replied. "I want to be alone for a little; can't
you understand that?"
"No, I cannot understand a wife locking her husband out of her room,
and what's more, you've no business to do it. I've a legal right to
come here whenever I choose."
Then Beth began to realise what the law of man was with regard to her
person.
"I never intrude upon you when you shut yourself up," she
remonstrated.
"Oh, that is different," he answered arrogantly. "I may have brainwork
to do, or something important to think about There is no comparison."
Beth went to her dressing-table, sat down in front of it, folded her
hands, and waited doggedly.
He looked at her for a little; then he said, "I don't understand your
treatment of me at all, Beth. But there's no understanding women." He
spoke as if it were the women's fault, and to their discredit, that he
couldn't understand them.
Beth made no answer, and he finally took himself off, slamming the
door after him.
"Thank goodness!" Beth exclaimed. "One would think he had bought me."
Then she sat wondering what she should do. She must have some corner
where she would be safe from intrusion. He had his consulting-room, a
room called his laboratory, a surgery, and a dressing-room, where no
one would dream of following him if he shut the door; she had
literally not a corner. She left her bedroom, and walked through the
other rooms on the same floor as she considered the matter; then she
went up to the next floor, where the servants slept. Above that again
there was an attic used as a box-room, and she went up there too. It
was a barn of a place, supported by pillars, and extending apparently
over the whole of the storey below. The roof sloped to the floor on
either side, and the whole place was but ill-lighted by two small
windows looking to the north. Dr. Maclure had taken over the house as
it stood, furniture and all, from the last occupants, by whom this
great attic had evidently been used as a lumber-room. There were
various pieces of furniture in it--tables, chairs, and drawers, some
broken, some in fair condition. At the farther end, opposite to the
door, there was a pile of packing-cases and travelling-trunks. Beth
had always thought that they stood up against the wall, but on going
over to them now, she discovered that there was a space behind. The
pile was too high for her to see over it, but by going down on her
hands and knees where the sloping roof was too low for her to stoop,
she found she could creep round it. It was the kind of thing a child
would have done, but what was Beth but a child? On the other side of
the pile it was almost dark. She could see something, however, when
she stood up, which looked like a mark on the whitewash, and on
running her hand over it she discovered it to be a narrow door flush
with the wall. There was no handle or latch to it, but there was a key
which had rusted in the keyhole and was not to be turned. The door was
not locked, however, and Beth pushed it open, and found herself in a
charming little room with a fireplace at one end of it, and opposite,
at the other end, a large bow window. Beth was puzzled to understand
how there came to be a room there at all. Then she recollected a sort
of tower there was at the side of the house, which formed a deep
embrasure in the drawing-room, a dressing-room to the visitor's room,
and a bath-room on the floor above. The window looked out on the
garden at the back of the house. A light iron balcony ran round it,
the rail of which was so thickly covered with ivy that very little of
the window was visible from below. Beth had noticed it, however, only
she thought it was a dummy, and so also did Dan. The little room
looked bright and cosy with the afternoon sun streaming in. It seemed
to have been occupied at one time by some person of fastidious taste,
judging by what furniture remained--a square Chippendale table with
slender legs, two high-backed chairs covered with old-fashioned
tapestry, and a huge mahogany bookcase of the same period, with glass
doors above and cupboards below. The high white mantelpiece, adorned
with vases and festoons of flowers, was of Adam's design, and so also
was the dado and the cornice. The walls were painted a pale warm pink.
A high brass fender, pierced, surrounded the fireplace, and there were
a poker, tongs, and shovel to match, and a small brass scuttle still
full of coals. There were ashes in the grate, too, as if the room had
only lately been occupied. The boards were bare, but white and
well-fitting, and in one corner of the room there was a piece of
carpet rolled up.
Beth dropped on to one of the dusty chairs, and looked round.
Everything about her was curiously familiar, and her first impression
was that she had been there before. On the other hand, she could
hardly believe in the reality of what she saw, she thought she must be
dreaming, for here was exactly what she had been pining for most in
the whole wide world of late, a secret spot, sacred to herself, where
she would be safe from intrusion.
She went downstairs for some oil for the lock, and patiently worked at
it until at last she succeeded in turning the key. Then, as it was too
late to do anything more that day, she locked the door, and carried
the key off in her pocket triumphantly.
Half the night she lay awake thinking of her secret chamber; and as
soon as Dan had gone out next morning, and she had done her
housekeeping, she stole upstairs with duster and brush, and began to
set it in order. All her treasures were contained in some old trunks
of Aunt Victoria's which were in the attic, but had not been unpacked
because she had no place to put the things. Dan had seen some of these
treasures at Rainharbour, and considered them old rubbish, and, not
thinking it likely that there would be anything else in the boxes, he
had taken no further interest in them. He would have liked to have
left them behind altogether, and even tried to laugh Beth out of what
he called her sentimental attachment to odds and ends; but as most of
the things had belonged to Aunt Victoria, she took his ridicule so ill
that he wisely let the subject drop. He had been somewhat hasty in his
estimation of the value of the contents of the boxes, however, for
there were some handsome curios, a few miniatures and pictures of
great artistic merit, some rare editions of books, besides laces,
jewels, brocades, and other stuffs in them.
When Beth had swept and dusted, she put down the carpet. Then she
began to unpack. Among the first things she found were the old French
books, a quarto Bible with the Apocrypha in it, Shakespeare in several
volumes, and her school-books and note-books; some ornaments, some
beautiful old curtains, and a large deep rug, like a Turkey carpet, in
crimson and green and purple and gold, worked by Aunt Victoria. This
she spread before the fireplace. The doorway she covered with a
curtain, and two more she hung on either side of the window, so that
they could not be seen from below. Her books of reference, desk,
note-books, and writing materials she put on the table, arranged the
ornaments on the mantelpiece, and hung the miniatures and pictures on
the walls. Then she sat down and looked about her, well pleased with
the whole effect. "Now," she exclaimed, "I am at home, thank God! I
shall be able to study, to read and write, think and pray at last,
undisturbed."