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.
Once settled in her attic home, she returned to the healthy, regular,
industrious habits which had helped her so much in the days when she
had been at her best. Her life was of the simplest, but she had to do
almost everything for herself, such time as Gwendolen could command
for attendance being wholly insufficient to keep the attic in order.
Her daily duties kept her in health, however, by preventing indolence
either of mind or body, and so were of infinite use. She had added a
few things to the scanty furniture of her attic--a new bath, a
second-hand writing-table, book-shelves with a cupboard beneath for
cups, saucers, and glasses, and a grandfather chair--all great
bargains, as Ethel Maud Mary assured her. Ethel Maud Mary's kindness
was inexhaustible. She took Beth to the second-hand shop herself, and
showed her that the writing-table and book-shelves would be as good as
new when they were washed and rubbed up a bit; and all the grandfather
chair wanted was a new cretonne cover at sixpence a yard--four yards,
two shillings, and she could make it herself. She also advised Beth to
buy a little oil-stove, the only one she knew of that really didn't
smell if you attended to it yourself; and a tin to hold oil for
it--crystal oil at sevenpence a gallon, the best.
"You can do all you want with that, and keep yourself warm enough too
when the weather's bad," she said; "and there's no waste, for you can
turn it out when you've done with it. Fires are too dear for you at
sixpence a scuttle for coals, and they're dirtier besides, and a
trouble to light and look after. You'll find it as good as a lamp,
too, if you're doing nothing particular at night."
When Beth had made a cosy corner of the window for work, arranged her
books, put her ornaments about on mantelpiece and brackets, hung her
pictures and the draperies she had used in her secret chamber, spread
the rugs and covered the grandfather chair, her attic looked inviting.
The character of her little possessions gave the poor place a
distinction which enchanted Ethel Maud Mary.
Beth fetched up the water overnight for her bath in the morning, and
made coffee for her breakfast on the little oil-stove. She lived
principally on bread and butter, eggs, sardines, salad, and slices of
various meats bought at a cook-shop and carried home in a paper.
Sometimes, when she felt she could afford it, she had a hot meal at an
eating-house for the good of her health; but she scarcely required it,
for she never felt stronger in her life, and so long as she could get
good coffee for her breakfast and tea for her evening meal, she missed
none of the other things to which she had been accustomed. She made
delicious coffee in a tin coffee-pot, and brewed the best tea she had
ever drunk in brown earthenware, which Ethel Maud Mary considered the
best thing going for tea. She used to join Beth in a cup up in the
attic, but she never came empty-handed. Dull wet days, likely to be
depressing, were the ones on which her yellow head appeared oftenest
at the top of the attic stairs.
"Miss Maclure, may I come in?" she would say, after knocking.
And Beth would answer, rising from her work with a smile of welcome,
"Yes, by all means. I'm delighted to see you. You take the big chair
and I'll make the tea. I'm dying for a cup."
Then Ethel Maud Mary would uncover something she held in her hand,
which would prove to be cakes, or hot buttered toast and watercresses,
or a bag of shrimps and some thin bread and butter; and Beth,
sparkling at the kindness, would exclaim, "I never was so spoilt in my
life!" to which Ethel Maud Mary would rejoin, "There'll not be much to
boast about between two of us."
Beth was busy with another book by this time, but found the work more
of a task and less of a pleasure than it used to be. Ethel Maud Mary
still took it for granted that she was a journalist, and showed no
interest in her work beyond hoping that she got her pay regularly, and
would soon be making more. Beth wondered sometimes when the little
book which had been accepted in the summer would appear, and what she
would get for it, if anything, and she thought of inquiring, but she
put it off. Her new work took all her time and strength, and wearied
her, so that nothing else seem to signify.
Besides Ethel Maud Mary and Gwendolen, the only person she had to talk
to was Arthur Milbank Brock, the young American, her neighbour in the
next attic. She met him coming upstairs with his hat in his hand soon
after her instalment, and was even more attracted by his face than she
had been when she first saw him in the street.
"You've settled in by this time, I hope," he said.
"Yes, and very comfortably too, thanks to you," Beth answered.
"Ah, Ethel Maud Mary's a good sort," he replied, "golden hair, blue
eyes, and all. She has the looks of a lady's novel and the heart of a
holy mother. Her grammar and spelling are defective, but her sense is
sound. I wouldn't give much for her opinion of a work of art, but I'd
take her advice in a difficulty if it came anywhere within range of
her experience. She knows this world well, but picks her steps through
it in such a way that I guess she'll reach the threshold of the next
with nice clean shoes."
He stepped aside for Beth to pass when he had spoken, and stood a
moment watching her thoughtfully as she descended. "And may you too,"
he said to himself as he turned to go up, then, perceiving that the
hope implied a doubt, he began to wonder whence it came.
As Beth went out, she reflected on his face, on a certain gravity
which heightened its refinement. It was a young face, but worn, as by
some past trial or present care, and with an habitually sober
expression which contrasted notably with the cheery humour of his
speech, adding point to it, as is frequently the case with his
countrymen. He wore his thick brown hair rather longer than is usual,
but was clean shaven. His features were delicate and regular, his
eyes deep and dark, his head large and finely formed. In figure he was
tall and slim, and in his whole appearance there was something almost
ethereal, as of a young poet or philosopher still moving among his
fellow-men, yet knowing himself to be prematurely smitten, set apart,
and consecrated to death, by some insidious slow disease from which
there is no escape. This was Beth's first notion of him, but she
always hoped it was fanciful. She thought about him a good deal in the
solitary walks which were her principal recreation. When she was tired
of working or wanted to think, she used to go out and wander alone. At
first she was afraid to venture far, for she had always been assured
that she had no head for topography, and would never be able to find
her way; and so long as she went about under escort, with some one to
save her the necessity of observing, she never knew where she was.
Now, however, that she had to look after herself, she found no
difficulty after her first timidity wore off; and this little
experience taught her why it is that the intelligence of women seems
childishly defective as regards many of the details of the business of
life. They have the faculty, but when they are not allowed to act for
themselves, it remains imperfectly developed or is altogether
atrophied for want of exercise.
It was in these days of peace that the ugly downward droop of the
corners of Beth's mouth, which had always spoilt the expression of her
face, entirely disappeared, and her firm-set lips softened into
keeping with the kindliness of her beautiful grey eyes; but she still
wanted much loving to bring out the natural tenderness which had been
so often and so cruelly nipped back in its growth. Beth had been born
to be a woman, but circumstances had been forcing her to become a
career. Strangely enough, some of the scenes she saw during her
rambles in London helped to soften her. While she was under her
husband's influence, she saw the evil only, and was filled with
bitterness. London meant for her in those days the dirt and squalor of
the poor, the depravity of the rich, the fiendish triumph of the lust
of man, and the horrible degradation of her own sex; but now that her
mind was recovering its tone, and she could see with her own eyes, she
discovered the good at war with the evil, the courage and kindliness
of the poor, signs of the growth of better feeling in the selfish and
greedy rich, the mighty power of purity at war with the license of
man, and the noble attitude of women wherever injustice was rife, the
weak oppressed, and the wronged remained unrighted; then her heart
expanded with pity, and instead of the torment of unavailing hate, she
began to revive in the glow of strengthening gleams of hope. It was in
those days too that she learnt to appreciate the wonder and beauty of
the most wonderful and beautiful city ever seen; and her eyes grew
deep from long looking and earnest meditating upon it. She
occasionally experienced the sickening sensation of being followed
about by one of those specimens of mankind so significantly called
"sly dogs" by their fellow-men. They made themselves particularly
objectionable in Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park; but she found that
an appeal to a policeman or a Park-keeper, or to any decent workman,
was enough to stop the nuisance. Genuine respect for women, which is
an antidote to the moral rottenness that promotes the decay of
nations, and portends the indefinite prolongation of the life of a
race, is of slow growth, but it is steadily increasing among the
English-speaking peoples.
During her rambles, Beth composed long letters to her friends, but
somehow none of them were ever written. She had managed to send a few
hurried lines of explanation to Mrs. Kilroy in the midst of her
packing before she left Slane. As she had not known where she would
be, she had asked Angelica to address her letters to Slane to be
forwarded; but no reply had come as yet, and Beth was just a little
sore and puzzled about it. However, she knew that, what with her
public and private duties, Angelica was overwhelmed with work, and
might well have overlooked the fact that she had not answered Beth's
letter, so Beth determined to write again. Time passed, however, and
she got into such a groove of daily duties that anything outside the
regular routine required a special effort which she always postponed,
and letters were quite outside the regular routine. After the first no
one wrote to her except the old lawyer who sent her half-yearly
dividend; and she had written to no one. She had dropped altogether
out of her own world, yet, because of her work and of her power to
interest herself in every one about her, and to appreciate the
goodness of her humblest friends, her life was full, and she had not
known a moment's discontent. Little things were great pleasures now.
To be able to get on the top of an omnibus at Piccadilly Circus when
the sun was setting, and ride to Hammersmith Broadway, engrossed in
watching the wonderful narrow cloudscape above the streets, changing
from moment to moment in form and colour; the mystery of the hazy
distances, the impression of the great buildings and tall irregular
blocks of houses appearing all massed together among the trees from
different points of view, and taking on fine architectural effects,
now transformed into huge grey palaces, large and distinct, now
looming in the mist, sketchily, with uncertain outlines, and all the
fascination of the fabrics, innocent of detail, that confront the
dreamer in enchanted woods, or lure him to the edge of fairy lakes
with twinkling lights all multiplied by their own reflection in the
water. Beth had rolled in that direction in luxurious carriages often,
and never joyed in the scene, her mind being set on other
things--things prosaic, such as what she should wear, or whether she
was late, scraps of society gossip, conversations which had satiated
without satisfying her, and remained in her mind to be items of
weariness if not of actual irritation. She had noticed in those days
how very seldom she saw a happy face in a carriage, unless it was a
very young face, full of expectation. Even the very coachmen and
footmen in the Park looked enervated, as the long lines of carriages
passed in wearisome procession. And in everything there had been that
excess which leaves no room for healthy desire. At first, the shop
windows, set out with tasteless profusion, no article in the
heterogeneous masses telling, however beautiful, each being eclipsed
by the other in the horrible glut, had interested her, and she had
looked at everything. But she soon sickened at the sight. The vast
quantities of things, crowded together, robbed her of all pleasure of
choice, and made her feel as if she had eaten too much. Occasionally
she would see two or three things of beauty displayed with art in a
large window; but everywhere else excessive quantity produced
indifference, disgust, or satiety, according to the mood of the
moment. And even in the days of her poverty and obscurity, when her
faculties were sharpened into proper appreciation by privation, those
congested windows teeming with jewels, with wearing apparel, with all
things immoderately, set up a sort of mental dyspepsia that was
distressing, and she was glad to turn away to relieve the consequent
brain-fag. But by degrees she became accustomed to the tasteless
profusion. It did not please her any better, but at all events it did
not afflict her by always obtruding itself upon her attention. She saw
it, not in detail, but as a part of the picture; and she found in the
new view of London and of London life from the top of omnibuses more
of the unexpected, of delight, of beauty for the eyes and of matter
for the mind, of humour, pathos, poetry, of tragedy and comedy,
suggestive glimpses caught in passing and vividly recollected, than
she could have conceived possible when she rolled along with society
on carriage cushions, soothed by the stultifying ease into temporary
sensuous apathy.
Winter set in suddenly and with terrible severity that year. London
became a city of snow, cruelly cold, but beautiful, all its ugliness
disguised by the white mantle, all its angles softened, all its charms
enhanced. Commonplace squares, parks, gardens, and dirty streets were
transformed into fairyland by the delicate disposition of snow in
festoons on door-post and railing, ledge and lintel, from roof to
cellar. The trees especially, all frosted with shining filigree, were
a wonder to look upon; and Beth would wander about the alleys in
Kensington Gardens, and gaze at the glory of the white world under the
sombre grey of the murky clouds, piled up in awesome magnificence,
until she ached with yearning for some word of human speech, some way
to express it, to make it manifest.
She returned one afternoon somewhat wet and weary from one of her
rambles. The little window of her attic was half snowed up, and the
gloom under the sloping roof struck a chill to her heart as she
entered; but when she had lighted the lamp (a new investment that
helped up the temperature besides giving light), and set her little
oil-stove going with the kettle on it, her surroundings took on an air
of homely comfort that was grateful. As she busied herself preparing
the tea, she noticed that her neighbour in the next attic was coughing
a good deal, and then it occurred to her that she had not seen him
about lately, and she wondered if he could be ill. The thought of a
young man of small means, ill alone in a London lodging, probably
without a bell in the room, and certainly with no one anxious to
answer it if he should ring, though not cheering, is stimulating to
the energy of the benevolent, and Beth went downstairs to ask as soon
as the notion occurred to her.
"Mr. Brock? there now!" Gwendolen exclaimed in dismay. "If I didn't
forget altogether! I've so much to see to, and the missus ill in bed
with bronchitis, and Miss Ethel run off her feet, and not too fit
'erself with that cold as 'ud be called influenza if it wasn't for
frightening the lodgers. Whatever it is, it's going through the 'ouse,
and Mr. Brock seems to have got it bad. 'E ast me when I went wiv 'is
shyving-water this morning to tike 'im some coals and mike 'im some
tea, an' I never thought no more about it--I clean forgot."
"This morning!" Beth cried. "Why that was at eight o'clock, and now it
is four!"
"I'll get 'em at once," Gwendolen said with contrition. But the girl
herself looked worn to death. She had been on her feet since early
morning, and had no prospect of a rest till she dropped on her bed
late at night, too exhausted to undress.
"Never mind," Beth said. "Give me the coals, and I'll carry them up,
and see to the rest. I have nothing else to do."
"Bless you," Gwendolen muttered.
Beth found Mr. Brock in bed, with bright eyes, and burning spots of
colour on each cheek. A lamp was burning beside him. When he saw who
it was, he raised his eyebrows; but smiled at the same time, as if he
were both surprised and pleased. The room struck cold to Beth.
"What! no fire?" she exclaimed.
"I tried to light the pesky thing," he said, "but it wouldn't burn."
"Gwendolen forgot you altogether," Beth said. "She has far too much to
do, poor girl, and I have only just heard that you were ill. Why
didn't you call me?"
He smiled again.
"We are all of the same family here, you know," Beth said, "the great
human family. You had only to say 'Sister!' and I should have come."
The smile faded from his lips, but it was replaced by another
expression, which, when she saw it, caused Beth to ejaculate inwardly,
"Surely of such are the Kingdom----"
Each had seen in the other's face at the same time something there is
no human utterance to describe, and, recognising it, had reverently
held their peace.
Beth fetched her oil-stove first, with the kettle on it, and, while
the water was boiling, she cut bread and butter and lighted the fire.
"We'll have tea together, if you please," she said cheerfully. "I've a
horrible suspicion that you've had nothing to eat or drink all day."
Her sympathy recalled his pleasant, patient smile.
"My appetite is not devouring," he said, "but my thirst is. Talk about
selling one's birthright! I'd sell my brains, I believe, for a cup of
tea at this moment."
"There's a bowl full for nothing, then," Beth rejoined. "Sip it while
I boil you an egg."
He took the bowl in both hands and tried the tea.
"Oh!" he exclaimed with a long-drawn sigh, "it's nectar! it's mead!
it's nepenthe! it's all the drinks ever brewed for all the gods in
one! But I'm afraid to touch it lest I should finish it."
"Don't be afraid, then," said Beth, "for you'll find it like liquor
for the gods in another respect; it will be to be had whenever you
want it. What's the matter?"
"Did I make lament?" he asked. "I didn't know it. But I'm all one
ache. I can't lie still for it, and I can't move without adding to it.
I've been watching the ice-floes on the river from the Embankment and
bridges by all lights lately; I never saw finer effects--such colour!
It's wonderful what colour there is under your sombre sky if you know
how to look for it; and it has the great advantage over the colour
other countries teem with of being unexpected. It's not obvious; you
have to look out for it; but when you have found it, you rejoice in it
as in something rare and precious, and it excites you to enthusiasm
beyond your wont--which should prevent chills, but it doesn't, as
witness my aches."
Beth felt his hand and found it dry and burning.
"The doctor is the next and only thing for you, young man, after this
frugal meal," she said, "and I'll go and fetch him. I hope to goodness
these are the right things to give you."
He objected to the doctor, but she paid no attention to his
remonstrance, and when she had done all she could think of for the
moment, she put on her wet boots and walking things again, got the
address of a good man from Ethel Maud Mary, and sallied out into the
snow once more.
Rheumatic fever was the doctor's diagnosis, and his directions to Beth
concluded with a long list of expensive medical comforts which it
seemed were absolutely necessary. She went out again when he had gone,
and brought back everything, toiling up the long flights of stairs
with both arms full, breathless but cheerful; and having set all in
order for use--sheets of medicated cotton-wool, medicines, Valentine's
extract, clinical thermometer and chart--she settled herself to watch
the patient, the clock, and the temperature of the room, which had to
be equable, with the exactness and method of a capable nurse. Before
the household retired, she went downstairs to fetch more coals,
fearing they might run short in the night.
"He's 'ad one scuttle to-day," Gwendolen reminded her, warningly.
"He must have two more, then, if necessary," said Beth.
"They're sixpence a scuttle, you know," Gwendolen remonstrated.
"Two for a shilling, and no charge for delivery," said Beth as she
toiled up the long ascent once more with her heavy burden.
"Eh! it would be a gay glad world if they all took it like you,"
Gwendolen muttered, as she stood, with the pencil in her mouth,
studying the slate that hung outside the coal-cellar, and let her
generosity war with her accuracy and honesty for a little before she
made two more strokes on the line that began with the name of Brock;
and no sooner done than regretted.
"I wish to goodness I'd put 'em down to old Piggot and Mother
Hauseman," she thought. "They'd never miss the money, and it 'ud be a
good deed for the likes of them to help their betters, and might
likely profit their own souls, though unbeknown."
For many weeks Beth watched beside the sick man's bed, doing all that
was possible to ease his pain day and night, snatching brief intervals
of rest when she could, and concealing her weariness at all times. She
used to wonder at the young man's uncomplaining fortitude, his
gentleness, gratitude, and unselfish concern about her fatigue. Even
when he was at his worst, he would struggle back to consciousness in
order to entreat her to lie down; and when, to please him, she had
settled herself on a little couch there was in his room, he would make
a superhuman effort to keep still as long as his flickering
consciousness lasted. There was only one thing he was ever exacting
about--to keep her in sight. So long as he could see her he was
satisfied, and would lie for hours, patiently controlling himself for
fear of disturbing her by uttering exclamations or making other signs
of suffering; but when she had to leave him alone, he broke down and
moaned in his weakness and pain for her to come back and help him.
The doctor having declared that the north-east aspect of his attic was
all against the patient, Beth insisted on changing with him, and, as
soon as he could be moved, she, Ethel Maud Mary, and Gwendolen, with
the doctor's help, carried him into her room in a sheet; an awkward
manoeuvre because of his length, which made it hard to turn him on
the narrow landing; his weight was nothing, for he was mere skin and
bone by that time--all eyes, as Beth used to tell him.
It was Christmas Eve when they moved him, and late that night Beth kept
her vigil by him, sitting over the fire with her elbows on her knees and
her face between her hands, listening dreamily to the clang and clamour
of the church-bells, which floated up to her over the snow, mellowed by
distance and full-fraught with manifold associations. As she sat there she
pondered. She thought of the long way she had drifted from the days when
she knelt in spirit at the call of the bells and lost herself in happy
prayer. She thought of her husband's hypocrisy, and the way in which, when
it dawned upon her, her own faith had melted from her; and she pondered on
the difference it would have made if only she had been married early--just
to a good man. It would not have been necessary for her to have loved
him--not with passion--only to have relied upon him. Some one to trust,
she craved for, more than some one to love; yet she allowed that a
loveless marriage is a mock marriage. She did not regret the loss of her
conventional faith, but she wished she could join the congregation just
for the human fellowship. She felt the need of union, of some central
station, a centre of peace, unlike the church, the house of disunion.
Without knowing it, she leant to Quaker-Catholicism, the name assumed
for her religious principles by Caroline Fox--Quaker-Catholicism having
direct spiritual teaching for its distinctive dogma.
"What are you thinking about?" Arthur Brock said suddenly from the
bed.
Beth started. She thought he was asleep.
"God," she said; with a gasp, "and going to church," she added,
laughing at her own abruptness. "I was wanting a church to go to."
"You don't belong to the Established Church, then," he said. "Well, I
don't go to church myself; but I make a difference on Sundays. I don't
work, and I read another kind of book. It is my day for the plains of
heaven. I should like to be there all the time, if I could manage it;
but I can't, not being a monk in a cell. When I can, I make the
ascent, however, with the help of the books that take one there."
"I used to read religious books too," said Beth; "but I found little
illumination in them, most of them being but the dry husks of the
subject, uninformed of the spirit, containing no vital spark, and
stained with blood."
"How?" he exclaimed.
"This God of the Hebrews," Beth began, looking dreamily into the fire,
"what is his history? He loved cruelty and bloodshed. The innocent
animals first suffered in his service; but, not content with that, he
went from bad to worse, as men do, and ended by demanding human
sacrifice, the sacrifice of his own son. And for that specially we are
required to adore him, although it must be clear to the commonest
capacity to-day that the worship of such a deity is devil-worship. I
do not say there is no God; I only say this is not God--this
blood-lover, this son-slayer, this blind omniscience, this impotent
omnipotence, this merciful cruelty, this meek arrogance, this peaceful
combatant; this is not God, but man. The mind of man wars with the
works of God to mar them. Man tries to make us believe that he is made
in the image of God; but what happened was just the reverse. Man was
of a better nature originally, a more manifold nature. He had
intellect for a toy to play with on earth, and spirit for a power to
help him to heaven. But instead of toiling to strengthen his spirit,
he preferred to play with his intellect; and he played until he became
so expert in the use of it, and so interested in the game, that he
forgot his origin. And then it was that he projected an image of
himself into space, and was so delighted with his own appearance from
that point of view, that he called it God and fell down and worshipped
it. If you would understand man, consider God; if you would know his
God, study man."
Arthur Brock reflected for a little.
"What you say sounds real smart," he said at last, "and there's a kind
of glamour in your words that dazzles and prevents one seeing just how
much they mean at first. It is true that religion culminates in human
sacrifice both here and in Africa, and, for refinement of horror, we
have here the literal bloody sacrifice of a son by his father. But
that is not God, as you say; that is the ultimate of the priest. And
the priest is the same at all times, in all ages, beneath all veneers
of civilisation. His credit depends upon a pretence to power. He is
not a humble seeker after truth, but a bigoted upholder of error and
an impudent time-server. He destroys the scientific discoverer in one
age; in the next he finds his own existence is threatened because he
refuses to acknowledge that the discoverer was right; then he
confesses the truth, and readjusts his hocus-pocus to suit it. He does
not ask us to pin our faith to fancies which seem real to a child in
its infancy, yet he would have us credulous about those which were the
outcome of the intellectual infancy of the race. What he can't get
over in himself is the absence of any sense of humour. I'm real sorry
for him at times, and I tell him so."
Beth smiled. "I could not be so kindly courteous," she said. "Some
things make me fierce. The kingdom of heaven is or is not within us, I
believe; and half the time I know it is not in me, because there is no
room for anything in me but the hate and rage that rend me for horror of
all the falsehood, injustice, and misery I know of and cannot prevent. A
sense of humour would save the church perhaps; but I'm too sore to see
it. All I can say is: your religion to me is horrifying--human sacrifice
and devil-worship, survivals from an earlier day welded on to our own
time, and assorting ill with it. I would not accept salvation at the
hands of such futile omnipotence, such cruel mercy, such blood-stained
justice. The sight of suffering was grateful to man when the world was
young, as it still is to savages; but we revolt from it now. We should
not be happy in heaven, as the saved were said to be in the old tales,
within sight of the sinners suffering in hell."
"Which is to say that there is more of Christ in us now than there was
in the days of old," he said, speaking dispassionately, and with the
confident deliberation of one who takes time to think. "I believe
those old tales were founded on muddle-headed confusion of mind in the
days when dreams were as real to mankind as the events of life. There
are obscure tribes still on earth who cannot distinguish between what
they have done and what they have only dreamt they did, and probably
every race has gone through that stage of development. I don't know if
excessive piety be a disease of the nerves, as some say, although what
is piety in one generation does appear to be perversity in the next,
as witness the sons of the clergy, and other children of pious people,
who don't answer to expectation, as a rule. And I don't go much on
churches or creeds, or faith in this personality or that. The old
ideas have lost their hold upon me, as they have upon you; but that is
no reason why we should give up the old truths that have been in the
world for all time, the positive right and wrong, which are facts, not
ideas. I believe that there is good and evil, that the one is at war
with the other always; and that good can do no evil, evil no good.
I've got beyond all the dogma and fiddle-faddle of the intellect with
which the church has overlaid the spirit, and all the ceremonial so
useful and necessary for individual souls in early stages of
development. I used to think if I could find a religion with no blood
in it, I would embrace it. Now I feel sure that it does not matter
what the expression of our religious nature is so that it be
religious. Religion is an attitude of mind, the attitude of prayer,
which includes reverence for things holy and deep devotion to them. I
would not lose that for anything--the right of appeal; but now, when I
think of our Father in heaven, I do not despise our mother on earth."
Beth sat some time looking thoughtfully into the fire. "Go to sleep,"
she said at last, abruptly. "You ought not to be talking at this time
of night."
"I wish you would go to sleep yourself," he said, as he settled
himself obediently; "for I lose half the comfort of being saved, while
you sit up there suffering for me."
The expression was not too strong for the strain Beth had to put upon
herself in those days; for she had no help. Ethel Maud Mary and
Gwendolen felt for her and her patient, as they said; but there of
necessity their kindness ended. The other lodgers kept Gwendolen for
ever running to and fro; each seemed to think she had nobody else to
look after, and it was seldom indeed that any of them noticed her
weariness or took pity on her. Beth did everything for herself,
fetched the coals from the cellar, the water from the bath-room, swept
and dusted, cleaned the grate, ran out to do the shopping, and
returned to do the cooking and mending. Ethel Maud Mary stole the time
to run up occasionally to show sympathy; but her own poor little hands
were overfull, what with her mother ill in bed, both ends to be made
to meet, and lodgers uncertain in money matters. She lost all her
plumpness that winter, her rose-leaf complexion faded to the colour of
dingy wax, and her yellow hair, so brightly burnished when she had
time to brush it, became towzled and dull; but her heart beat as
bravely-kind as ever, and she never gave in.
She climbed up one day in a hurry to Mr. Brock's room, which Beth
occupied, snatching a moment to make inquiries and receive comfort;
and as soon as she entered she subsided suddenly on to a chair out of
breath.
"How you do it a dozen times a day, Miss Maclure, I can't think," she
gasped.
"Those stairs have taught me what servants suffer," Beth said, as if
that, at all events, were a thing for which to be thankful.
"You'd not have driven 'em, even if you hadn't known what they
suffer," said Ethel Maud Mary. "That's the worst of this world. All
the hard lessons have got to be learnt by the people who never needed
them to make them good, while the bad folk get off for nothing."
"I don't know about not needing them," said Beth. "But I do know this:
that every sorrowful experience I have ever had has been an advantage
to me sooner or later."
"I wish I could believe that Ma's temper would be an advantage to me,"
Ethel Maud Mary said, sighing; "she's that wearing! But there, poor
dear! she's sick, and there's no keeping the worries from her. There's
only you and Mr. Brock in the house just now that pays up to the day,
so you may guess what it is! He's getting on nicely now, I suppose;
but you shouldn't be sitting here in the cold. A shawl don't make the
difference; it's the air you breathe; and you ought to have your
oil-stove going. Isn't the fire enough for him? I can't think so many
degrees it need be in his room always, when there's no degree at all
in yours."
"Oh, I'm hardy," said Beth. "I never was better."
"You look it," Ethel Maud Mary said sarcastically, "like a pauper just
out of prison. What are you worrying about?"
"Beef-tea," said Beth. And so she was, and bread and butter, fuel,
light, and lodging--everything, in fact, that meant money; for the
money was all but done, and she had had a shock on the subject lately
that had shaken her considerably.
She had spread out a newspaper to save the carpet, and was kneeling on
the floor, one morning, in front of the window, cleaning and filling
the little oil-stove, and Arthur was lying contentedly watching
her--"superintending her domestic duties," he used to call it, that
being all that he was equal to in his extreme weakness just then.
"You're a notable housekeeper," he said. "I shouldn't have expected
you from your appearance to be able to cook and clean as you do."
"I used to do this kind of thing as a child to help a lazy servant we
had, bless her," Beth answered. "The cooking and cleaning she taught
me have stood me in good stead."
"If you had a daughter, how would you bring her up?" he asked.
Beth opened the piece of paper with which she was cleaning the oil off
the stove, and regarded it thoughtfully. "I would bring her up in
happy seclusion, to begin with," she said. "She should have all the
joys of childhood; and then an education calculated to develop all
her intellectual powers without forcing them, and at the same time to
fit her for a thoroughly normal woman's life: childhood, girlhood,
wifehood, motherhood, each with its separate duties and pleasures all
complete. I would have her happy in each, steadfast, prudent,
self-possessed, methodical, economical; and if she had the capacity
for any special achievement, I think that such an education would have
developed the strength of purpose and self-respect necessary to carry
it through. I would also have her to know thoroughly the world that
she has to live in, so that she might be ready to act with discretion
in any emergency. I should, in fact, want to fit her for whatever
might befall her, and then leave her in confidence to shape her own
career. The life for a woman to long for--and a man too, I think--is a
life of simple duties and simple pleasures, a normal life; but I only
call that life normal which is suited to the requirements of the
woman's individual temperament."
"You don't clamour for more liberty, then?"
"It depends upon what you mean by that. The cry for more liberty is
sometimes the cry of the cowardly anxious to be excused from their
share of the duties and labours of life; and it is also apt to be a
cry not for liberty but for licence. One must discriminate."
"But how?"
"By the character and principles of the people you have to deal
with--obviously."
She had lighted her little oil-stove by this time, and set a saucepan
of water on it to boil. Then she fetched a chopping board and a piece
of raw beef-steak, which she proceeded to cut up into dice and put
into a stone jar until it was crammed full. Her sensitive mouth showed
some shrinking from the rawness, and her white fingers were soon dyed
red; but she prepared the meat none the less carefully for that. When
the jar was filled and the contents seasoned, she put it in the pot on
the stove for the heat to extract the juice.
"What is it going to be to-day?" he asked.
"Beef-jelly," she said. "You must be tired of beef-tea."
"I'm tired of nothing you do for me," he rejoined. "This is the
homiest time I've had in England."
Beth smiled. In spite of poverty, anxiety, and fatigue, it was the
"homiest time" she had had since Aunt Victoria's death, and she loved
it. Now that she had some one she could respect and care for dependent
on her, whose every look and word expressed appreciation of her
devotion, the time never hung heavily on her hands, as it used to do
in the married days that had been so long in the living. It was all as
congenial as it was new to her, this close association with a man of
the highest character and the most perfect refinement. She had never
before realised that there could be such men, so heroic in suffering,
so unselfish, and so good; and this discovery had stimulated her
strangely--filled her with hope, strengthened her love of life, and
made everything seem worth while.
She went on with her work in silence after that last remark of his,
and he continued to watch her with all an invalid's interest in the
little details of his narrow life.
"It would be a real relief to me to be able to get up and do all that
for you," he finally observed. "I don't feel much of a man lying here
and letting you work for me."
"This is woman's work," Beth said.
"Woman's work and man's work are just anything they can do for each
other," he rejoined. "I wonder if I should get on any quicker with a
change of treatment. Resignation is generally prescribed for
rheumatism, and a variety of drugs which distract attention from the
seat of pain to other parts of the person, and so relieve the mind. My
head is being racked just now by that last dose I took. I should like
to try Salisbury."
"What is Salisbury?" Beth asked.
"Principally beef and hot water, to begin with," he replied. "You'll
find a little work on the subject among my books."
Beth read the volume, and then said, "You shall try Salisbury. It is
easy enough."
"Yes," he answered. "It is easy enough with a nurse like you."
But in order to carry out the treatment some things had to be bought,
and this led to the discovery which was a shock to Beth. Arthur's
income depended principally upon the pictures he sold, and no more
money came in after he fell ill. He had had some by him, but not
nearly so much as he supposed, and it was all gone now, in spite of
the utmost economy on Beth's part. Her own, too, was running short,
but she had not troubled about that, because she still had some of her
secret hoard to fall back upon. She had left it in one of the boxes
which were sent on after her from Slane--a box which she had not
opened until now, when she wanted the money. The money, however, was
not there. She searched and searched, but in vain; all she found was
the little bag that had contained it. She was stunned by the
discovery, and sat on the floor for a little, with the contents of the
box all scattered about her, trying to account for her loss. Then all
at once a vision of Maclure, as she had seen him on one occasion with
the bunch of duplicate keys, peering into her dress-basket with horrid
intentness, flashed before her; but she banished it resolutely with
the inevitable conclusion to which it pointed. She would not allow her
mind to be sullied by such a suspicion. And as to the money, since it
was lost, why should she waste her time worrying about it? She had
better set herself to consider how to procure some more. She had still
some of Arthur Brock's, but that she kept that she might be able to
tell him truthfully that it was not all done when he asked about it--a
pious fraud which relieved his mind and kept him from retarding his
recovery by attempting to begin work again before he was fit for it.
What money she had of her own would last but a little longer, and how
to get more was the puzzle.
Her evening dresses had been in the box which she had just unpacked,
and while she was still sitting on the floor amongst them cogitating,
Ethel Maud Mary came into the attic out of breath to ask how she was
getting on.
"Why," she exclaimed in admiration of Beth's finery, "you've got some
clothes! They'd fetch something, those frocks, if you sold them."
"Then tell me where to sell them, for money I must have," Beth
rejoined precipitately.
"And it's no use keeping gowns; they only go out of fashion," Ethel
Maud Mary suggested, as if she thought Beth should have an excuse.
"Gwendolen would manage it best. She's great at a bargain; and there's
a place not far from here. I'd begin with the worst, if I was you."
"Advise me, then, there's a dear," said Beth, and Ethel Maud Mary
knelt down beside her, and proceeded to advise.
Only a few shillings was the result of the first transaction; but the
better dresses had good trimmings on them, and real lace, which
fetched something, as Ethel Maud Mary declared it would, if sold
separately; so, with the strictest self-denial, Beth was still able to
pay her way and provide for the sick man's necessities.
From the time she put him on the Salisbury treatment, he suffered less
and began to gain strength; but the weather continued severe, and Beth
suffered a great deal herself from exposure and cold and privations of
all kinds. She used to be so hungry sometimes that she hurried past
the provision shops when she had to go out, lest she should not be
able to resist the temptation to go in and buy good food for herself.
If her sympathy with the poor could have been sharpened, it would have
been that winter by some of the sights she saw. Sometimes she was
moved by pity to wrath and rebellion, as on one occasion when she was
passing a house where there had evidently been a fashionable wedding.
The road in front of the house, and the red cloth which covered the
steps and pavement, were thickly strewed with rice, and on this a band
of starving children had pounced, and were scraping it up with their
bony claws of hands, clutching it from each other, fighting for it,
and devouring it raw, while a supercilious servant looked on as though
he were amused. Beth's heart was wrung by the sight, and she hurried
by, cursing the greedy rich who wallow in luxury while children starve
in the streets.
In a squalid road which she had often to cross there was a butcher's
shop, where great sides of good red beef with yellow fat were hung in
the doorway. Coming home one evening after dark, she noticed in front
of her a gaunt little girl who carried a baby on her arm and was
dragging a small child along by the hand. When they came to the
butcher's shop, they stopped to look up at the great sides of beef,
and the younger child stole up to one of them, laid her little hand
upon it caressingly, then kissed it. The butcher came out and ordered
them off, and Beth pursued her way through the mire with tears in her
eyes. She had suffered temptation herself that same evening. She had
to pass an Italian eating-house where she used to go sometimes, before
she had any one depending on her, to have a two-shilling dinner--a
good meal, decently served. Now, when she was always hungry, this was
one of the places she had to hurry past; but even when she did not
look at it, she thought about it, and was tormented by the desire to
go in and eat enough just for once. Visions of thick soup, and fried
fish with potatoes, and roast beef with salad, whetted an appetite
that needed no whetting, and made her suffer an ache of craving
scarcely to be controlled. That day had been a particularly hungry
one. The coffee was done, every precious tea-leaf she had to husband
for Arthur, and the butter had also to be carefully economised because
a good deal was required for his crisp toast, which was unpalatable
without it. Beth lived principally on the crusts she cut off the
toast. When they were very stale, she steeped them in hot water, and
sweetened them with brown sugar. This mess reminded her of Aunt
Victoria's bread-puddings, and the happy summer when they lived
together, and she learnt to sit upright on Chippendale chairs. She
would like to have talked to Arthur of those tender memories, but she
could not trust herself, being weak; the tears were too near the
surface.
That day she had turned against her crusts, even with sugar, and had
felt no hunger until she got out into the air, when an imperious
craving for food seized upon her suddenly, and she made for the
Italian restaurant as if she had been driven. The moment she got
inside the place, however, she recovered her self-possession. She
would die of hunger rather than spend two precious shillings on
herself while there was that poor boy at home, suffering in silence,
gratefully content with the poorest fare she brought him, always
making much of all she did.
Beth got no farther than the counter.
"I want something savoury for an invalid," she said.
That evening, for the first time, Arthur sat up by the fire in the
grandfather chair with a blanket round him, and enjoyed a dainty
little feast which had been especially provided, as he understood, in
honour of the event.
"But why won't you have some yourself?" he remonstrated.
"Well, you see," Beth answered, "I went to the Italian restaurant when
I was out."
"Oh, did you?" he said. "That's right. I wish you would go every day,
and have a good hot meal. Will you promise me?"
"I'll go every day that I possibly can," Beth answered, smiling
brightly as she saw him fall-to contentedly with the appetite of a
thriving convalescent. Practising pious frauds upon him had become a
confirmed habit by this time--of which she should have been ashamed;
but instead, she felt a satisfying sense of artistic accomplishment
when they answered, and was only otherwise affected with a certain
wonderment at the very slight and subtle difference there is between
truth and falsehood as conveyed by the turn of a phrase.
But now the money ran shorter and shorter; she had nothing much left
to sell; and it was a question whether she could possibly hold out
until her half-year's dividend was due. Perhaps the old lawyer would
let her anticipate it for once. She wrote and asked him, but while she
was waiting for a reply the pressure became acute.
Out of doors one day, walking along dejectedly, wondering what she
should do when she came to her last shilling, her eye rested on a
placard in the window of a fashionable hairdresser's shop, and she
read mechanically: "A GOOD PRICE GIVEN FOR FINE HAIR." She passed on,
however, and was half-way down the street before it occurred to her
that her own hair was of the finest; but the moment she thought of it,
she turned back, and walked into the hairdresser's shop in a
business-like way without hesitation. A gentleman was sitting beside
the counter at one end of the shop, waiting to be attended on; Beth
took a seat at the other end, and waited too. She sat there, deep in
thought and motionless, until she was roused by somebody saying, "What
can I do for you, miss?"
Then she looked up and saw the proprietor, a man with a kindly face.
"Can I speak to you for a moment?" she asked.
"Come this way, if you please," he replied, after a glance at her
glossy dark-brown hair and shabby gloves.
When she went in that day, Arthur uttered an exclamation.
"Do you mean to say you've had your hair cut short?" he asked,
speaking to her almost roughly. "Are you going to join the unsexed
crew that shriek on platforms?"
"I don't know any unsexed crew that shriek on platforms," she
answered, "and I am surprised to hear you taking the tone of cheap
journalism. There has been nothing in the woman movement to unsex
women except the brutalities of the men who oppose them."
He coloured somewhat, but said no more--only sat looking into the fire
with an expression on his face that cut Beth to the quick. It was the
first cloud that had come to overshadow the perfect sympathy of their
intercourse. She was getting his tea at the moment, and, when it was
ready, she put it beside him and retired to his attic, which she
occupied, and looked at herself in the glass for the first time since
she had sacrificed her pretty hair. At the first glance, she laughed;
then her eyes filled with tears, and she threw herself on the bed and
sobbed silently--not because she regretted her hair, but because he
was hurt, and for once she had no comfort to give him.
Just after she left him, an artist friend of his, Gresham Powell, came
in casually to look him up, and was surprised to find he had been so
ill.
"I missed you about," he said, "but I thought you had shut yourself up
to work. Who's been looking after you?"
Brock gave him the history of his illness.
Powell shook his head when he heard of Beth's devotion.
"Take care, my boy," he said. "The girls you find knocking about town
in these sort of places are not desirable associates for a promising
young man. They're worse than the regular bad ones--more likely to
trap you, you know, especially when you're shorn of your strength and
have good reason to be grateful. You might think you were rewarding
her by marrying her; but you'll find your mistake. Look at Simpson!
Could a man have done a girl a worse turn than he did when he married
Florrie Crone? They haven't a thought in common except when he's ill
and she nurses him; but a man can't be always getting ill in order to
keep in touch with his wife. I don't know, of course, what this girl's
like; but half of them are adventuresses bent on marrying gentlemen.
Is she a clergyman's daughter, by any chance?"
"I know nothing about her but her name," Brock answered coldly. "She
has never tried to excite sympathy in any way."
"Well, they are of all kinds, of course," said Powell temperately.
"But you'd better break away in any case. Nothing will set you up so
soon as a change. Come with me. I'm going into the country to see the
spring come in, and the fruit trees flower, and to hear the
nightingales. I know a lovely spot. Come!"
"I'll think about it, and let you know," Arthur Brock answered to get
rid of him.
When he had gone Beth appeared. To please Arthur, she had covered her
cropped head with a white muslin mob-cap bound round with a pale pink
ribbon, and put on a high ruffle and a large white apron, in which she
looked pretty and prim, like a sweet little Puritan, in spite of the
pale pink vanity; and Arthur smiled when he saw her, but afterwards
grumbled: "Why did you cut your pretty hair off? I shouldn't have
thought you could do such a tasteless thing."
Beth knelt down beside his chair to mend the fire, and then she began
to tidy the hearth.
"Am I not the same person?" she asked.
"No, not quite," he answered. "You have set up a doubt where all was
settled certainty."
She had taken off the gloves she wore to do the grate, and was about
to pull herself up from her knees by the arm of his chair when he
spoke, but paused to ponder his words. It was with her left hand that
she had grasped the arm of his chair, and he happened to notice it
particularly as it rested there.
"You wear a wedding-ring, I see," he remarked. "Do you find it a
protection?"
"I never looked at it in that light," she answered. "In this vale of
tears I have a husband. That is why I wear it."
There was a perceptible pause, then he asked with an effort, "Where is
your husband?"
"At home, I suppose," said Beth, her voice growing strident with
dislike of the subject. "We do not correspond. He wishes to divorce
me."
"And what shall you do if he tries?" Brock asked.
"Nothing," she replied, and was for leaving him to draw his own
conclusions, but changed her mind. "Shall I tell you the story," she
said after a while.
"No, don't tell me," he rejoined quickly. "Your past is nothing to me.
Nothing that you may have done, and nothing that you may yet do, can
alter my feeling--my respect for you. As I have known you, so will you
always be to me--the sweetest, kindest friend I ever had, the best
woman I ever knew."
Men are monotonous creatures. Given a position, and ninety-nine out of
a hundred will come to the same conclusion about it, only by diverse
methods, according to their prejudices; and this is especially the
case when women are in question. Woman is generally out of focus in
the mind of man; he sees her less as she is than as she ought or ought
not to be. Beth did not thank Arthur Brock for his magnanimity. The
fact that he should shrink from hearing the story bespoke a doubt that
made his generous expression an offence. It may be kind to ignore the
past of a guilty person, but the innocent ask to be heard and judged;
and full faith has no fear of revelations.
Beth rose from her knees, and began to prepare the invalid's evening
meal in silence. Usually they chattered like children the whole time,
but that evening they were both constrained. One of those subtle
changes, so common in the relations of men and women, had set in
suddenly since the morning; they were not as they had been with each
other, nor could they continue together as they were; there must be a
readjustment, which was in preparation during the pause.
"You have heard me speak of Gresham Powell?" Brock began at last. "He
was here this afternoon. He thinks I had better go away with him into
the country for a change as soon as I can manage it."
"It is a good idea," said Beth--"inland of course, not near the sea
with your rheumatism. I will get your things ready at once."
This immediate acquiescence depressed him. He played with his supper a
little, pretending to eat it, then forgot it, and sat looking sadly
into the fire. Beth watched him furtively, but once he caught her
gazing at him with concern.
"What's the matter?" he asked, with an effort to be cheerful.
"The matter is the pained expression in your eyes," she answered. "Are
you suffering again?"
"Just twinges," he said, then set his firm full lips, resolute to play
the man.
But the twinges were mental, not bodily, and Beth understood. Their
happy days were done, and there was nothing to be said. They must each
go their own way now, and the sooner the better. Fortunately the old
lawyer had consented without demur to let Beth have her half-year's
dividend in advance, so that there was money for Arthur. He expressed
some surprise that there should be, but took what she gave him without
suspicion, and did not count it. He was careless in money matters, and
had forgotten what he had had when he was taken ill.
"You're a great manager," he said to Beth. "But I suppose you haven't
paid up everything. You must let me know. It _will_ be good to be at
work again!"
"Yes," Beth answered; "but don't worry about it. You won't want money
before you are well able to make it."
"I wish I knew for certain that you would go somewhere yourself to see
the spring come in," he said, looking at her wistfully.
"All in good time," she answered in her sprightliest way.
When the last morning came, Beth attended to her usual duties
methodically. She had made every arrangement for him, packed the
things he was to take, and put away those that were to be left behind.
When the cab was called, she went downstairs with him, and stood with
Ethel Maud Mary and Gwendolen on the doorstep in the spring sunshine,
smiling and waving her hand to him as he drove off. Her last words to
him were, "You will go home before we meet again. Give my love to
America--and may she send us many more such men," Beth added under her
breath.
"Amen!" Ethel Maud Mary and Gwendolen echoed.
When the cab was out of sight, Beth turned and went into the house,
walking wearily. At the foot of the stairs she looked up as if she
were calculating the distance; then she began the long ascent with the
help of the banisters, counting each step she took mechanically. The
attic seemed strangely big and bare when she entered it--it was as if
something had been taken away and left a great gap. There was
something crude and garish about the light in it, too, which gave an
unaccustomed look to every familiar detail. The first thing she
noticed was the chair beside the fire, the old grandfather chair in
which he had been sitting only a few minutes before, resting after the
effort of dressing--the chair in which she had seen him sit and suffer
so much and so bravely. She would never see him there again, nor hear
his voice--the kindest voice she had ever heard. At his worst, it was
always of her he thought, of her comfort, of her fatigue; but all that
was over now. He had gone, and there could be no return--nothing could
ever be as it had been between them, even if they met again; but meet
again they never would, Beth knew, and at the thought she sank on the
floor beside the senseless chair, and, resting her head against it,
broke down and cried the despairing cry of the desolate for whom there
is no comfort and no hope.
The fire she had lighted for Arthur to dress by had gone out; there
were no more coals. The remains of his breakfast stood on the table;
she had not touched anything herself as yet. But she felt neither cold
nor hunger; she was beyond all that. The chair was turned with its
back to the window, and as she cowered beside it, she faced the
opposite whitewashed wall. A ray of sunshine played upon it, wintry
sunshine still, crystal cold and clear. Beth began to watch it. There
was something she had to think about--something to see to--something
she must think about--something she ought to see to, but precisely
what it was she could not grasp. It seemed to be hovering on the
outskirts of her mind, but it always eluded her. However, she had
better not move for fear of making a noise. And there was far too
much noise as it was--the wind rising and the waves breaking
"All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos----"
No, though; it was a procession of camels crossing the desert, and in
the distance was an oasis surrounded by palms, and there was white
stonework gleaming between the trees in the wonderful light. And those
great doors that opened from within? They were opening although she
had not knocked. She was expected, then--there, where there was no
more weariness, nor care, nor hunger. But that was not where she
wished to go. No! no! that did not tempt her.
"Take me where I shall not remember," she implored.
Poor Beth! the one boon she had to ask of Heaven at five-and-twenty
was oblivion: "Let me be where I shall forget."
Downstairs on the doorstep, Ethel Maud Mary and Gwendolen lingered a
while before they turned to follow Beth into the house, and, as they
did so, they noticed that a lady had stopped her carriage in the
middle of the road, jumped out impetuously, and was running towards
them, regardless of the traffic.
"That was Mrs. Maclure who was standing with you here just now and
went into the house?" she exclaimed.
"_Miss_ Maclure," Ethel Maud Mary corrected her.
"Oh, Miss or Mrs., what does it matter?" the lady cried. "It was
Elizabeth Caldwell Maclure looking like death--where is she? Take me
to her at once!" She emphasised the request with an imperious stamp of
her foot.
A few minutes later, Angelica, kneeling on the attic floor beside
Beth, cried aloud in horror, "Why, she is dead!"