The Beth Book
improves them away from their wives, and I object to the method; and I
do not ask her here either. Yet she comes. His wife I have much
sympathy with; but he keeps her in the country, out of the way, so I
see very little of her."
"What is his name?" Beth asked.
"Alfred Cayley Pounce."
"Why!" Beth exclaimed. "He must be a youth I knew long ago, when I was
a child. I was sure I had seen him before. But what a falling off! I
wondered if he were an old young man, or a young old man when I first
saw him. He was refined as a boy and had artistic leanings; I should
have thought he might have developed something less banal in the time
than a bald forehead."
"That kind of man spends most of his time in cultivating acquaintances,"
said Mr. Kilroy. "When he hasn't birth, his pose is usually brains. But
Pounce took a fair degree at the University. And he's not such a bad
fellow, really. He's precious, of course, and by way of being
literary--that is to say, he is literary to the extent of having written
some little things of no consequence, upon which he assumes the right to
give his opinion, with appalling assurance, of the works of other
people, which are of consequence. There is a perfect epidemic of that
kind of assurance among the clever young men of the day, and it's
wrecking half of them. A man who begins by having no doubt of the worth
of his own opinion gets no further for want of room to move in."
Next day Beth was alone in a sunny sitting-room at the back of the
house, looking out into grounds common to the whole square. It was
about tea-time. The windows were wide open, the sunblinds were drawn
down outside, and the warm air, fragrant with mignonette, streamed in
over the window boxes. Angelica had given this room up to Beth, and
here she worked or rested; read, wrote, or reflected, as she felt
inclined; soothed rather than disturbed by the far-off sounds of the
city, and eased in mind by the grace and beauty of her surroundings.
For the room was a work of art in itself, an Adams room, with carved
white panels, framing spaces of rich brocade, delicately tinted, on
the walls; with furniture chosen for comfort as well as elegance, and
no more of it than was absolutely necessary, no crowding of chairs and
tables, no congestion of useless ornaments, no plethora of pictures,
putting each other out--only two, in fact, one a summer seascape, with
tiny waves bursting on shining sands; the other a corner of a
beautiful old garden, shady with trees, glowing with flowers, whence
two young lovers, sitting on an old stone seat, looked out with dreamy
eyes on a bright glimpse, framed in foliage, of the peaceful country
beyond. Angelica had thought that room out carefully for Beth, every
detail being considered, so that the whole should make for rest and
refreshment, and she had succeeded perfectly. Nothing could have eased
Beth's mind of the effect of her late experiences, or strengthened it
again more certainly, than the harmony, the quiet, and the convenience
of everything about her--books on the shelves, needlework on the
work-table, writing materials in abundance on the bureau, exquisite
forms of flowers, and prevailing tints of apple-blossom, white, and
pink, and green; music when she chose to play; comfort of couch and
chairs when she wished to repose; and, above all, freedom from
intrusion, the right to do as she liked gladly conceded, the respect
which adds to the dignity of self-respect, and altogether the kind of
independence that makes most for pleasure and peace. Before she had
been there three weeks she was happily released from herself by the
recovery of her power to work. She began to revise the book she had
thought so little of when it was first written. She had brought it to
town because it was not very bulky, rather than because she had any
hope of it; but when she took it out and read it here alone in peace,
it seized upon her with power, and, in her surprise, like Galileo, she
exclaimed: "But it does turn round!" The book was already "radiant
with inborn genius," but it still lacked the "acquired art," and
feeling this, she sat down to it regularly, and rewrote it from
beginning to end, greatly enriching it. She had no amateur impatience
to appear in print and become known; the thought of production induced
her to delay and do her utmost rather than to make indiscreet haste;
her delight was in the doing essentially; she was not one to glory in
public successes, however great, or find anything but a tepid
satisfaction therein compared to the warm delight that came when her
thoughts flowed, and the material world melted out of mind.
She had been busy with her book that afternoon, and very happy, until
tea came. Then, being somewhat tired, she got up from the bureau at
which she worked, and went to the tea-table, leaving her papers all
scattered about; and she was in the act of pouring herself out a cup
of tea, when the door opened, and the footman announced, "Mr. Alfred
Cayley Pounce."
Very much surprised, she put the teapot down deliberately and looked
at him. He held his hat to his breast, and bowed with exaggerated
deference, in an affected, foreign way.
"I insisted on seeing you," he began, as if that were something to
boast of. "Perhaps I ought to apologise."
Beth, not knowing what to say, asked him to sit down. Then there was a
little pause. He looked at the tea-table.
"I see that you do take tea," he observed. "Why did you refuse it when
I offered you some yesterday?"
"I am afraid I am not prepared to give you a reason," Beth answered
stiffly.
"Would it be out of place if I were to ask for some tea?" he said.
Beth silently poured him out a cup, and he got up, took what he
wanted in the way of sugar and cream and cake, and sat down again,
making himself very much at home.
"Do take some yourself," he pleaded. "You are making me feel such an
outsider."
"I beg your pardon," said Beth, helping herself.
She did not know whether to be annoyed or amused by his assurance. Had
she not known who he was she would certainly have been annoyed; but
the recollection of their days together, when the world was young and
life was all pure poetry, came upon her suddenly as she found
something of the boy in the face and voice of the man before her,
making it impossible for her to treat him as a stranger, and melting
her into a smile.
"Confess that you were surprised to see me," he said.
"I was," she answered.
"And not glad, perhaps," he pursued.
"Surprised means neither glad nor sorry," she observed.
"D'you know, the moment I saw you----" he began sentimentally; "but
never mind that now," he broke off. "Let me give you my reason for
coming, which is also my excuse. I hope you will accept it."
Beth waited quietly.
"I told you I could always find out anything I wanted to know about
anybody," he pursued, "and last night I happened to sit next a lady at
a dinner-party who turned out to be a great friend of yours. I always
talk to strange ladies about what I've been doing; that kind of thing
interests them, you know; and I described the party here yesterday
afternoon, and said I only met one lady in the whole assembly worth
looking at and worth speaking to, and that was Mrs. Maclure, who was
staying in the house. 'Oh, I know her quite well,' the lady said.
'She's a neighbour of mine at Slane. Her husband is a doctor, but I
hear _she_ is connected with some of the best county people in the
north. She's very clever, I believe, and by way of being literary and
all that sort of thing, don't you know. But I don't think she has any
one to advise her.'"
"Oh," said Beth, enlightened, "I know who my great friend is
then--Mrs. Carne!"
"Yes," said Mr. Pounce, "and when I heard you were literary, I felt a
further affinity, for, as I daresay you have heard, I am a literary
man myself."
"Yes; I heard you were 'by way of being literary,' too," Beth
rejoined.
"Who told you so?" he demanded quickly, his whole thought instantly
concentrated on the interesting subject when it concerned himself.
"I do not feel at liberty to tell you," she replied.
"Was it Mrs. Kilroy?"
Beth made no sign.
"Was it Mr. Kilroy?" he persisted.
"I have already said that I shall not tell you, Mr. Pounce," she
answered frigidly.
He sat in silence for a little, looking extremely annoyed. Beth, to
relieve the tension, offered him some more tea, which he refused
curtly; but as she only smiled at the discourtesy and helped herself,
he saw fit to change his mind, and then resumed the conversation.
"When Mrs. Carne heard that I was a literary man," he said with
importance, "she begged me to do what I could to help you. She said it
would be a great kindness; so I promised I would, and here I am."
"So it seems," said Beth.
He stared at her. "I mean it," he said.
"I don't doubt it," Beth answered. "You and Mrs. Carne are extremely
kind."
"Oh, not at all!" he assured her blandly. "To me, at all events, it
will be a great pleasure to help and advise you."
"How do you propose to do it?" Beth asked, relaxing. Such obtuseness
was not to be taken seriously.
He glanced over his shoulder at the bureau where her papers were
spread. "I shall get you to let me see some of your work," he said,
"and then I can judge of its worth."
"What have you done yourself?" she asked.
"I--well, I write regularly for the _Patriarch_," he said, with the
complacency of one who thinks that he need say no more. "The editor
himself came to stay with us last week, and that means something. Just
now, however, I am contemplating a work of fiction, an important work,
if I may venture to say so myself. It has been on my mind for years."
"Indeed," said Beth. "What is its purpose?"
"Purpose!" he ejaculated. "Had you said pur-port instead of pur-pose,
it would have been a sensible question. It is hardly likely I shall
write a novel with a purpose. I leave that to the ladies."
"I have read somewhere that Milton said the poet's mission was '_to
allay the perturbation of the mind and set the affections in right
tune_,'--is not that a purpose?" Beth asked. "And one in our own day
has talked of '_that great social duty to impart what we believe and
what we think we have learned. Among the few things of which we can
pronounce ourselves certain is the obligation of inquirers after truth
to communicate what they obtain._'"
"But not in the form of fiction," Alfred Cayley Pounce put in
dogmatically.
"Yet there is always purpose in the best work of the great writers of
fiction," Beth maintained.
Not being able to deny this, he supposed sarcastically that she had
read all the works to which she alluded.
"I see you suspect that I have not," she answered, smiling.
"I suspect you did not find that passage you quoted just now from
Milton in his works," he rejoined.
"I said as much," she reminded him.
"Well, but you ought to know better than to quote an author you have
not read," he informed her.
"Do you mean that I should read all a man's works before I presume to
quote a single passage?"
"I do," he replied. "Women never understand thoroughness," he
observed, largely.
"Some of us see a difference between thoroughness and niggling," Beth
answered. "I should say, beware of endless preparation! We have heard
of Mr. Casaubon and _The Key to all Mythologies_."
"I understand now what your friend Mrs. Carne meant about the manner
in which you take advice," Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce informed her, in a
slightly offended tone.
Beth, wondering inwardly why so many people assume they are competent
to advise, prayed that she herself might always be modest enough to
wait at least until her advice was asked.
"I hope I have not discussed your opinion impolitely," she said. "Pray