The Beth Book
suddenly burst into tears.
"What a mess I have made of my life!" he exclaimed. "Everything that
would have been best for me has been within reach at some time or
other, but I invariably took the wrong thing and let the right one go.
But, Beth, I was only a boy then, and I suffered when they separated
us."
This reflection seemed to ease his mind on the subject. That she might
also have suffered did not occur to him; as usual his whole concern
was for himself.
"Yes, you are right, Beth," he proceeded. "I _have_ deteriorated; but
'we always may be what we might have been'--and you have been sent to
me again as a sign that it is not too late for me. You were my first
love, my earliest ideal, and I have not changed, you see, I have been
true to you; for, although I never suspected you were Beth, I
recognised my rightful mate in you the moment we met. Yes, I was on
the right road when we were boy and girl together, but the promise of
that time has not been fulfilled. All the poetry in me has lain
dormant since the days when you drew it forth. I gave up modelling
when I went to the 'Varsity because they didn't care for that kind of
thing in my set, you know. They were all men of position, who wouldn't
associate with artists unless they were at the top of the tree; clever
fellows, and good themselves at squibs and epigrams. If you'd ever
been to the 'Varsity you'd know that a man must adapt himself to his
environment if he means to get on. My dream had been to make my
visions of beauty visible, as you used to suggest; but I had to give
that up, there was nothing else for it. Still, I was not content to do
nothing, to be nobody; therefore, when I abandoned the clay, I took to
the pen; I gave up the marble for the manuscript. Many men of position
have written, you know, and so long as you didn't mug, fellows didn't
mind. In fact, they thought you smart if they fancied you could dash
things off without an effort. You understand now why I am a literary
man instead of a sculptor."
"Perfectly," Beth said drily. "It was in those days, I suppose, that
you were bitten by French literature, and began to idealise mean
intrigues, and to delight in foul matter if the manner of its
presentation were an admirable specimen of style."
"Ah," he said solemnly, "style is everything."
"It is all work of word-turning and little play of fancy with those
who make style everything," said Beth, glad to get away from love,
"and that makes your Jack-of-style a dull boy and morbid in spite of
his polish. Less style and more humour would be the saving of some of
you, the making of others."
"Flaubert wrote 'Madame Bovary' six times," he assured her
impressively.
"I wonder how much it lost each time," said Beth. "But you know what
Flaubert himself said about style before he had done--just what I am
saying!"
"I cannot understand your being insensible to the charms of style," he
said, evading the thrust.
"I am not. I only say it is not of the most vital importance.
Thackeray was a Titan--well, look at his slipshod style in places, his
careless grammar, his constant tautology. He knew better, and he could
have done better, and it would have been well if he had, I don't deny
it; but his work would not have been a scrap more vital, nor he
himself the greater. I have seen numbers of people here in town
studying art. They go to the schools to learn to draw, not because
they have ideas to express, apparently, but in the hope that ideas
will come when they know how to express them. And I think it is the
same in literature. One school talks of style as if it were the end
and not the means. They form a style, but have nothing to express that
is worth expressing. It would be better to pray the gods to send them
the matter; if the matter is there in the mind it will out, and the
manner will form itself in the effort to produce it--so said the
great."
There was a pause, during which Alfred Cayley Pounce sighed heavily
and Beth looked at the clock.
"You were stimulating as a child, Beth," he said at last, "and you are
stimulating still. Think what it would be to me to have you always by
my side! I cannot--I cannot let you go again now that I have found
you! We were boy and girl together."
"That does not alter anything in our present position," Beth answered;
"nor does it affect my principles in any way. But even if I had been
inclined--if I had had no principles, I should have been just clever
enough to know better than to run any risk of the kind you suggest.
You do not know perhaps that you have injured your own standing
already--that there are houses in which you are not welcome because
you are suspected of intrigue."
"_Me_--suspected of intrigue!" he exclaimed. "It isn't possible!"
Beth laughed. "If it is so disagreeable to be suspected," she said,
"what would it be to be found out! And what have you gained by it?
What says the Dhammapada? '_There is bad reputation, and the evil way
(to hell); there is the short pleasure of the frightened in the arms
of the frightened, and the king imposes heavy punishment; therefore
let no man think of his neighbour's wife._'"
"It is evident that you don't trust me," he said in an injured tone.
"Ah, Beth! does the fact that we were boy and girl together not weigh
with you?"
"Well, it would," Beth said soberly, "even if worldly wisdom were my
only guide in life. I should think of the time that we got into that
scrape, and you wriggled out of it, leaving me to shift for myself as
best I could; and I should remember the boy is father to the man. But
I have been trying to show you that worldly wisdom is not my only
guide in life. I have professed the most positive puritan principles
of conduct, and given you the reasons upon which they are based, yet
you persist; you ignore what I say as if you had not heard me or did
not believe me, and pursue the subject as if you were trying to weary
me into agreement. And you have wearied me, but not into agreement;
so, if you please, we will not discuss it any longer."
"You will be sorry, I think, some day for the way you have treated
me," he exclaimed, showing temper; "and what you expect to gain by it
I cannot imagine."
"Oh, please," Beth protested, "I am not imbued with the commercial
spirit of the churches. I do not expect a percentage in the way of
reward on every simple duty I do."
"Virtue is its own reward," he sneered.
"It has been said that 'the pleasure of virtue is one which can only
be obtained on the express condition of its not being the object
sought,'" she rejoined good-naturedly. "Try it, Alfred, and see if you
do not become a happier man insensibly. Order your thoughts to other
and nobler ends, for thoughts are things, and we are branded or
beautified by them. An American scientist has been making experiments
to test the effect of thought on the body, and has found that a
continuous train of evil thought injures the health and spoils the
personal appearance, but high and holy thoughts have a beautifying
effect. Be a man and embrace a manly creed. _Live for others, live
openly._ Deceit is treachery, and treachery is cowardice of the most
despicable kind. Life has to be lived. It might as well be lived
earnestly. Life is better lived when it is held earnestly. Personally
I detest all flippancy and cynicism, all cheapening of serious
subjects by lack of reverence. Irreverence portends defects of
character and poverty of intellect. All serious subjects are sacred
subjects, and to treat them with levity or insincerity is to prove
yourself a person to be avoided."
Alfred Cayley Pounce was stooping forward with his elbows on his knees
and his face between his hands, gazing blankly into the fire. The
light shone on his bald forehead and accentuated the lines which
wounded vanity, petty purposes thwarted, and an ignoble life had
written prematurely on his face, and his attitude emphasised the
attenuation of his body. He looked a poor, peevish, neurotic specimen;
and although he had only himself to thank for it, Beth, remembering
the promise of his youth, felt a qualm of pity.
"What a mistake my marriage has been!" he ejaculated at last. "But I
doubt if I should ever have found a woman who would have understood me
enough to be all in all to me. For a man of my temperament there is
nothing but celibacy."
"I don't believe in celibacy at all," Beth said cheerfully. "Celibacy
is an attempt to curb a healthy instinct with a morbid idea. He is the
best man and the truest gentleman who honourably fulfils every
function of life. And I don't believe your marriage was of necessity a
mistake either. But if you must be miserable, be loyal as well. You
will find that the best in the end. If, being miserable, we are also
disloyal, then we are insensibly degraded--so insensibly, perhaps,
that we are not conscious of any part of the process, and only become
aware of what has been going on when we have to face a crisis, and
find ourselves prepared to act ignobly, and to justify the act with
specious excuses." She glanced up at the mantelpiece. "Come," she
said, "it is four o'clock, and I am sleepy. I must go to bed."
He started to his feet. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "you can talk of
being sleepy when I----"
"Never mind about that now," said Beth, yawning frankly. "Everybody
has gone to bed and forgotten us, I suppose. I shall have to let you
out."
She gathered the evening cloak she had come back in from the theatre
about her as she spoke, and led the way. He let her open the hall-door
for him. It was grey daylight in the street. At the foot of the steps
a policeman was standing on the pavement making a note in a little
book.
"Is it any use whistling for a hansom at this hour?" Beth asked.
The policeman looked up at her. "I'll try, miss, if you like," he
said.
He whistled several times, but there was no response, and Alfred
Cayley Pounce at last crammed his hat down on his head with a peevish
show of impatience, and walked off down the street, without a word of
leave-taking. The fact that Beth was sleepy had wounded his vanity
more than any word she had said. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders
as she watched him depart, then went down on to the pavement and
strolled about, enjoying the freshness. The policeman kept watch and
ward, meanwhile, at the open door, and, before she went in, Beth stood
and talked to him a little in her pretty kindly way. She found his
tone and manner in their simple directness strengthening and
refreshing to the mind after the tortuous posings of Mr. Alfred Cayley
Pounce.
CHAPTER XLIX
At breakfast next morning Beth described the way in which Mr. Alfred
Cayley Pounce had forced his attentions upon her the night before. Mr.
Kilroy was exceedingly angry. "He shall not come into any house of
mine again," he declared, and gave the old butler Roberts, who
happened to be the only servant in the room at the moment, orders to
that effect. "Do you mean to say," he asked Beth, "that the fellow had
the assurance to tell you he had actually been hanging about the
house?"
"He seemed rather proud of that, as of something poetical and
romantic," Beth answered.
"I suppose the illness was all an excuse," Angelica observed.
"I don't know," Beth said. "He certainly looked ill, but he's a poor
neurotic creature now, and might easily work himself up into a state
of hysterical collapse, I should think. What was your impression,
Roberts?"
"He looked real bad, ma'am; and well he might, the way he's been goin'
on, 'anging about 'alf the night We've all seen im," Roberts rejoined
imperturbably.
"Why didn't you report it to me?" Mr. Kilroy wanted to know.
"Well, sir, I couldn't be sure it was this 'ouse, sir, in partic'lar.