The Beth Book
author--if you have put your own individuality into your work--I'll
answer for it that you will arrive sooner and be read longer than the
most admired stylist of the day. Be prepared to sacrifice form to
accuracy, to avoid the brilliant and the marvellous for the simple and
direct. What matters it how the effect is got so that it comes
honestly? But of course it will be said that this, that, and the other
person did not get their effects so; they will compare you to the
greatest to humiliate you."
"Oh, that would be nothing to me so that I produced my own effects,"
Beth broke in. "That is just where I am at present. I mean to be
myself. But please do not think that I have too much assurance. If I
go wrong, I hope I shall find it out in time; and I shall certainly be
the first to acknowledge it. I do not want to prove myself right; I
want to arrive at the truth."
"Then you will arrive," he assured her. "But above everything, mind
that you are not misled by the cant of art if you have anything
special to say. If a writer would be of use in his day, and not merely
an amuser of the multitude, he must learn that right thinking, right
feeling, and knowledge are more important than art. When you address
the blockhead majority, you must not only give them your text, you
must tell them also what to think of it, otherwise there will be fine
misinterpretation. You may be sure of the heart of the multitude if
you can touch it; but its head, in the present state of its
development, is an imperfect machine, manoeuvred for the most part
by foolishness. People can see life for themselves, but they cannot
always see the meaning of it, the why and wherefore, whence things
come and whither they are tending, so that the lessons of life are
lost--or would be but for the efforts of the modern novelist."
Beth reflected a little, then she said: "I am glad you think me an
optimist. It seems to me that healthy human nature revolts from
pessimism. The work that lasts is the work that cheers. Give us
something with hope in it--something that appeals to the best part of
us--something which, while we read, puts us in touch with fine ideals,
and makes us feel better than we are."
"That is it precisely," said he. "The school of art-and-style books
wearies us because there is no aspiration in it, nothing but a deadly
dull artistic presentment of hopeless levels of life. It is all cold
polish, as I said before, with never a word to warm the heart or stir
the better nature."
"That is what I have felt," said Beth; "and I would rather have
written a simple story, full of the faults of my youth and ignorance,
but with some one passage in it that would put heart and hope into
some one person, than all that brilliant barren stuff. And I'm going
to write for women, not for men. I don't care about amusing men. Let
them see to their own amusements, they think of nothing else. Men
entertain each other with intellectual ingenuities and Art and Style,
while women are busy with the great problems of life, and are striving
might and main to make it beautiful."
"Now that is young in the opprobrious sense of the word," said Sir
George. "It is only when we are extremely young that we indulge in
such sweeping generalisations."
Beth blushed. "I am always afraid my judgment will be warped by my own
narrow personal experience,--I must guard against that!" she
exclaimed, conscious that she had had her husband in her mind when she
spoke.
Sir George nodded his head approvingly, and looked at his watch. "I
must go," he said, "but I hope there will not be such a long interval
before I come again. My wife is sorry that she has not been able to
call. She is not equal to such a long drive. But she desired me to
explain and apologise; and she has sent you some flowers and fruit
which she begs you will accept. Have you some of your work ready for
me this time? I have asked my friend Ideala to give you her opinion,
which is really worth having, and she says she will with pleasure. You
must know her. I am sure you would like her extremely."
"But would she like me?" slipped from Beth unawares.
"Now, that is young again," he said, with his kindly smile-indulgent.
"It is the outcome of sad experience," Beth rejoined with a sigh. "No
woman I have met here so far has shown any inclination to cultivate my
acquaintance. I think I am being punished for some unknown crime."
Sir George became thoughtful, but said nothing.
As they approached the house, Beth saw Dan peeping at them from behind
the curtain of an upstairs window. The hall-table was covered with the
fruit and flowers Sir George had brought. Beth sent a servant for Dan.
The girl came back and said that the doctor was not in.
"Nonsense!" said Beth. "I saw him at one of the windows just now. If
you will excuse me, Sir George, I will find him myself."
She called him as she ran upstairs, and Dan made his appearance,
looking none too well pleased.
He went down to Sir George, and Beth ran on up to her secret chamber
for her manuscripts and the books Sir George had lent her, which had
been waiting ready packed for many a day.
* * * * *
When he had gone, Beth danced round the dining-room, clapping her
hands.
"I can't contain myself," she exclaimed. "I do feel encouraged,
strengthened, uplifted."
She caught a glimpse of Dan's face, and stopped short.
"What's the matter?" she said.
"The matter is that I'll have no more of this," he answered in a
brutal tone.
"No more of what?" Beth demanded.
"No more of this man's philandering after you," he retorted.
"I don't understand you," Beth gasped.
"Oh, you're mighty innocent," he sneered. "You'll be telling me next
that he comes to see _me_, lends _me_ books, walks up and down by the
hour together with _me_, brings _me_ fruit and flowers! You think I'm
blind, I suppose! _You_'re a nice person! and so particular too! and
so fastidious in your conversation! Oh, trust a prude! But I tell
you," he bawled, coming up close to her, and shaking his fist in her
face, "I tell you I won't have it. Now, do you understand that?"
Beth did not wince, but oh, what a drop it was from the heights she
had just left to this low level! "Be good enough to explain your
meaning precisely," she said quietly. "I understand that you are
bringing some accusation against me. It is no use blustering and
shaking your fist in my face. I am not to be frightened. Just explain
yourself. And I advise you to weigh your words, for you shall answer
to me in public for any insult you may offer me in private."
Dr. Maclure was sobered by this unexpected flash of spirit. They had
been married nearly three years by this time, and Beth's habitual
docility had deceived him. Hitherto men have been able to insult their
wives in private with impunity when so minded, and Dan was staggered
for a moment to find himself face to face with a mere girl who boldly
refused to suffer the indignity. He was not prepared for such a
display of self-respect.
"You're very high and mighty!" he jeered at last.
"I am very determined," Beth rejoined, and set her lips.
He tried to subdue her by staring her out of countenance; but Beth
scornfully returned his gaze. Then suddenly she stamped her foot, and
brought her clenched fist down on the dining-room table, beside which
she was standing. "Come, come, sir," she said, "we've had enough of
this theatrical posing. You are wasting my time, explain yourself."
He took a turn up and down the room.
"Look here, Beth," he began, lowering his tone, "you cannot pretend
that Galbraith comes to see me."
"Why should I?" she asked.
"Well, it isn't right that he should come to see you, and I won't have
it," he reiterated.
"Do you mean that I am not to have any friends of my own?" she
demanded.
"_He_ is not to be one of your friends," Dan answered doggedly.
"And what explanation am I to give him, please?" she asked politely.
"I won't have you giving him any explanation."
"My dear Dan," she rejoined, "when you speak in that way, you show an
utter want of knowledge of my character. If I will not allow you to
insult me, and bully me, and bluster at me, it is not likely that I
will allow you to insult my friends. If Sir George Galbraith's visits
are to stop, I shall tell him the reason exactly. He at least is a
gentleman."
"That is as much as to say that I am not," Dan blustered.
"You certainly are not behaving like one now," Beth coolly rejoined.
"But there! You have my ultimatum. I am not going to waste any more
time in vulgar scenes with you."
"Ultimatum, indeed!" he jeered. "Well, you _are_, you know! You'll
write and explain to him, will you, that your husband's jealous of
him? That shows the terms you are on!"
"It is jealousy then, is it?" said Beth. "Thank you. Now I understand
you."
Dan's evil mood took another turn. His anger changed to self-pity. "Oh
dear! oh dear! what am I to do with you?" he exclaimed. "And after all
I've done for you--to treat me like this." He took out his
pocket-handkerchief and wiped away the tears which any mention of his
own goodness and the treatment he received from others always brought
to his eyes.
Beth watched him contemptuously, yet her heart smote her. He was a
poor creature, but for that very reason, and because she was strong,
surely she should be gentle with him.
"Look here, Dan," she said. "I have never knowingly done you any wrong
in thought, or word, or deed; all you have said to me to-day has been
ridiculously wrong-headed; but never mind. Stop crying, do, and don't
let us have any more idiotic jealousy. Why, it was Lady Galbraith who
sent me the flowers and fruit, with a kind message of apology because
she has not been able to call. Why should not she be jealous?"
"Oh, she's a fool!" Dan rejoined, recovering himself. "She leads him
the life of a dog with her fears and fancies, and she won't take any
part in his philanthropic work, though he wishes it. She's a pretty
pill!"
The servant came in at this moment to lay the table for lunch, and Dan
went to the looking-glass with the inconsequence of a child, and
forgot his grievance in the contemplation of his own beloved image and
in abusing Lady Galbraith. Abusing somebody was mental relaxation of
the most agreeable kind to him. Feeling that he had gone too far, he
was gracious to Beth during lunch, and just before he went out he
kissed her, and said, "We won't mention that fellow again, Beth. I
don't believe you'd do anything dishonourable."
"I should think not!" said Beth.
When he had gone, she returned to her secret chamber, the one little
corner sacred to herself, to her purest, noblest thoughts, her highest
aspirations; and as she looked round, it seemed as if ages had passed
since she last entered it, full of happiness and hope. It was as if
she had been innocent then, and was now corrupted. Her self-control
did not give way, but she could do nothing, and just sat there, wan
with horror; and as she sat, every now and then she shivered from head
to foot. She had known of course in a general way that such things did
happen, that married women did give their husbands cause for jealousy;
but to her mind they were a kind of married women who lived in another
sphere where she was not likely to encounter them. She had never
expected to be brought near such an enormity, let alone to have it
brought home to herself in a horrible accusation; and the effect of it
was a shock to her nervous system--one of those stunning blows which
are scarcely felt at first, but are agonising in their after effects.
When the reaction set in, Beth's disgust was so great it took a
physical form, and ended by making her violently sick. It was days