The Beth Book
chair near the window. She always sat on a high chair, that she might
not be enervated by lolling; that was one of her patient methods of
self-discipline; and while she meditated, she did quantities of work
for herself, making, mending, remodelling, that she might get all the
wear possible out of her clothes, and not add a penny she could help
to those terrible debts, the thought of which had weighed on her
youth, and threatened to crush all the spirit out of her ever since
her marriage. Dan had never considered her too young to be worried.
From where she sat she could see Bertha on a seat just below, with
"The Moonstone" on her lap, but Bertha could not see her because of
the curtain of creepers that covered the iron rail which formed a
little balcony round the window. Besides, it was supposed that that
was a blank window. It was the only one on that side of the house,
too, and Bertha had settled herself in that secluded corner of the
garden precisely because she thought she could not be overlooked.
Beth glanced at her from time to time mechanically, but without
thinking of her. It struck her at last, however, that Bertha had never
opened her book, which seemed odd after the special point she had made
of being left alone to read it undisturbed. Then Beth noticed that she
seemed to be on the look-out, as if she were expecting something or
somebody; and presently Dan appeared, walking quickly and with a
furtive air, as if he were afraid of being seen. Bertha flushed
crimson and became all smiles as soon as she saw him. Beth's work
dropped on her lap, she clasped her hands on it, her own face flushed,
and her breath became laboured. Dan, after carefully satisfying
himself that there was nobody about, sat down beside Bertha, put his
arm round her waist, and kissed her. She giggled, and made a feeble
feint of protesting. Then he took a jewel-case from his pocket, opened
it, and held it out to her admiring gaze. It contained a handsome gold
bracelet, which he presently clasped on her arm. She expressed her
gratitude by lifting up her face to be kissed. Then he put his arm
round her again, and she sat with her head on his shoulder, and they
began to talk; but the conversation was interrupted by frequent
kisses.
Beth had seen enough. She turned her back to the window, and sat quite
still with her hands clasped before her. It was her first experience
of that parasite, the girl who fastens herself on a married woman,
accepts all that she can get from her in the way of hospitality and
kindness, and treacherously repays her by taking her husband for a
lover. Beth pitied Bertha, but with royal contempt. It all seemed so
sordid and despicable. Jealous she was not. "Jealousy is a want of
faith in one's self," she had said to Bertha's mother once, and now,
in the face of this provocation, she was of the same mind. She had no
words to express her scorn for a man who is false to his obligations,
nor for the petty frauds and deceits which had made the position of
those two tenable. As for Dan, he was beneath contempt; but--"I shall
succeed!" The words sprang to her lips triumphantly. "Let him wallow
with his own kind in congenial mire as much as he likes. No wonder he
suspects me! But I--I shall succeed!"
Meanwhile down in the garden Dan was gurgling to Bertha: "What should
I do without you, darling? Life wasn't worth having till I knew you. I
won't say a word against Beth. She has her good points, as you know,
and I believe she means well; but she's spoilt my life, and my career
too. I'm one that requires a lot of sympathy; but she never shows me
any. She thinks of nobody but herself. Her own mother always said so.
And after all I've done for her too! If only you knew! But of course I
can't blow my own trumpet. They're all alike in that family, though.
Her mother used to keep me playing cards till I was ruined. And Beth
has no gratitude, and you can't trust her. She comes of a lying lot,
and I'm of the same mind as my old father, who used to say he'd rather
have a thief any day than a liar. You can watch a thief, but you can't
watch a liar."
"Still, Dan," Bertha murmured, "I somehow think you ought to stick to
her."
"So I would," said Dan. "No one can accuse me of not sticking to my
duty. I'm an honourable man. It was she who cast me off. I'm nothing
to her. And I should have been broken-hearted but for you, Bertha, I
should indeed." Dan's fine eyes filled with tears, which Bertha
tenderly wiped away.
"Of course it makes a great difference her having cast _you_ off,"
Bertha conceded, after a little interlude.
"It makes _all_ the difference," Dan rejoined. "She set me at liberty,
and you are free too; so who have we to consider but ourselves? I admire
a woman who has the pluck to be free!" he added enthusiastically.
"Then why don't you encourage Beth more to go her own way?" Bertha
reasonably demanded. "She's always yearning for a career."
Dan hesitated. "Because I've been a fool, I think," he said at last.
"I'll encourage her now, though. It would be a great blessing to us if
she could get started as a writer. I see that now. She'd think of
nothing else. And it would be a blessing to her too," he added
feelingly.
"That's what I like about you, Dan," Bertha observed. "You always make
every allowance for her, and consider her interests, although she has
treated you badly."
Dan pressed her hand to his lips. "I'll do what I can for her, you may
be sure," he said, quite melted by his own magnanimity. "I wish I
could do more. But she's been extravagant, and my means are dreadfully
crippled."
"Then why do you buy me such handsome presents, you naughty man?"
Bertha playfully demanded, holding up her arm with the bracelet on it.
"I must have a holiday sometimes," he rejoined. "Besides, I happen to
be expecting a handsome cheque, an unusual occurrence, by any post
now."
Beth's dividends were due that day.
Just as dinner was announced, Beth swept into the drawing-room in the
best evening dress she had, a diaphonous black, set off by turquoise
velvet, a combination which threw the beautiful milk-white of her skin
into delicate relief. There was a faint flush on her face; on her
forehead and neck the tendrils of her soft brown hair seemed to have
taken on an extra crispness of curl, and her eyes were sparkling. She
had never looked better. Bertha Petterick, in her common handsomeness,
was as a barmaid accustomed to beer beside a gentlewoman of
exceptional refinement. She wore the showy bracelet Dan had given her
that afternoon, and it shone conspicuous in its tawdry newness on her
arm; her dress was tasteless too, and badly put on, and altogether she
contrasted unfavourably with Beth, and Dan observed it.
"Are you expecting any one in particular to-night?" he asked.
"No," Beth answered smiling. "I dressed for my own benefit. Nothing
moves me to self-satisfaction like a nice dress. I have not enjoyed
the pleasure much since I married. But I am going to begin now, and
have a good time."
She turned as she spoke and led the way to the dining-room alone. Dr.
Maclure absently offered his arm to Miss Petterick. He was puzzled to
know what this sudden fit of self-assertion, combined with an
unaccountable burst of high spirits on Beth's part, might portend. To
conceal a certain uneasiness, he became extra facetious, not to say
coarse. There was a public ball coming off in a few days, and he
persisted in speaking of it as "The Dairy Show."
"Don't you begin to feel excited about it? I do!" Miss Petterick said
to Beth. "I wish it were to-night."
"I am indifferent," Beth answered blandly, "because I am not going."
"Not going!" Dan exclaimed. "Then who's to chaperon me?"
"I should scarcely suppose," Beth answered, looking at him
meditatively, "that you are in the stage of innocence which makes a
chaperon necessary. Bertha, how you are loving that new bracelet!
You've done nothing but fidget with it ever since we sat down."
"Ah!" Bertha answered archly, "you want to know where I got it, Madam
Curious! Well, I'll tell you. It was sent me only to-day--by my young
man!"
Dan looked at his plate complacently, but presently Beth saw a glance
of intelligence flash between them--a glance such as she had often
seen them exchange before, but had not understood; and she was
thankful that she had not!--thankful that she had been able to live so
long with Dr. Maclure without entertaining a single suspicion, without
thinking one low thought about him. It was a hopeful triumph of
cultivated nice-mindedness over the most evil communications.
When they were at dessert, the postman's knock resounded sharply. Dr.
Maclure, who had been anxiously listening for it, and was peeling a
pear for Miss Petterick at the moment, waited with the pear and the
knife upheld in his hands, watching the door till the servant entered.
She brought a letter on a salver, and was taking it to her master,
when Beth said authoritatively, "That letter is for me, Minna; bring
it here."
The girl obeyed.
Dan put down the knife and the pear. "What's yours is mine, I
thought," he observed, with a sorry affectation of cheeriness.
"Not on this occasion," Beth answered quietly, taking up the letter
and opening it as she spoke. "This happens to be peculiarly my own."
"Why, it's a cheque," he rejoined, with an affectation of surprise.
"What luck! I haven't been able to sleep for nights thinking of the
butcher's bill."
"For shame!" Beth said, bantering--"talking about bills before your
guest! But since you introduced the subject I may add that the butcher
must wait. I want this myself. I am going to stay with Mrs. Kilroy at
Ilverthorpe on Wednesday, and it will just cover my expenses."
"This is the first I have heard of the visit," Dan ejaculated.
"I only decided to go this afternoon," Beth replied.
"You decided without consulting me? Well--I'm damned if you shall go;
I shall not allow it."
"The word 'allow' is obsolete in the matrimonial dictionary, friend
Daniel," Beth rejoined good-humouredly.
"But you are bound to obey me."
"And I'm ready to obey you when you endow me with all your worldly
goods," she said; then, suddenly dropping her bantering tone, she
spoke decidedly: "I am going to stay with Mrs. Kilroy on Wednesday,
understand that at once, and do not let us have any vulgar dispute
about it."
"But you can't leave Miss Petterick here alone with me!" he
remonstrated.
"No, but she can go home," Beth answered coolly. "Her mother wants
her, you know, and I have written to tell her to expect her to-morrow.
Now, if you please, we will end the discussion."
She put the letter in her pocket, and began to crack nuts and eat
them. But Dan could not keep away from the subject. "Gad!" he
ejaculated, "I thought they'd get hold of you, that lot, and flatter
you, and make a convenience of you--that's what they do! _I_ know
them! They think you're clever--how easy it is to be mistaken! But
you'll see for yourself in time, and then you'll believe me--when it's
too late. For then you'll have got your name mixed up with them, and
you'll not get over that, I can tell you--they are well known for a
nice lot. Your Mrs. Kilroy was notorious before she married. She was
Angelica Hamilton-Wells, and she and her brother were called the
Heavenly Twins. They are grandchildren of that blackguard old Duke of
Morningquest. Nobody ever speaks of any of the family with the
slightest respect. It's well known that Miss Hamilton-Wells asked old
Kilroy to marry her, and when a girl has to do that, you may guess
what she is! But they are all besmirched, that lot," Dan concluded
with his most high-minded manner on.
"I never believe anything I hear against anybody," said Beth,