The Beth Book Part 96

"You are determined to go?" Dan demanded angrily.

"I must go," she rejoined.

"It is going to the devil, then," said Dan deliberately; "and I always said you would. Remember, you don't return to this house!"

When Beth arrived in town, she found that there would be no need to appear in the case at all, for the Kilroys' old butler Roberts had seen the name of Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce in the papers, and had unwittingly frustrated his manoeuvre by going to the coroner's court himself and volunteering to give evidence. He was accompanied by the footman who had been out with the carriage on the night in question, and the two together had no difficulty in proving an alibi. Thus, in an ordinary commonplace manner, what had promised to be the triumph of his life, the moment when he should stand confessed to the world a chivalrous gentleman, sacrificing himself to save a lady of prepossessing appearance, was converted into another of the many failures of Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce. This ended the case so far as he and Beth were concerned; but with regard to Dan, Beth recognised that her position remained the same. There was no return for her from the step she had taken, and she would have to begin her life anew.

CHAPTER L

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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sociate with him intimately without being coa.r.s.ened 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 s.e.x, 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 gla.s.ses, and a grandfather chair--all great bargains, as Ethel Maud Mary a.s.sured 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.