Part 78 (2/2)
”It was a mistake to take her approval for granted,” said Mrs. Kilroy.
”Ideala would have inquired.”
”Yes,” said Ideala. ”I take nothing for granted. If I hear anything nice, I believe it; but if I hear anything objectionable about any one, I either inquire about it or refuse to believe it point-blank.
And in a case like this, I should be doubly particular, for, in one of its many moods, genius is a young child that gazes hard and sees nothing.”
”And you really think the little woman is a genius, and will be a great writer some day?” Mrs. Carne asked with exaggerated deference to Ideala's opinion.
”I don't know about being a writer,” said Ideala. ”Genius is versatile. There are many ways in which she might succeed. It depends on herself--on the way she is finally impelled to choose. But great she will be in something--if she lives.”
”Let us hope that she will be a great benefactor of her own s.e.x then, and do great good,” said the gentle Lady Fulda.
”Amen!” Ideala e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed fervently.
Mrs. Carne tried to put off her agreeable society smile and put on her Sunday-in-church expression, but was not in time. When we only a.s.sume an att.i.tude once a week, be it mental or physical, we do not fall into it readily on a sudden.
”Not that working for women as a career is what I should wish her for her own comfort,” said Ideala after a pause. ”Women who work for women in the present period of our progress--I mean the women who bring about the changes which benefit their s.e.x--must resign themselves to martyrdom. Only the martyr spirit will carry them through. Men will often help and respect them, but other women, especially the workers with methods of their own, will make their lives a burden to them with pin-p.r.i.c.ks of criticism, and every petty hindrance they can put in their way. There is little union between women workers, and less tolerance. Each leader thinks her own idea the only good one, and disapproves of every other. They seldom see that many must be working in many ways to complete the work. And as to the bulk of women, those who will benefit by our devotion, they bespatter us with mud, stone us, slander us, calumniate us; and even in the very act of taking advantage of the changes we have brought about, ignore us, slight us, push us under, and step up on our bodies to secure the benefits which our endeavours have made it possible for them to enjoy. I know! I have worked for women these many years, and could I show you my heart, you would find it covered with scars--the scars of the wounds with which they reward me.”
When Beth got in that day, she found Dan standing in the hall, examining a letter addressed to herself. She took it out of his hand without ceremony, and tore it open. ”Hurrah!” she exclaimed, ”it's accepted.”
”What's accepted?” he asked.
”An article I sent to _Suns.h.i.+ne_. And the editor says he would like to see some more of my work,” Beth rejoined, almost dancing with delight.
”I don't suppose that will put much in your pocket,” Dan observed. ”He wouldn't praise you if he meant to pay you.”
”But he has sent me a cheque for thirty s.h.i.+llings,” said Beth.
Dan's expression changed. ”Then you may be sure it's worth double,” he said. ”But you might get some nice notepaper for me out of it, and have it stamped with my crest, like a good girl. It's necessary in my profession, and I've finished the last you got.”
Beth laughed as she had laughed--that same peculiar mirthless little laugh--when he drove past her and splashed her with mud on the road.
”It never seems to occur to you that I may have some little wants of my own, Dan,” she said; ”you are a perfect horseleech's daughter.”
Dan gazed at her blankly. He never seemed to understand any such allusion. ”You've got a grievance, have you?” he snarled. ”Do _I_ ever prevent you getting anything you like?”
Beth shrugged her shoulders by way of answer, and went into the dining-room. He followed her, bent on making a scene; and she, perceiving this, set herself down on a chair and folded her hands.
He took a turn up and down the room. ”And this is my fine marriage into a county family, which was to have done so much for me!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed at last. ”But I might have known better, considering the hole I took you out of. You've soon forgotten all I've done for you.”
Beth smiled enigmatically.
”Oh yes! it's a laughing matter,” he proceeded. ”I've just ruined myself by marrying you; that's what I've done. Not a soul in the place will come to the house because of you. n.o.body could ever stand you but me; and what have I got by it? Not a halfpenny! It was just a swindle, the whole business.”
”Be careful!” Beth flashed forth. ”If you make such a.s.sertions you must prove them. The day is past when a man might insult his wife with impunity. I have already told you I won't stand it. It would neither be good for you nor for me if I did.”
”It _was_ a swindle,” he bawled. ”Where are the seven or eight hundred a year I married you for?”
Beth looked at him a moment, then burst out laughing. ”Dear Dan,” she said, offering him the cheque, ”you shall have the thirty s.h.i.+llings all to yourself. You deserve it for telling the truth for once. I consider I have had the best of the bargain, though. Thirty s.h.i.+llings is cheap for such valuable information.”
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