Part 80 (2/2)

”And so the little woman is going to be a great one!” Mrs. Carne exclaimed playfully. ”Well, I _was_ surprised to hear it! I know I am not flattering to my own discernment when I say so; but there! I should never have supposed you were a genius. You are such a quiet little mouse, you know, you don't give yourself away much, if you will excuse the expression! I always say what I think.”

”I hope you will not call me a genius again, Mrs. Carne,” Beth said stiffly. ”All exaggeration is distasteful to me.”

”And to me, too, my dear child,” Mrs. Carne hastened to a.s.sure her blandly. ”But I always say what I think, you know.”

Beth fixed her eyes on the clock absently.

When Dan came in to lunch that day, he seemed pleased to hear that Mrs. Carne had been.

”What had she to say for herself?” he asked.

”She said 'I always say what I think,'” Beth replied; ”until it struck me that 'I always say what I think' is a person who only thinks disagreeable things.”

”Well, _I_ like her,” said Dan; ”and I always get on with her. If she's going to show up friendly at last, I hope you won't snub her. We can't afford to make enemies, according to your own account,” he concluded significantly. ”What do you think of her, Miss Petterick?”

he added, by way of giving a pleasanter turn to the conversation. He and his patient always addressed each other with much formality. Beth asked him once in private why he was so stiff with Bertha, and he explained that he thought it wiser, as a medical man, not to be at all familiar; formality helped to keep up his authority.

”I have had no opportunity of thinking anything about her,” Bertha rejoined. ”She has never spoken to me. I have heard her speak, though, and like her voice. It's so cooing. She makes me think of a dove.”

”And I shouldn't be surprised to find,” said Beth, with cruel insight, ”that, like the dove, she conceals a villainous disposition and murderous proclivities by charms of manner and a winning voice. What are you going to do this afternoon, Bertha?”

Bertha glanced at Dan. ”I am going to read 'The Moonstone' out in the garden the whole afternoon,” she replied.

”Then you won't mind if I disappear till tea-time?” said Beth. ”I want to do some work upstairs.”

”No, I would rather be alone,” Bertha answered frankly. ”That book's entrancing.”

”I shall go round on foot this afternoon, for exercise,” Dan announced as he left the room.

Beth saw Bertha settled on a seat in the garden, and then retired to her secret chamber. She had not yet come to any conclusion with regard to Mrs. Kilroy's invitation, and she felt it was time she decided. She took her sewing, her accustomed aid to thought, and sat down on a high 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 quant.i.ties 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 n.o.body 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 grat.i.tude 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 n.o.body 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 grat.i.tude, 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.

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