Minnie's Bishop and Other Stories/Turquoise and Pearl
XIV.—TURQUOISE AND PEARL
"I SHALL count on you," said Mrs. Danton; "you must dine with us every night while That will be three nights beginning with to-morrow. You will take her in to dinner, of course."
"I can't possibly" I began.
"You must," said Mrs. Danton, smiling in the delightful way in which Mrs. Danton does smile. "You really must. You know what our party is. We fish, every one of us, men and women. We think and talk of nothing else, whereas you are a clever man, the only clever man in the neighbourhood."
I should not venture to call myself a clever man, though I won a Hebrew prize when I was in college, a second prize; and since then have done a little work at old Gaelic. Indeed I published a paper some time ago in "The Philologist" on the connection between Gaelic and Sanskrit. I could not flatter myself that Mrs. Danton knew anything about either Gaelic or Sanskrit, and I was quite unreasonably pleased to hear her call me clever. Nobody else in the world recognises my ability, except my sister Margaret, who lives with me; and she admires me, so to speak, from a distance in an uneducated and uninspiring way. Mrs. Danton has always been nice to me since I first knew her, and whether she knew anything about Sanskrit or not I appreciated her way of calling me clever. I would do a good deal to please Mrs. Danton.
"Besides," she went on, "Lady Egerton said in her letter that Miss Bently particularly wanted to meet you. It was Lady Egerton who' insisted on me having her here. I couldn't well refuse, you know, because she's Tom's aunt."
I knew beforehand that it was Lady Egerton and not Miss Bently who was the aunt, and so I was not confused by Mrs. Danton's use of the pronouns.
"Tom is furious, of course," she said. "He can't bear literary women; but I couldn't help myself."
Tom is Mrs. Danton's husband. He fishes when they come over here in the summer. What he does at the other seasons of the year when he is elsewhere, I do not know. Very likely he shoots and hunts. I could quite easily believe that he would have little or nothing in common with a literary lady. I did not expect to have much in common with her myself. I doubted very much whether my Hebrew and Gaelic would help me.
"Her name," said Mrs. Danton, "is Rose, Rose Bently. I looked her out in Mudie's list, and I find that she's written a novel called 'Turquoise and Pearl.' You've read it perhaps."
She looked at me in a curious way as she spoke. If I had not known Mrs. Danton as a woman of the world whose self-possession it was impossible to shake, I should have thought she felt a little shy in making the suggestion that I had read "Turquoise and Pearl."
"No," I said, "I've never even heard of it."
"I haven't read it, of course," she said. "But there's been a lot of talk about it. The men had it in the smoking-room at Deeside when we were there for the cock-shooting. I believe it's—well, it's not exactly the sort of book a woman would care to read."
"I'm sorry," I said firmly, "but I cannot possibly dine with you to-morrow night."
I am the curate of the parish. I felt that I could not possibly face Miss Rose Bently. I am not, I trust, prejudiced or narrow-minded; but, as a clergyman, I do not feel that I am the proper man to cope with an emancipated lady novelist. I failed altogether to guess why Miss Bently should want to see me.
"It will be all right," said Mrs. Danton. "She won't talk that way. Lady Egerton would not have sent her here if she was in the least—in fact, now I have found out what she wrote, I'm rather surprised that Lady Egerton did send her here. As a rule Lady Egerton is quite the opposite, quite; almost too much so. She disapproves dreadfully of poor Tom. You needn't be afraid."
"I'm not afraid," I said untruthfully. Mrs. Danton was smiling and seemed inclined to laugh outright. "The fact is that Margaret, my sister Margaret, promised that we'd go up to tea at the Rectory to-morrow night."
"Put them off," said Mrs. Danton, "and bring Margaret with you. She'll be one woman too many, but I'll fit her in."
Margaret would, I knew, detest being "fitted in." She has a high sense of personal dignity. She also dislikes Mrs. Danton because she imagines that Mrs. Danton patronises her. This is quite a mistake, and I used to tell her so at first. I do not press my contradiction now, because she has a theory which she puts into plain words, that Mrs. Danton makes a fool of me and winds me round her finger.
"I'm sure," I said, "that Margaret won't break her engagement."
"I shall be sorry if she doesn't," said Mrs. Danton. "She would have helped me with Miss Bently after dinner. But I shall count on you. After all it's simply your duty to come. Isn't it? As a clergyman, I mean."
I did not quite see how my duty as a clergyman came into the matter, but I had no doubt about my inclination. I felt shy of Miss Bently, but I reflected that I should have somebody else on the other side of me at dinner, and tea at the Rectory is really a very dull entertainment. I promised to do my best with Miss Bently.
Margaret, as I expected, flatly refused to dine with the Dantons. She said that if she was wanted she ought to have been asked properly. She even objected to my going. I pointed out to her that I was asked to meet a lady of great literary eminence, and that the invitation, coming as it did at the special request of the lady herself, was most flattering. Margaret sniffed. I went on to explain that my opportunities for intellectual intercourse with clever people were very few and that it would be a great pleasure to me to meet Miss Rose Bently. I brought out the name rather anxiously, sincerely hoping that Margaret had never heard of "Turquoise and Pearl." She never had. Indeed, when I put the matter that way, she took rather a nice view of it. Margaret is really fond of me, and has a high opinion of my scholarship. She thinks that here in Connemara I am a kind of unrecognised genius pining in a wilderness.
"Of course," she said, "if Miss Bently is really a clever woman"
"She is," I said. "Amazingly clever. Mrs. Danton says so."
Margaret sniffed again.
"If you've only got Mrs. Danton's word for it"
"Of course," I explained, "Mrs. Danton doesn't say it on her own authority. She is simply repeating the opinion current—in in London and other places."
"Very well," said Margaret. "If she really is a clever woman I don't want to deprive you of the chance of talking to her. But I won't go."
Thus it happened, very much I imagine to Mrs. Danton's relief, that I went up to dinner without Margaret. I arrived early and sat for some minutes alone in the drawing-room. Then Mrs. Danton rushed in with a charming apology for not being downstairs to receive me.
"I wrote for the book," she said, "directly I was sure she was coming. I wish I had had it yesterday, so that you could have read it before you met her; but it didn't come till this afternoon. Here it is."
She fished a book in a red cover out of a drawer in her writing table.
"I kept it hidden," she said, "so that Tom shouldn't get hold of it. If he did, he'd make jokes. You know Tom's sort of joke?"
I did, and urged her to conceal the book again.
"I can't read it now," I said. "There wouldn't be time. I'm not sure that I care to read it at all."
"Oh, it will be all right for you," said Mrs. Danton. "Nobody could object to your reading it—as a clergyman, I mean."
Mrs. Danton has a peculiar view, all her own, of the clerical office. I am never quite sure what she will expect me to do or say "as a clergyman."
"Keep off the subject as well as you can for to-night," said Mrs. Danton, "and read it to-morrow. Then you'll be able to talk to her about it."
A lady entered the room.
"Miss Bently," said Mrs. Danton. "How nice of you to be down in such good time after your journey. Let me introduce Mr. Meres to you. I know you're longing to meet him, and he is looking forward to a great talk with you about books and literature and art and music, and everything that we poor ordinary people know nothing about."
Miss Bently is quite a good-looking girl. I thought beforehand that she might be good-looking in a handsome, showy style. I did not expect her to be a girl. As a matter of fact she looked little more than a child. I should have put her down at the first glance as about eighteen years old. She wore a very plain white dress, and had large, innocent-looking eyes. I reflected that appearances are extraordinarily deceptive things. Miss Bently did not look as if she could possibly have written the sort of book which would shock Mrs. Danton. Mrs. Danton, being Tom's wife, is not at all easily shocked. I commented on the length of the drive from the station, and the extremely unsatisfactory nature of our train service, while the rest of the party dribbled into the room. There were eight of them altogether, without counting Tom, who was late. They were all fishing people: a fishing Colonel, with a wife and daughter who fished; a fishing stock-broker, with a wife who was an enthusiast about salmon; an elderly Miss Danton, Tom's sister; a London barrister, the butt of the party, because he never caught anything; and a nondescript boy, who was, I understood, reading for Sandhurst. No one showed the least wish to interrupt my conversation with Miss Bently.
We trooped in to dinner, and I found myself between Miss Danton and Miss Bently. This sealed my fate. Miss Danton does not like me. She does not, I believe, like anyone whom her sister-in-law does like. I knew she would not talk to me under any circumstances. I pulled myself together and devoted my attention to Miss Bently.
"Is this," I asked, "your first visit to Ireland?"
"Yes. I spent two weeks last summer in the Hebrides, North Uist; and this spring I was in Brittany. I was determined to visit Ireland next."
"And what do you think of us?" I asked.
She looked at me with a mild surprise in her eyes. I felt that the question was banal, and hastened to redeem myself.
"I met a lady once," I said, "who was paying her first visit to Ireland. She told me that the thing which surprised her most was that Irishmen never fall in love."
This was not strictly true. I did not meet that lady myself. It was Tom Danton who met her, and told me afterwards what she said. But I thought the remark was a good one to make to Miss Bently. The authoress of "Turquoise and Pearl," supposing it to be the kind of book Mrs. Danton said it was, ought to be interested in this peculiarity of Irishmen. I fully expected Miss Bently to say something brilliant in reply. I was disappointed. All she said was:
"Indeed."
I tried again.
"I suppose," I said, "that it isn't simply for pleasure that you have come here. You are probably hard at work."
"Indeed I am," she said. "I spent the last fortnight in the Aran Islands."
"Ah," I said, "local colour. Isn't that the phrase? You couldn't have gone to a better place for it."
Then to my surprise she began to talk about the Irish language. It is still spoken in great purity by the Aran Islanders. I was still more surprised when I found that she appeared to know something about the subject. She quoted, to my absolute astonishment, the opinions of Professor Windlescheim, of Heidelberg, on some points of Gaelic philology. In the course of our conversation I gathered that she herself was half German and that the Professor was her uncle. I am ashamed to say that I forgot all about her literary work, and allowed myself to be seduced into giving her a sort of lecture on ancient Gaelic and its connection with the early Aryan languages. Before the ladies left us, I had promised to take her next day to see some stones with Ogam inscriptions in a remote corner of the parish.
Afterwards, while Tom Danton, the Colonel, the stock-broker, the barrister, and the boy were telling each other fishing stories of extraordinarily imaginative power, I reflected on Miss Bently. My sister Margaret, who of course understands such matters much better than I do, has often told me that any intelligent woman can make a fool of any man.
"All she has to do," so Margaret says, "is to pretend to be interested in his particular hobby until she starts him talking about it. Then she need only smile and he will think her charming."
Margaret is very wise. I leaped to the conclusion that Miss Bently had played this trick on me. I rather resented it, but was forced to admit that she had done it uncommonly well. I should not have believed beforehand that any one could have successfully pretended to possess a knowledge of ancient Irish.
As I was saying good-night Mrs. Danton slipped "Turquoise and Pearl" into my hand. I took the book up to bed with me, and although I had to go downstairs between one and two for a fresh candle, I finished it before I went to sleep. It was worse, considerably worse, than any novel I had ever read. I have in my time studied the classic poets. I have also read the early fathers of the Church. "Turquoise and Pearl," without being so plain-spoken as either the poets or the theologians, was a great deal more disgusting.
At breakfast next morning I invited Margaret to join the expedition to the Ogam stones. I really wanter her. I felt that I required a chaperon. I was embarrassed at the prospect of a walk alone with the authoress of "Turquoise and Pearl." Margaret refused the invitation.
"I should only be in the way," she said. "If you and Miss Bently are going to talk about Sanskrit I should be bored."
"We probably won't talk about Sanskrit to-day," I said. "She only did so last night to please me. You've often told me that that is what clever women do with men like me."
"What will you talk about, then?"
"I don't know; perhaps about novels. Miss Bently, it appears, is rather a famous novelist."
"Oh! I never heard of her. What has she written?"
"She didn't tell me the names of her books," I said, "and I didn't like to ask her."
"Well, I don't know her books," said Margaret, "so there's no use my coming with you."
I took Miss Bently to see the Ogam stones. We started at eleven and did not get back till nearly two. We talked the whole time about the Gaelic language, ancient and modern. She was evidently bent on making a fool of me. She did it most successfully. I found it very difficult to believe that she was not interested in what I said. She certainly displayed extraordinary intelligence. She said—at the moment I actually believed her—that she had read my paper in "The Philologist." She said—and this may have been true—that her uncle, the famous Professor Windlescheim, of Heidelberg, had spoken very highly of my work. I completely forgot my embarrassment and never gave a single thought to "Turquoise and Pearl."
I was obliged to confess to Margaret at afternoon tea that the conversation during our walk had never once turned on novels or novel writing.
"She must be a really clever woman," said Margaret thoughtfully. Long intimacy with Margaret had given me the power of guessing pretty accurately at what she really means when she speaks. I knew that upon this occasion she was not thinking of Miss Bently as a savante, and that the cleverness which she recognized had nothing to do with Gaelic or Sanskrit.
"I wonder," Margaret went on, "why she does it."
I was perfectly frank in my reply.
"I haven't the least idea," I said. "But she'll certainly not do it again. I shall talk about novels at dinner to-night, even if I have to refer to"
I paused.
"Refer to what?"
"Turquoise and Pearl" was in my mind, but I said:
"The Times Book Club."
"I don't see any difficulty about that," said Margaret. "Everybody is talking about it."
They were, at that time.
I tried to keep my resolve. Miss Bently—I took her in to dinner again of course—made resolute efforts to return to the Ogam stones. I mentioned the name of every novel I could recollect, and commented freely on several that I had not read. Miss Bently replied in monosyllables and displayed absolutely no interest in the books.
"Miss Bently," I said at last, "we talked all yesterday evening and most of this morning about my work. Don't you think it's time that we talked about yours?"
She blushed. With the recollection of "Turquoise and Pearl" fresh in my mind I don't wonder that she blushed. Even Mrs. Danton would blush, I suppose, if suspected of having read the book. It was plainly much worse to have written it. I am bound to say she looked exceedingly charming, very innocent and shy, when I spoke directly about her work. She looked, indeed, very much as I recollect Margaret looked once when I found a poem that she had written. She was a schoolgirl at that time. I do not think that she writes poems now.
"Oh, my work is nothing," said Miss Bently.
"On the contrary," I said, "its fame has penetrated even to the west of Ireland. You must not think us utter barbarians."
"I'm in great hopes," she said, blushing again more charmingly than ever, "that my paper for next month's meeting of the British Association"
"Your what?" I asked.
"My paper. Didn't you know? But of course you didn't. How could you? I am reading a paper in the philological section on Gaelic and Icelandic roots. My uncle is going over it for me and correcting it. That is the reason I wanted so much to meet you."
"But how can you possibly?"
"I'm sure it will be no good really," she said, "but if you'll allow me I should like to send you a copy of it afterwards."
"Miss Bently," I said, "did you write? I mean to say have you ever read? What I want to say is, are you familiar with many modern novels?"
"I read Miss Yonge's," she said, "when I was at school; but I've been so busy ever since I went up to Girton that I really haven't had time for novels."
After dinner I got Mrs. Danton into a corner by herself.
"That book," I said, "'Turquoise and Pearl' is the most disgusting thing I ever read."
"You seem to be getting on very well with Miss Bently all the same," said Mrs. Danton.
I saw that she was laughing at me, and I very nearly hated her; although she is, in spite of anything Margaret can say, a very charming woman.
"She didn't write it," I said, "and it's an abominable insult"
"I know she didn't," said Mrs. Danton. "Don't be angry with me. I only found out my mistake to-night. I'd have told you before dinner if I'd got a chance. I was talking to Tom about it. He knew all along that Rose Bently was an assumed name. I don't mean assumed by our Miss Bently, I mean the other woman, the real one, you know. I don't wonder she didn't use her own name. She's a married woman, and her husband is trying to get a separation from her on account of the book. Tom says he doesn't wonder."
"I don't wonder either," I said. "I shan't return the book. I shall burn it."
"You're quite right," said Mrs. Danton, "as a clergyman, I mean, of course."
Miss Bently and I went again the next day to see the Ogam stones. We talked about ancient Gaelic and some other things. We did not get back until three o'clock. Margaret was out; but I met her later on at afternoon tea.
"Margaret," I said, "I have something very serious to say to you."
"I suppose," she said, "that you're engaged to be married to Miss Bently!"
"Yes. How did you guess?"
"It's a comfort to think," she said, "that being a novelist, she'll be able to earn something. You haven't much to marry on."
"She's not a novelist," I said. "She's a remarkable Gaelic scholar."
"Does she keep that up still?" said Margaret.
"There's no keeping up about it," I said. "She's reading a paper next month before the British Association on Gaelic and Icelandic roots."
"But she is a novelist," said Margaret. "You told me so, yesterday."
"I was mistaken. She never wrote a novel in her life and I hope she never will."
"I am sorry to hear it. There's no money to be got out of Icelandic roots."
Margaret prides herself on her strong common sense. I am inclined to regard her as occasionally sordid.
Just before I went up to dress for dinner a boy came to the door with a note. It was from Mrs. Danton.
"A congratulation, of course," said Margaret. "May I see it?"
She leaned over my shoulder while I opened and read it.
"What does she mean," said Margaret, "by that postscript about the engagement ring being turquoise and pearls? Pearls are supposed to be unlucky."
"It's some silly joke," I said. "You never can tell what Mrs. Danton means when she tries to make jokes."