“There’s no such thing.”
“Oh, but there is. Bethany told me all about it. Government snooping and all that. They had a whole session at the American Library Association, apparently.”
“If you really want to know what she’s reading, why don’t you just ask her,” said David.
“The last thing I want to do,” said Arthur, “is get into another conversation with that woman.”
“Well, that’s awkward,” said Oscar, “because she’s going to be here any minute.”
“She’s going to . . . I’m sorry, she’s what?”
“I invited her,” said Oscar. “It’s the first time in years I’ve met anyone who loves books enough to deserve to join us.”
“Loves books!” spewed Arthur.
“Suppose we change the subject,” said Oscar gently.
“I absolutely insist that we do nothing of the sort until Arthur has answered one more question,” said David.
“I am not answering any questions about my feelings, or nonfeelings, toward that woman.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask,” said David. “I merely wanted to know how many manuscripts you counted.”
“Eighty-two,” said a cheerful voice behind them.
“Ah, Miss Davis,” said Oscar. “Welcome to our little soirée.” Oscar gave Bethany a peck on the cheek and accepted a bottle of wine she had brought. David introduced himself and made a production out of kissing Bethany on the hand and lingering just longer than propriety dictated. Arthur stood by the fire and took a long drink of wine, willing his face to return to its usual color. When he looked up from his glass, Bethany was eyeing him from across the room.
“Good evening, Mr. Prescott, it’s nice to see you,” she said.
“Good evening,” he replied. “It’s nice to see you as well.” And Arthur was surprised to discover that it was. He hadn’t realized just how dark and dour the room had seemed until Miss Davis had brightened it with her presence.
“Oh, please,” said David, “call him Arthur. Even his students don’t call him Mr. Prescott.”
“And you must all call me Bethany,” she said. “Even you, Arthur.”
“So,” said Oscar when he had settled in his chair, “is this true?”
For a moment Arthur thought he was asking if Arthur were really pleased to see Bethany, but then he remembered the question Bethany had answered on her entrance.
“Yes,” he said. “Gladwyn’s inventory lists eight-three manuscripts, but Miss Davis . . . Bethany and I counted only eighty-two.”
“I counted them again after you left for Evensong, just to be sure,” said Bethany.
“And then you came to Evensong. You said you weren’t coming.”
“I said nothing of the sort. I said it wasn’t the first date I had in mind. You left before I had a chance to say anything else. You should learn to listen, Arthur.”
“All right, you two,” said David, “we didn’t come here to bicker, as much as Arthur enjoys that. We came to read, and Bethany, as our guest, has the privilege.”
“Who decided that?” said Arthur.
“The guest always reads,” said Oscar.
“But we’ve never had a guest,” said Arthur.
“So we’ve never had a chance to enforce the rule,” said David. “Now, Bethany, as soon as Arthur settles in his chair, we’ll be ready for you to begin.”
Arthur couldn’t help but feel he was being set up by the other three—for what he wasn’t sure—but he reluctantly took his seat.
“I couldn’t find quite what I wanted in the cathedral library,” began Bethany, as she pulled a bruised and battered leather-bound volume from her purse. “I discovered this in the basement room of the Barchester Public Library—last checked out on October 21, 1926. It’s one of those three-volume novels. Arthur thought I should read fiction for a change, so I’m giving it a try. It’s all about poverty in East London, and how these two young heirs, Angela and Harry, decide they are going to do something about it and they create this sort of community college kind of institution, and apparently the book inspired the founding of something called the People’s Palace—you know, life imitating art. So this is the first volume, which—I think this is really cool—is inscribed on the endpaper to somebody named Angela.”
Arthur smiled as he observed David and Oscar experience the digressive powers of Bethany’s monologues.
“Will you be reading from the beginning?” said David, apparently sensing an opening and a chance to get Bethany back on course.
“Almost,” said Bethany. “It’s a scene in the prologue where Angela and her friend Constance have just finished their studies at Cambridge—women’s colleges were a novelty in 1882, but I guess you know that. That’s when the book was published, 1882. Oh, and it’s by Walter Besant and it’s called All Sorts and Conditions of Men—I thought Arthur and Oscar at least would appreciate that the title comes from your prayer book. And I love the subtitle: An Impossible Story.”
“And will you . . .” ventured Oscar.
“Yes, I’ll read,” said Bethany. “I just needed to ramble breathlessly on for a minute so Arthur would know it was really me.” With this comment, Bethany winked at Arthur, who could not suppress a smile, and then she read.
The two women were talking about themselves and their own lives, and what they were to do each with that one life which happened, by the mere accident of birth, to belong to herself. It must be a curious subject for reflection in extreme old age, when everything has happened that is going to happen, including rheumatism, that, but for this accident, one’s life might have been so very different.
‘Because, Angela,’ said the one who wore spectacles, ‘we have but this one life before us, and if we make mistakes with it, or throw it away, or waste it, or lose our chances, it is such a dreadful pity. Oh, to think of those girls who drift and let every chance go by, and get nothing out of their lives at all—except babies’ (she spoke of babies with great contempt). ‘Oh! it seems as if every moment were precious: oh! It is a sin to waste an hour of it. Yes, my dear, all my life, short or long, shall be given to science. I will have no love in it, or marriage, or—or—anything of that kind at all.’
‘Nor will I,’ said the other stoutly, yet with apparent effort. ‘Marriage spoils a woman’s career; we must live our life to its utmost, Constance.’