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by George Gissing
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Title: The Odd Women
Author: George Gissing
Release Date: August, 2003 [Etext #4313]
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The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Odd Women
by George Gissing
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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)
The Odd Women
By George Gissing
CHAPTER I
THE FOLD AND THE SHEPHERD
'So to-morrow, Alice,' said Dr. Madden, as he walked with his eldest
daughter on the coast-downs by Clevedon, 'I shall take steps for
insuring my life for a thousand pounds.'
It was the outcome of a long and intimate conversation. Alice
Madden, aged nineteen, a plain, shy, gentle-mannered girl, short of
stature, and in movement something less than graceful, wore a
pleased look as she glanced at her father's face and then turned her
eyes across the blue channel to the Welsh hills. She was flattered
by the confidence reposed in her, for Dr. Madden, reticent by
nature, had never been known to speak in the domestic circle about
his pecuniary affairs. He seemed to be the kind of man who would
inspire his children with affection: grave but benign, amiably
diffident, with a hint of lurking mirthfulness about his eyes and
lips. And to-day he was in the best of humours; professional
prospects, as he had just explained to Alice, were more encouraging
than hitherto; for twenty years he had practised medicine at
Clevedon, but with such trifling emolument that the needs of his
large family left him scarce a margin over expenditure; now, at the
age of forty-nine--it was 1872--he looked forward with a larger
hope. Might he not reasonably count on ten or fifteen more years of
activity? Clevedon was growing in repute as a seaside resort; new
houses were rising; assuredly his practice would continue to extend.
'I don't think girls ought to be troubled about this kind of thing,'
he added apologetically. 'Let men grapple with the world; for, as
the old hymn says, "'tis their nature to." I should grieve indeed if
I thought my girls would ever have to distress themselves about
money matters. But I find I have got into the habit, Alice, of
talking to you very much as I should talk with your dear mother if
she were with us.'
Mrs. Madden, having given birth to six daughters, had fulfilled her
function in this wonderful world; for two years she had been resting
in the old churchyard that looks upon the Severn sea. Father and
daughter sighed as they recalled her memory. A sweet, calm,
unpretending woman; admirable in the domesticities; in speech and
thought distinguished by a native refinement, which in the most
fastidious eyes would have established her claim to the title of
lady. She had known but little repose, and secret anxieties told
upon her countenance long before the final collapse of health.
'And yet,' pursued the doctor--doctor only by courtesy--when he
had stooped to pluck and examine a flower, 'I made a point of never
discussing these matters with her. As no doubt you guess, life has
been rather an uphill journey with us. But the home must be guarded
against sordid cares to the last possible moment; nothing upsets me
more than the sight of those poor homes where wife and children are
obliged to talk from morning to night of how the sorry earnings
shall be laid out. No, no; women, old or young, should never have to
think about money.
The magnificent summer sunshine, and the western breeze that tasted
of ocean, heightened his natural cheeriness. Dr. Madden fell into a
familiar strain of prescience.
'There will come a day, Alice, when neither man nor woman is
troubled with such sordid care. Not yet awhile; no, no; but the day
will come. Human beings are not destined to struggle for ever like
beasts of prey. Give them time; let civilization grow. You know what
our poet says: "There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful
realm in awe--"'
He quoted the couplet with a subdued fervour which characterized the
man and explained his worldly lot. Elkanah Madden should never have
entered the medical profession; mere humanitarianism had prompted
the choice in his dreamy youth; he became an empiric, nothing more.
'Our poet,' said the doctor; Clevedon was chiefly interesting to him
for its literary associations. Tennyson he worshipped; he never
passed Coleridge's cottage without bowing in spirit. From the
contact of coarse actualities his nature shrank.
When he and Alice returned from their walk it was the hour of family
tea. A guest was present this afternoon; the eight persons who sat
down to table were as many as the little parlour could comfortably
contain. Of the sisters, next in age to Alice came Virginia, a
pretty but delicate girl of seventeen. Gertrude, Martha, and Isabel,
ranging from fourteen to ten, had no physical charm but that of
youthfulness; Isabel surpassed her eldest sister in downright
plainness of feature. The youngest, Monica, was a bonny little
maiden only just five years old, dark and bright-eyed.
The parents had omitted no care in shepherding their fold. Partly at
home, and partly in local schools, the young ladies had received
instruction suitable to their breeding, and the elder ones were
disposed to better this education by private study. The atmosphere
of the house was intellectual; books, especially the poets, lay in
every room. But it never occurred to Dr. Madden that his daughters
would do well to study with a professional object. In hours of
melancholy he had of course dreaded the risks of life, and resolved,
always with postponement, to make some practical provision for his
family; in educating them as well as circumstances allowed, he
conceived that he was doing the next best thing to saving money,
for, if a fatality befell, teaching would always be their resource.
The thought, however, of his girls having to work for money was so
utterly repulsive to him that he could never seriously dwell upon
it. A vague piety supported his courage. Providence would not deal
harshly with him and his dear ones. He enjoyed excellent health; his
practice decidedly improved. The one duty clearly before him was to
set an example of righteous life, and to develop the girls' minds--
in every proper direction. For, as to training them for any path
save those trodden by English ladies of the familiar type, he could
not have dreamt of any such thing. Dr. Madden's hopes for the race
were inseparable from a maintenance of morals and conventions such
as the average man assumes in his estimate of women.
The guest at table was a young girl named Rhoda Nunn. Tall, thin,
eager-looking, but with promise of bodily vigour, she was singled at
a glance as no member of the Madden family. Her immaturity (but
fifteen, she looked two years older) appeared in nervous
restlessness, and in her manner of speaking, childish at times in
the hustling of inconsequent thoughts, yet striving to imitate the
talk of her seniors. She had a good head, in both senses of the
phrase; might or might not develop a certain beauty, but would
assuredly put forth the fruits of intellect. Her mother, an invalid,
was spending the summer months at Clevedon, with Dr. Madden for
medical adviser, and in this way the girl became friendly with the
Madden household. Its younger members she treated rather
condescendingly; childish things she had long ago put away, and her
sole pleasure was in intellectual talk. With a frankness peculiar to
her, indicative of pride, Miss Nunn let it be known that she would
have to earn her living, probably as a school teacher; study for
examinations occupied most of her day, and her hours of leisure were
frequently spent either at the Maddens or with a family named
Smithson--people, these latter, for whom she had a profound and
somewhat mysterious admiration. Mr. Smithson, a widower with a
consumptive daughter, was a harsh-featured, rough-voiced man of
about five-and-thirty, secretly much disliked by Dr. Madden because
of his aggressive radicalism; if women's observation could be
trusted, Rhoda Nunn had simply fallen in love with him, had made
him, perhaps unconsciously, the object of her earliest passion.
Alice and Virginia commented on the fact in their private colloquy
with a shamefaced amusement; they feared that it spoke ill for the
young lady's breeding. None the less they thought Rhoda a remarkable
person, and listened to her utterances respectfully.
'And what is your latest paradox, Miss Nunn?' inquired the doctor,
with grave facetiousness, when he had looked round the young faces
at his board.
'Really, I forget, doctor. Oh, but I wanted to ask you, Do you think
women ought to sit in Parliament?'
'Why, no,' was the response, as if after due consideration. 'If they
are there at all they ought to stand.'
'Oh, I can't get you to talk seriously,' rejoined Rhoda, with an air
of vexation, whilst the others were good-naturedly laughing. 'Mr.
Smithson thinks there ought to be female members of Parliament.
'Does he? Have the girls told you that there's a nightingale in Mr.
Williams's orchard?'
It was always thus. Dr. Madden did not care to discuss even
playfully the radical notions which Rhoda got from her objectionable
friend. His daughters would not have ventured to express an opinion
on such topics when he was present; apart with Miss Nunn, they
betrayed a timid interest in whatever proposition she advanced, but
no gleam of originality distinguished their arguments.
After tea the little company fell into groups--some out of doors
beneath the apple-trees, others near the piano at which Virginia was
playing Mendelssohn. Monica ran about among them with her
five-year-old prattle, ever watched by her father, who lounged in a
canvas chair against the sunny ivied wall, pipe in mouth. Dr. Madden
was thinking how happy they made him, these kind, gentle girls; how
his love for them seemed to ripen with every summer; what a
delightful old age his would be, when some were married and had
children of their own, and the others tended him--they whom he had
tended. Virginia would probably be sought in marriage; she had good
looks, a graceful demeanour, a bright understanding. Gertrude also,
perhaps. And little Monica--ah, little Monica! she would be the
beauty of the family. When Monica had grown up it would be time for
him to retire from practice; by then he would doubtless have saved
money.
He must find more society for them; they had always been too much
alone, whence their shyness among strangers. If their mother had but
lived!
'Rhoda wishes you to read us something, father,' said his eldest
girl, who had approached whilst he was lost in dream.
He often read aloud to them from the poets; Coleridge and Tennyson
by preference. Little persuasion was needed. Alice brought the
volume, and he selected 'The Lotus-Eaters.' The girls grouped
themselves about him, delighted to listen. Many an hour of summer
evening had they thus spent, none more peaceful than the present.
The reader's cadenced voice blended with the song of a thrush.
'"Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All thing' are taken from us--"'
There came an interruption, hurried, peremptory. A farmer over at
Kingston Seymour had been seized with alarming illness; the doctor
must come at once.
'Very sorry, girls. Tell James to put the horse in, sharp as he can.
In ten minutes Dr. Madden was driving at full speed, alone in his
dog-cart, towards the scene of duty.
About seven o'clock Rhoda Nunn took leave, remarking with her usual
directness, that before going home she would walk along the
sea-front in the hope of a meeting with Mr. Smithson and his
daughter. Mrs. Nunn was not well enough to leave the house to-day;
but, said Rhoda, the invalid preferred being left alone at such
times.
'Are you sure she prefers it?' Alice ventured to ask. The girl gave
her a look of surprise.
'Why should mother say what she doesn't mean?'
It was uttered with an ingenuousness which threw some light on
Rhoda's character.
By nine o'clock the younger trio of sisters had gone to bed; Alice,
Virginia, and Gertrude sat in the parlour, occupied with books, from
time to time exchanging a quiet remark. A tap at the door scarcely
drew their attention, for they supposed it was the maid-servant
coming to lay supper. But when the door opened there was a
mysterious silence; Alice looked up and saw the expected face,
wearing, however, so strange an expression that she rose with sudden
fear.
'Can I speak to you, please, miss?'
The dialogue out in the passage was brief. A messenger had just
arrived with the tidings that Dr. Madden, driving back from Kingston
Seymour, had been thrown from his vehicle and lay insensible at a
roadside cottage.
* * *
For some time the doctor had been intending to buy a new horse; his
faithful old roadster was very weak in the knees. As in other
matters, so in this, postponement became fatality; the horse
stumbled and fell, and its driver was flung head forward into the
road. Some hours later they brought him to his home, and for a day
or two there were hopes that he might rally. But the sufferer's
respite only permitted him to dictate and sign a brief will; this
duty performed, Dr. Madden closed his lips for ever.
CHAPTER II
ADRIFT
Just before Christmas of 1887, a lady past her twenties, and with a
look of discouraged weariness on her thin face, knocked at a
house-door in a little street by Lavender Hill. A card in the window
gave notice that a bedroom was here to let. When the door opened,
and a clean, grave, elderly woman presented herself, the visitor,
regarding her anxiously, made known that she was in search of a
lodging.
'It may be for a few weeks only, or it may be for a longer period,'
she said in a low, tired voice, with an accent of good breeding. 'I
have a difficulty in finding precisely what I want. One room would
be sufficient, and I ask for very little attendance.'
She had but one room to let, replied the other. It might be
inspected.
They went upstairs. The room was at the back of the house, small,
but neatly furnished. Its appearance seemed to gratify the visitor,
for she smiled timidly.
'What rent should you ask?'
'That would depend, mum, on what attendance was required.'
'Yes--of course. I think--will you permit me to sit down? I am
really very tired. Thank you. I require very little attendance
indeed. My ways are very simple. I should make the bed myself,
and--and, do the other little things that are necessary from day to
day. Perhaps I might ask you to sweep the room out--once a week or
so.'
The landlady grew meditative. Possibly she had had experience of
lodgers who were anxious to give as little trouble as possible. She
glanced furtively at the stranger.
'And what,' was her question at length, 'would you be thinking of
paying?'
'Perhaps I had better explain my position. For several years I have
been companion to a lady in Hampshire. Her death has thrown me on my
own resources--I hope only for a short time. I have come to London
because a younger sister of mine is employed here in a house of
business; she recommended me to seek for lodgings in this part; I
might as well be near her whilst I am endeavouring to find another
post; perhaps I may be fortunate enough to find one in London.
Quietness and economy are necessary to me. A house like yours would
suit me very well--very well indeed. Could we not agree upon terms
within my--within my power?'
Again the landlady pondered.
'Would you be willing to pay five and sixpence?'
'Yes, I would pay five and sixpence--if you are quite sure that
you could let me live in my own way with satisfaction to yourself.
I--in fact, I am a vegetarian, and as the meals I take are so very
simple, I feel that I might just as well prepare them myself. Would
you object to my doing so in this room? A kettle and a saucepan are
really all--absolutely all--that I should need to use. As I
shall be much at home, it will be of course necessary for me to have
a fire.'
In the course of half an hour an agreement had been devised which
seemed fairly satisfactory to both parties.
'I'm not one of the graspin' ones,' remarked the landlady. 'I think
I may say that of myself. If I make five or six shillings a week out
of my spare room, I don't grumble. But the party as takes it must do
their duty on _their_ side. You haven't told me your name yet, mum.'
'Miss Madden. My luggage is at the railway station; it shall be
brought here this evening. And, as I am quite unknown to you, I
shall be glad to pay my rent in advance.'
'Well, I don't ask for that; but it's just as you like.'
'Then I will pay you five and sixpence at once. Be so kind as to let
me have a receipt.'
So Miss Madden established herself at Lavender Hill, and dwelt there
alone for three months.
She received letters frequently, but only one person called upon
her. This was her sister Monica, now serving at a draper's in
Walworth Road. The young lady came every Sunday, and in bad weather
spent the whole day up in the little bedroom. Lodger and landlady
were on remarkably good terms; the one paid her dues with exactness,
and the other did many a little kindness not bargained for in the
original contract.
Time went on to the spring of '88. Then, one afternoon, Miss Madden
descended to the kitchen and tapped in her usual timid way at the
door.
'Are you at leisure, Mrs. Conisbee? Could I have a little
conversation with you?'
The landlady was alone, and with no more engrossing occupation than
the ironing of some linen she had recently washed.
'I have mentioned my elder sister now and then. I am sorry to say
she is leaving her post with the family at Hereford. The children
are going to school, so that her services are no longer needed.'
'Indeed, mum?'
'Yes. For a shorter or longer time she will be in need of a home.
Now it has occurred to me, Mrs. Conisbee, that--that I would ask
you whether you would have any objection to her sharing my room with
me? Of course there must be an extra payment. The room is small for
two persons, but then the arrangement would only be temporary. My
sister is a good and experienced teacher, and I am sure she will
have no difficulty in obtaining another engagement.'
Mrs. Conisbee reflected, but without a shade of discontent. By this
time she knew that her lodger was thoroughly to be trusted.
'Well, it's if _you_ can manage, mum,' she replied. 'I don't see as
I could have any fault to find, if you thought you could both live
in that little room. And as for the rent, _I_ should be quite
satisfied if we said seven shillings instead of five and six.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Conisbee; thank you very much indeed. I will write
to my sister at once; the news will be a great relief to her. We
shall have quite an enjoyable little holiday together.'
A week later the eldest of the three Miss Maddens arrived. As it was
quite impossible to find space for her boxes in the bedroom, Mrs.
Conisbee allowed them to be deposited in the room occupied by her
daughter, which was on the same floor. In a day or two the sisters
had begun a life of orderly tenor. When weather permitted they were
out either in the morning or afternoon. Alice Madden was in London
for the first time; she desired to see the sights, but suffered the
restrictions of poverty and ill-health. After nightfall, neither she
nor Virginia ever left home.
There was not much personal likeness between them.
The elder (now five-and-thirty) tended to corpulence, the result of
sedentary life; she had round shoulders and very short legs. Her
face would not have been disagreeable but for its spoilt complexion;
the homely features, if health had but rounded and coloured them,
would have expressed pleasantly enough the gentleness and sincerity
of her character. Her cheeks were loose, puffy, and permanently of
the hue which is produced by cold; her forehead generally had a few
pimples; her shapeless chin lost itself in two or three fleshy
fissures. Scarcely less shy than in girlhood, she walked with a
quick, ungainly movement as if seeking to escape from some one, her
head bent forward.
Virginia (about thirty-three) had also an unhealthy look, but the
poverty, or vitiation, of her blood manifested itself in less
unsightly forms. One saw that she had been comely, and from certain
points of view her countenance still had a grace, a sweetness, all
the more noticeable because of its threatened extinction. For she
was rapidly ageing; her lax lips grew laxer, with emphasis of a
characteristic one would rather not have perceived there; her eyes
sank into deeper hollows; wrinkles extended their network; the flesh
of her neck wore away. Her tall meagre body did not seem strong
enough to hold itself upright.
Alice had brown hair, but very little of it. Virginia's was inclined
to be ruddy; it surmounted her small head in coils and plaits not
without beauty. The voice of the elder sister had contracted an
unpleasant hoarseness, but she spoke with good enunciation; a slight
stiffness and pedantry of phrase came, no doubt, of her scholastic
habits. Virginia was much more natural in manner and fluent in
speech, even as she moved far more gracefully.
It was now sixteen years since the death of Dr. Madden of Clevedon.
The story of his daughters' lives in the interval may be told with
brevity suitable to so unexciting a narrative.
When the doctor's affairs were set in order, it was found that the
patrimony of his six girls amounted, as nearly as possible, to eight
hundred pounds.
Eight hundred pounds is, to be sure, a sum of money; but how, in
these circumstances, was it to be applied?
There came over from Cheltenham a bachelor uncle, aged about sixty.
This gentleman lived on an annuity of seventy pounds, which would
terminate when _he_ did. It might be reckoned to him for
righteousness that he spent the railway fare between Cheltenham and
Clevedon to attend his brother's funeral, and to speak a kind word
to his nieces. Influence he had none; initiative, very little. There
was no reckoning upon him for aid of any kind.
From Richmond in Yorkshire, in reply to a letter from Alice, wrote
an old, old aunt of the late Mrs. Madden, who had occasionally sent
the girls presents. Her communication was barely legible; it seemed
to contain fortifying texts of Scripture, but nothing in the way of
worldly counsel. This old lady had no possessions to bequeath. And,
as far as the girls knew, she was their mother's only surviving
relative.
The executor of the will was a Clevedon tradesman, a kind and
capable friend of the family for many years, a man of parts and
attainments superior to his station. In council with certain other
well-disposed persons, who regarded the Maddens' circumstances with
friendly anxiety, Mr. Hungerford (testamentary instruction allowing
him much freedom of action) decided that the three elder girls must
forthwith become self-supporting, and that the three younger should
live together in the care of a lady of small means, who offered to
house and keep them for the bare outlay necessitated. A prudent
investment of the eight hundred pounds might, by this arrangement,
feed, clothe, and in some sort educate Martha, Isabel, and Monica.
To see thus far ahead sufficed for the present; fresh circumstances
could be dealt with as they arose.
Alice obtained a situation as nursery-governess at sixteen pounds a
year. Virginia was fortunate enough to be accepted as companion by a
gentlewoman at Weston-super-Mare; her payment, twelve pounds.
Gertrude, fourteen years old, also went to Weston, where she was
offered employment in a fancy-goods shop--her payment nothing at
all, but lodging, board, and dress assured to her.
Ten years went by, and saw many changes.
Gertrude and Martha were dead; the former of consumption, the other
drowned by the overturning of a pleasure-boat. Mr. Hungerford also
was dead, and a new guardian administered the fund which was still a
common property of the four surviving daughters. Alice plied her
domestic teaching; Virginia remained a 'companion.' Isabel, now aged
twenty, taught in a Board School at Bridgewater, and Monica, just
fifteen, was on the point of being apprenticed to a draper at
Weston, where Virginia abode. To serve behind a counter would not
have been Monica's choice if any more liberal employment had seemed
within her reach. She had no aptitude whatever for giving
instruction; indeed, had no aptitude for anything but being a
pretty, cheerful, engaging girl, much dependent on the love and
gentleness of those about her. In speech and bearing Monica greatly
resembled her mother; that is to say, she had native elegance.
Certainly it might be deemed a pity that such a girl could not be
introduced to one of the higher walks of life; but the time had come
when she must 'do something', and the people to whose guidance she
looked had but narrow experience of life. Alice and Virginia sighed
over the contrast with bygone hopes, but their own careers made it
seem probable that Monica would be better off 'in business' than in
a more strictly genteel position. And there was every likelihood
that, at such a place as Weston, with her sister for occasional
chaperon, she would ere long find herself relieved of the necessity
of working for a livelihood.
To the others, no wooer had yet presented himself. Alice, if she had
ever dreamt of marriage, must by now have resigned prettiness, her
health damaged by attendance upon an exacting herself to
spinsterhood. Virginia could scarce hope that her faded invalid and
in profitless study when she ought to have been sleeping, would
attract any man in search of a wife. Poor Isabel was so extremely
plain. Monica, if her promise were fulfilled, would be by far the
best looking, as well as the sprightliest, of the family. She must
marry; of course she must marry! Her sisters gladdened in the
thought.
Isabel was soon worked into illness. Brain trouble came on,
resulting in melancholia. A charitable institution ultimately
received her, and there, at two-and-twenty, the poor hard-featured
girl drowned herself in a bath.
Their numbers had thus been reduced by half. Up to now, the income
of their eight hundred pounds had served, impartially, the ends now
of this, now of that one, doing a little good to all, saving them
from many an hour of bitterness which must else have been added to
their lot. By a new arrangement, the capital was at length made over
to Alice and Virginia jointly, the youngest sister having a claim
upon them to the extent of an annual nine pounds. A trifle, but it
would buy her clothing--and then Monica was sure to marry. Thank
Heaven, she was sure to marry!
Without notable event, matrimonial or other, time went on to this
present year of 1888.
Late in June, Monica would complete her twenty-first year; the
elders, full of affection for the sister, who so notably surpassed
them in beauty of person, talked much about her as the time
approached, devising how to procure her a little pleasure on her
birthday. Virginia thought a suitable present would be a copy of
'the Christian Year'.
'She has really no time for continuous reading. A verse of Keble--
just one verse at bedtime and in the morning might be strength to
the poor girl.'
Alice assented.
'We must join to buy it, dear,' she added, with anxious look. 'It
wouldn't be justifiable to spend more than two or three shillings.'
'I fear not.'
They were preparing their midday meal, the substantial repast of the
day. In a little saucepan on an oil cooking-stove was some plain
rice, bubbling as Alice stirred it. Virginia fetched from downstairs
(Mrs. Conisbee had assigned to them a shelf in her larder) bread,
butter, cheese, a pot of preserve, and arranged the table (three
feet by one and a half) at which they were accustomed to eat. The
rice being ready, it was turned out in two proportions; made savoury
with a little butter, pepper, and salt, it invited them to sit down.
As they had been out in the morning, the afternoon would be spent in
domestic occupations. The low cane-chair Virginia had appropriated
to her sister, because of the latter's headaches and backaches, and
other disorders; she herself sat on an ordinary chair of the bedside
species, to which by this time she had become used. Their sewing,
when they did any, was strictly indispensable; if nothing demanded
the needle, both preferred a book. Alice, who had never been a
student in the proper sense of the word, read for the twentieth time
a few volumes in her possession--poetry, popular history, and half
a dozen novels such as the average mother of children would have
approved in the governess's hands. With Virginia the case was
somewhat different. Up to about her twenty-fourth year she had
pursued one subject with a zeal limited only by her opportunities;
study absolutely disinterested, seeing that she had never supposed
it would increase her value as a 'companion', or enable her to take
any better position. Her one intellectual desire was to know as much
as possible about ecclesiastical history. Not in a spirit of
fanaticism; she was devout, but in moderation, and never spoke
bitterly on religious topics. The growth of the Christian Church,
old sects and schisms, the Councils, affairs of Papal policy--
these things had a very genuine interest for her; circumstances
favouring, she might have become an erudite woman; But the
conditions were so far from favourable that all she succeeded in
doing was to undermine her health. Upon a sudden breakdown there
followed mental lassitude, from which she never recovered. It being
subsequently her duty to read novels aloud for the lady whom she
'companioned,' new novels at the rate of a volume a day, she lost
all power of giving her mind to anything but the feebler fiction.
Nowadays she procured such works from a lending library, on a
subscription of a shilling a month. Ashamed at first to indulge this
taste before Alice, she tried more solid literature, but this either
sent her to sleep or induced headache. The feeble novels reappeared,
and as Alice made no adverse comment, they soon came and went with
the old regularity.
This afternoon the sisters were disposed for conversation. The same
grave thought preoccupied both of them, and they soon made it their
subject.
'Surely,' Alice began by murmuring, half absently, 'I shall soon
hear of something.'
'I am dreadfully uneasy on my own account,' her sister replied.
'You think the person at Southend won't write again?'
'I'm afraid not. And she seemed so _very_ unsatisfactory. Positively
illiterate--oh, I couldn't bear that.' Virginia gave a shudder as
she spoke.
'I almost wish,' said Alice, 'that I had accepted the place at
Plymouth.'
'Oh, my dear! Five children and not a penny of salary. It was a
shameless proposal.'
'It was, indeed,' sighed the poor governess. 'But there is so little
choice for people like myself. Certificates, and even degrees, are
asked for on every hand. With nothing but references to past
employers, what can one expect? I know it will end in my taking a
place without salary.'
'People seem to have still less need of _me_,' lamented the
companion. 'I wish now that I had gone to Norwich as lady-help.'
'Dear, your health would _never_ have supported it.'
'I don't know. Possibly the more active life might do me good. It
_might_, you know, Alice.'
The other admitted this possibility with a deep sigh.
'Let us review our position,' she then exclaimed.
It was a phrase frequently on her lips, and always made her more
cheerful. Virginia also seemed to welcome it as an encouragement.
'Mine,' said the companion, 'is almost as serious as it could be. I
have only one pound left, with the exception of the dividend.'
'I have rather more than four pounds still. Now, let us think,'
Alice paused. 'Supposing we neither of us obtain employment before
the end of this year. We have to live, in that case, more than six
months--you on seven pounds, and I on ten.'
'It's impossible,' said Virginia.
'Let us see. Put it in another form. We have both to live together
on seventeen pounds. That is--' she made a computation on a piece
of paper--'that is two pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence a
month--let us suppose this month at an end. That represents
fourteen shillings and twopence a week. Yes, we can do it!'
She laid down her pencil with an air of triumph. Her dull eyes
brightened as though she had discovered a new source of income.
'We cannot, dear,' urged Virginia in a subdued voice. 'Seven
shillings rent; that leaves only seven and twopence a week for
everything--everything.'
'We _could_ do it, dear,' persisted the other. 'If it came to the
very worst, our food need not cost more than sixpence a day--three
and sixpence a week. I do really believe, Virgie, we could support
life on less--say, on fourpence. Yes, we could dear!'
They looked fixedly at each other, like people about to stake
everything on their courage.
'Is such a life worthy of the name?' asked Virginia in tones of awe.
'We shan't be driven to that. Oh, we certainly shall not. But it
helps one to know that, strictly speaking, we are _independent_ for
another six months.'
That word gave Virginia an obvious thrill.
'Independent! Oh, Alice, what a blessed thing is independence! Do
you know, my dear, I am afraid I have not exerted myself as I might
have done to find a new place. These comfortable lodgings, and the
pleasure of seeing Monica once a week, have tempted me into
idleness. It isn't really my wish to be idle; I know the harm it
does me; but oh! if one could work in a home of one's own!'
Alice had a startled, apprehensive look, as if her sister were
touching on a subject hardly proper for discussion, or at least
dangerous.
'I'm afraid it's no use thinking of that, dear,' she answered
awkwardly.
'No use; no use whatever. I am wrong to indulge in such thoughts.'
'Whatever happens, my dear,' said Alice presently, with all the
impressiveness of tone she could command, 'we must never entrench
upon our capital--never--never!'
'Oh, never! If we grow old and useless--'
'If no one will give us even board and lodging for our services--'
'If we haven't a friend to look to,' Alice threw in, as though they
were answering each other in a doleful litany, 'then indeed we shall
be glad that nothing tempted us to entrench on our capital! It would
just keep us'--her voice sank--'from the workhouse.'
After this each took up a volume, and until teatime they read
quietly.
From six to nine in the evening they again talked and read
alternately. Their conversation was now retrospective; each revived
memories of what she had endured in one or the other house of
bondage. Never had it been their lot to serve 'really nice'
people--this phrase of theirs was anything but meaningless. They had
lived with more or less well-to-do families in the lower middle
class--people who could not have inherited refinement, and had not
acquired any, neither proletarians nor gentlefolk, consumed with a
disease of vulgar pretentiousness, inflated with the miasma of
democracy. It would have been but a natural result of such a life if
the sisters had commented upon it in a spirit somewhat akin to that
of their employers; but they spoke without rancour, without
scandalmongering. They knew themselves superior to the women who had
grudgingly paid them, and often smiled at recollections which would
have moved the servile mind to venomous abuse.
At nine o'clock they took a cup of cocoa and a biscuit, and half an
hour later they went to bed. Lamp oil was costly; and indeed they
felt glad to say as early as possible that another day had gone by.
Their hour of rising was eight. Mrs. Conisbee provided hot water for
their breakfast. On descending to fetch it, Virginia found that the
postman had left a letter for her. The writing on the envelope
seemed to be a stranger's. She ran upstairs again in excitement.
'Who can this be from, Alice?'
The elder sister had one of her headaches this morning; she was clay
colour, and tottered in moving about. The close atmosphere of the
bedroom would alone have accounted for such a malady. But an
unexpected letter made her for the moment oblivious of suffering.
'Posted in London,' she said, examining the envelope eagerly.
'Some one you have been in correspondence with?'
'It's months since I wrote to any one in London.'
For full five minutes they debated the mystery, afraid of dashing
their hopes by breaking the envelope. At length Virginia summoned
courage. Standing at a distance from the other, she took out the
sheet of paper with tremulous hand, and glanced fearfully at the
signature.
'What _do_ you think? It's Miss Nunn!'
'Miss Nunn! Never! How could she have got the address?'
Again the difficulty was discussed whilst its ready solution lay
neglected.
'Do read it!' said Alice at length, her throbbing head, made worse
by the agitation, obliging her to sink down into the chair.
The letter ran thus:--
'DEAR Miss MADDEN,--This morning I chanced to meet with Mrs.
Darby, who was passing through London on her way home from the
seaside. We had only five minutes' talk (it was at a railway
station), but she mentioned that you were at present in London, and
gave me your address. After all these years, how glad I should be to
see you! The struggle of life has made me selfish; I have neglected
my old friends. And yet I am bound to add that some of _them_ have
neglected _me_. Would you rather that I came to your lodgings or you
to mine? Which you like. I hear that your elder sister is with you,
and that Monica is also in London somewhere. Do let us all see each
other once more. Write as soon as you can. My kindest regards to all
of you.--Sincerely yours,
RHODA NUNN.'
'How like her,' exclaimed Virginia, when she had read this aloud,
'to remember that perhaps we may not care to receive visitors! She
was always so thoughtful. And it is true that I _ought_ to have
written to her.'
'We shall go to her, of course?'
'Oh yes, as she gives us the choice. How delightful! I wonder what
she is doing? She writes cheerfully; I am sure she must be in a good
position. What is the address? Queen's Road, Chelsea. Oh, I'm so
glad it's not very far. We can walk there and back easily.'
For several years they had lost sight of Rhoda Nunn. She left
Clevedon shortly after the Maddens were scattered, and they heard
she had become a teacher. About the date of Monica's apprenticeship
at Weston, Miss Nunn had a chance meeting with Virginia and the
younger girl; she was still teaching, but spoke of her work with
extreme discontent, and hinted at vague projects. Whether she
succeeded in releasing herself the Maddens never heard.
It was a morning of doubtful fairness. Before going to bed last
night they had decided to walk out together this morning and
purchase the present for Monica's birthday, which was next Sunday.
But Alice felt too unwell to leave the house. Virginia should write
a reply to Miss Nunn's letter, and then go to the bookseller's
alone.
She set forth at half-past nine. With extreme care she had preserved
an out-of-doors dress into the third summer; it did not look shabby.
Her mantle was in its second year only; the original fawn colour had
gone to an indeterminate grey. Her hat of brown straw was a
possession for ever; it underwent new trimming, at an outlay of a
few pence, when that became unavoidable. Yet Virginia could not have
been judged anything but a lady. She wore her garments as only a
lady can (the position and movement of the arms has much to do with
this), and had the step never to be acquired by a person of vulgar
instincts.
A very long walk was before her. She wished to get as far as the
Strand bookshops, not only for the sake of choice, but because this
region pleased her and gave her a sense of holiday. Past Battersea
Park, over Chelsea Bridge, then the weary stretch to Victoria
Station, and the upward labour to Charing Cross. Five miles, at
least, measured by pavement. But Virginia walked quickly; at
half-past eleven she was within sight of her goal.
A presentable copy of Keble's work cost less than she had imagined.
This rejoiced her. But after leaving the shop she had a singular
expression on her face--something more than weariness, something
less than anxiety, something other than calculation. In front of
Charing Cross Station she stopped, looking vaguely about her.
Perhaps she had it in her mind to return home by omnibus, and was
dreading the expense. Yet of a sudden she turned and went up the
approach to the railway.
At the entrance again she stopped. Her features were now working in
the strangest way, as though a difficulty of breathing had assailed
her. In her eyes was an eager yet frightened look; her lips stood
apart.
Another quick movement, and she entered the station. She went
straight to the door of the refreshment room, and looked in through
the glass. Two or three people were standing inside. She drew back,
a tremor passing through her.
A lady came out. Then again Virginia approached the door. Two men
only were within, talking together. With a hurried, nervous
movement, she pushed the door open and went up to a part of the
counter as far as possible from the two customers. Bending forward,
she said to the barmaid in a voice just above a whisper,--
'Kindly give me a little brandy.'
Beads of perspiration were on her face, which had turned to a
ghastly pallor. The barmaid, concluding that she was ill, served her
promptly and with a sympathetic look.
Virginia added to the spirit twice its quantity of water, standing,
as she did so, half turned from the bar. Then she sipped hurriedly
two or three times, and at length took a draught. Colour flowed to
her cheeks; her eyes lost their frightened glare. Another draught
finished the stimulant. She hastily wiped her lips, and walked away
with firm step.
In the meantime a threatening cloud had passed from the sun; warm
rays fell upon the street and its clamorous life. Virginia felt
tired in body, but a delightful animation, rarest of boons, gave her
new strength. She walked into Trafalgar Square and viewed it like a
person who stands there for the first time, smiling, interested. A
quarter of an hour passed whilst she merely enjoyed the air, the
sunshine, and the scene about her. Such a quarter of an hour--so
calm, contented, unconsciously hopeful--as she had not known since
Alice's coming to London.
She reached the house by half-past one, bringing in a paper bag
something which was to serve for dinner. Alice had a wretched
appearance; her head ached worse than ever.
'Virgie,' she moaned, 'we never took account of illness, you know.'
'Oh, we must keep that off,' replied the other, sitting down with a
look of exhaustion. She smiled, but no longer as in the sunlight of
Trafalgar Square.
'Yes, I must struggle against it. We will have dinner as soon as
possible. I feel faint.'
If both of them had avowed their faintness as often as they felt it,
the complaint would have been perpetual. But they generally made a
point of deceiving each other, and tried to delude themselves;
professing that no diet could be better for their particular needs
than this which poverty imposed.
'Ah! it's a good sign to be hungry,' exclaimed Virginia. 'You'll be
better this afternoon, dear.'
Alice turned over 'The Christian Year,' and endeavoured to console
herself out of it, whilst her sister prepared the meal.
CHAPTER III
AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN
Virginia's reply to Miss Nunn's letter brought another note next
morning--Saturday. It was to request a call from the sisters that
same afternoon.
Alice, unfortunately, would not be able to leave home. Her disorder
had become a feverish cold--caught, doubtless, between open window
and door whilst the bedroom was being aired for breakfast. She lay
in bed, and her sister administered remedies of the chemist's
advising.
But she insisted on Virginia leaving her in the afternoon. Miss Nunn
might have something of importance to tell or to suggest. Mrs.
Conisbee, sympathetic in her crude way, would see that the invalid
wanted for nothing.
So, after a dinner of mashed potatoes and milk ('The Irish peasantry
live almost entirely on that,' croaked Alice, 'and they are
physically a fine race'), the younger sister started on her walk to
Chelsea. Her destination was a plain, low roomy old house in Queen's
Road, over against the hospital gardens. On asking for Miss Nunn,
she was led to a back room on the ground floor, and there waited for
a few moments. Several large bookcases, a well-equipped
writing-table, and kindred objects, indicated that the occupant of
the house was studious; the numerous bunches of cut flowers, which
agreeably scented the air, seemed to prove the student was a woman.
Miss Nunn entered. Younger only by a year or two than Virginia, she
was yet far from presenting any sorrowful image of a person on the
way to old-maidenhood. She had a clear though pale skin, a vigorous
frame, a brisk movement--all the signs of fairly good health.
Whether or not she could be called a comely woman might have
furnished matter for male discussion; the prevailing voice of her
own sex would have denied her charm of feature. At first view the
countenance seemed masculine, its expression somewhat aggressive--
eyes shrewdly observant and lips consciously impregnable. But the
connoisseur delayed his verdict. It was a face that invited, that
compelled, study. Self-confidence, intellectual keenness, a bright
humour, frank courage, were traits legible enough; and when the lips
parted to show their warmth, their fullness, when the eyelids
drooped a little in meditation, one became aware of a suggestiveness
directed not solely to the intellect, of something like an
unfamiliar sexual type, remote indeed from the voluptuous, but
hinting a possibility of subtle feminine forces that might be
released by circumstance. She wore a black serge gown, with white
collar and cuffs; her thick hair rippled low upon each side of the
forehead, and behind was gathered into loose vertical coils; in
shadow the hue seemed black, but when illumined it was seen to be
the darkest, warmest brown.
Offering a strong, shapely hand, she looked at her visitor with a
smile which betrayed some mixture of pain in the hearty welcome.
'And how long have you been in London?'
It was the tone of a busy, practical person. Her voice had not much
softness of timbre, and perhaps on that account she kept it
carefully subdued.
'So long as that? How I wish I had known you were so near! I have
been in London myself about two years. And your sisters?'
Virginia explained Alice's absence, adding,--
'As for poor Monica, she has only Sunday free--except one evening
a month. She is at business till half-past nine, and on Saturday
till half-past eleven or twelve.'
'Oh, dear, dear, dear!' exclaimed the other rapidly, making a motion
with her hand as if to brush away something disagreeable. 'That will
never do. You must put a stop to that.'
'I am sure we ought to.'
Virginia's thin, timid voice and weak manner were thrown into
painful contrast by Miss Nunn's personality.
'Yes, yes; we will talk about it presently. Poor little Monica! But
do tell me about yourself and Miss Madden. It is so long since I
heard about you.'
'Indeed I ought to have written. I remember that at the end of our
correspondence I remained in your debt. But it was a troublesome and
depressing time with me. I had nothing but groans and moans to
send.'
'You didn't stay long, I trust, with that trying Mrs. Carr?'
'Three years!' sighed Virginia.
'Oh, your patience!'
'I wished to leave again and again. But at the end she always begged
me not to desert her--that was how she put it. After all, I never
had the heart to go.'
'Very kind of you, but--those questions are so difficult to
decide. Self-sacrifice may be quite wrong, I'm afraid.'
'Do you think so?' asked Virginia anxiously.
'Yes, I am sure it is often wrong--all the more so because people
proclaim it a virtue without any reference to circumstances. Then
how did you get away at last?'
'The poor woman died. Then I had a place scarcely less disagreeable.
Now I have none at all; but I really must find one very soon.'
She laughed at this allusion to her poverty, and made nervous
motions.
'Let me tell you what my own course has been,' said Miss Nunn, after
a short reflection. 'When my mother died, I determined to have done
with teaching--you know that. I disliked it too much, and partly,
of course, because I was incapable. Half my teaching was a sham--a
pretence of knowing what I neither knew nor cared to know. I had
gone into it like most girls, as a dreary matter of course.'
'Like poor Alice, I'm afraid.'
'Oh, it's a distressing subject. When my mother left me that little
sum of money I took a bold step. I went to Bristol to learn
everything I could that would help me out of school life. Shorthand,
book-keeping, commercial correspondence--I had lessons in them
all, and worked desperately for a year. It did me good; at the end
of the year I was vastly improved in health, and felt myself worth
something in the world. I got a place as cashier in a large shop.
That soon tired me, and by dint of advertising I found a place in an
office at Bath. It was a move towards London, and I couldn't rest
till I had come the whole way. My first engagement here was as
shorthand writer to the secretary of a company. But he soon wanted
some one who could use a typewriter. That was a suggestion. I went
to learn typewriting, and the lady who taught me asked me in the end
to stay with her as an assistant. This is her house, and here I live
with her.'
'How energetic you have been!'
'How fortunate, perhaps. I must tell you about this lady--Miss
Barfoot. She has private means--not large, but sufficient to allow
of her combining benevolence with business. She makes it her object
to train young girls for work in offices, teaching them the things
that I learnt in Bristol, and typewriting as well. Some pay for
their lessons, and some get them for nothing. Our workrooms are in
Great Portland Street, over a picture-cleaner's shop. One or two
girls have evening lessons, but our pupils for the most part are
able to come in the day. Miss Barfoot hasn't much interest in the
lower classes; she wishes to be of use to the daughters of educated
people. And she is of use. She is doing admirable work.'
'Oh, I am sure she must be! What a wonderful person!'
'It occurs to me that she might help Monica.'
'Oh, do you think she would?' exclaimed Virginia, with eager
attention. 'How grateful we should be!'
'Where is Monica employed?'
'At a draper's in Walworth Road. She is worked to death. Every week
I see a difference in her, poor child. We hoped to persuade her to
go back to the shop at Weston; but if this you speak of were
possible--how _much_ better! We have never reconciled ourselves to
her being in that position--never.'
'I see no harm in the position itself,' replied Miss Nunn in her
rather blunt tone, 'but I see a great deal in those outrageous
hours. She won't easily do better in London, without special
qualifications; and probably she is reluctant to go back to the
country.'
'Yes, she is; very reluctant.'
'I understand it,' said the other, with a nod. 'Will you ask her to
come and see me?'
A servant entered with tea. Miss Nunn caught the expression in her
visitor's eyes, and said cheerfully--
'I had no midday meal to-day, and really I feel the omission. Mary,
please do put tea in the dining-room, and bring up some meat--Miss
Barfoot,' she added, in explanation to Virginia, is out of town, and
I am a shockingly irregular person about meals. I am sure you will
sit down with me?'
Virginia sported with the subject. Months of miserable eating and
drinking in her stuffy bedroom made an invitation such as this a
veritable delight to her. Seated in the dining-room, she at first
refused the offer of meat, alleging her vegetarianism; but Miss
Nunn, convinced that the poor woman was starving, succeeded in
persuading her. A slice of good beef had much the same effect upon
Virginia as her more dangerous indulgence at Charing Cross Station.
She brightened wonderfully.
'Now let us go back to the library,' said Miss Nunn, when their meal
was over. 'We shall soon see each other again, I hope, but we might
as well talk of serious things whilst we have the opportunity. Will
you allow me to be very frank with you?'
The other looked startled.
'What could you possibly say that would offend me?'
'In the old days you told me all about your circumstances. Are they
still the same?'
'Precisely the same. Most happily, we have never needed to entrench
upon our capital. Whatever happens, we must avoid that--whatever
happens!'
'I quite understand you. But wouldn't it be possible to make a
better use of that money? It is eight hundred pounds, I think? Have
you never thought of employing it in some practical enterprise?'
Virginia at first shrank in alarm, then trembled deliciously at her
friend's bold views.
'Would it be possible? Really? You think--'
'I can only suggest, of course. One mustn't argue about others from
one's own habit of thought. Heaven forbid'--this sounded rather
profane to the listener--'that I should urge you to do anything
you would think rash. But how much better if you could somehow
secure independence.'
'Ah, if we could! The very thing we were saying the other day! But
how? I have no idea how.'
Miss Nunn seemed to hesitate.
'I don't advise. You mustn't give any weight to what I say, except
in so far as your own judgment approves it. But couldn't one open a
preparatory school, for instance? At Weston, suppose, where already
you know a good many people. Or even at Clevedon.'
Virginia drew in her breath, and it was easy for Miss Nunn to
perceive that the proposal went altogether beyond her friend's
scope. Impossible, perhaps, to inspire these worn and discouraged
women with a particle of her own enterprise. Perchance they
altogether lacked ability to manage a school for even the youngest
children. She did not press the subject; it might come up on another
occasion. Virginia begged for time to think it over; then,
remembering her invalid sister, felt that she must not prolong the
visit.
'Do take some of these flowers,' said Miss Nunn, collecting a rich
nosegay from the vases. 'Let them be my message to your sister. And
I should be so glad to see Monica. Sunday is a good time; I am
always at home in the afternoon.'
With a fluttering heart Virginia made what haste she could
homewards. The interview had filled her with a turmoil of strange
new thoughts, which she was impatient to pour forth for Alice's
wondering comment. It was the first time in her life that she had
spoken with a woman daring enough to think and act for herself.
CHAPTER IV
MONICA'S MAJORITY
In the drapery establishment where Monica Madden worked and lived it
was not (as is sometimes the case) positively forbidden to the
resident employees to remain at home on Sunday; but they were
strongly recommended to make the utmost possible use of that weekly
vacation. Herein, no doubt, appeared a laudable regard for their
health. Young people, especially young women, who are laboriously
engaged in a shop for thirteen hours and a half every weekday, and
on Saturday for an average of sixteen, may be supposed to need a
Sabbath of open air. Messrs. Scotcher and Co. acted like
conscientious men in driving them forth immediately after breakfast,
and enjoining upon them not to return until bedtime. By way of
well-meaning constraint, it was directed that only the very
scantiest meals (plain bread and cheese, in fact) should be supplied
to those who did not take advantage of the holiday.
Messrs. Scotcher and Co. were large-minded men. Not only did they
insist that the Sunday ought to be used for bodily recreation, but
they had no objection whatever to their young friends taking a
stroll after closing-time each evening. Nay, so generous and
confiding were they, that to each young person they allowed a
latchkey. The air of Walworth Road is pure and invigorating about
midnight; why should the reposeful ramble be hurried by
consideration for weary domestics?
Monica always felt too tired to walk after ten o'clock; moreover,
the usual conversation in the dormitory which she shared with five
other young women was so little to her taste that she wished to be
asleep when the talkers came up to bed. But on Sunday she gladly
followed the counsel of her employers. If the weather were bad, the
little room at Lavender Hill offered her a retreat; when the sun
shone, she liked to spend a part of the day in free wandering about
London, which even yet had not quite disillusioned her.
And to-day it shone brightly. This was her birthday, the completion
of her one-and-twentieth year. Alice and Virginia of course expected
her early in the morning, and of course they were all to dine
together--at the table measuring three feet by one and a half; but
the afternoon and evening she must have to herself The afternoon,
because a few hours of her sister's talk invariably depressed her;
and the evening, because she had an appointment to keep. As she left
the big ugly 'establishment' her heart beat cheerfully, and a smile
fluttered about her lips. She did not feel very well, but that was a
matter of course; the ride in an omnibus would perhaps make her head
clearer.
Monica's face was of a recognized type of prettiness; a pure oval;
from the smooth forehead to the dimpled little chin all its lines
were soft and graceful. Her lack of colour, by heightening the
effect of black eyebrows and darkly lustrous eyes, gave her at
present a more spiritual cast than her character justified; but a
thoughtful firmness was native to her lips, and no possibility of
smirk or simper lurked in the attractive features. The slim figure
was well fitted in a costume of pale blue, cheap but becoming; a
modest little hat rested on her black hair; her gloves and her
sunshade completed the dainty picture.
An omnibus would be met in Kennington Park Road. On her way thither,
in a quiet cross-street, she was overtaken by a young man who had
left the house of business a moment after her, and had followed at a
short distance timidly. A young man of unhealthy countenance, with a
red pimple on the side of his nose, but not otherwise ill-looking.
He was clad with propriety--stove-pipe hat, diagonal frockcoat,
grey trousers, and he walked with a springy gait.
'Miss Madden--'
He had ventured, with perturbation in his face, to overtake, Monica.
She stopped.
'What is it, Mr. Bullivant?'
Her tone was far from encouraging, but the young man smiled upon her
with timorous tenderness.
'What a beautiful morning! Are you going far?'
He had the Cockney accent, but not in an offensive degree; his
manners were not flagrantly of the shop.
'Yes; some distance.' Monica walked slowly on.
'Will you allow me to walk a little way with you?' he pleaded,
bending towards her.
'I shall take the omnibus at the end of this street.'
They went forward together. Monica no longer smiled, but neither did
she look angry. Her expression was one of trouble.
'Where shall _you_ spend the day, Mr. Bullivant?' she asked length,
with an effort to seem unconcerned.
'I really don't know.'
'I should think it would be very nice up the river.' And she added
diffidently, 'Miss Eade is going to Richmond.'
'Is she?' he replied vaguely.
'At least she wished to go--if she could find a companion.'
'I hope she will enjoy herself,' said Mr. Bullivant, with careful
civility.
'But of course she won't enjoy it very much if she has to go alone.
As you have no particular engagement, Mr. Bullivant, wouldn't it be
kind to--?'
The suggestion was incomplete, but intelligible.
'I couldn't ask Miss Eade to let me accompany her,' said the young
man gravely.
'Oh, I think you could. She would like it.'
Monica looked rather frightened at her boldness, and quickly added--
'Now I must say good-bye. There comes the bus.'
Bullivant turned desperately in that direction. He saw there was as
yet no inside passenger.
'Do allow me to go a short way with you?' burst from his lips. 'I
positively don't know how I shall spend the morning.'
Monica had signalled to the driver, and was hurrying forward.
Bullivant followed, reckless of consequences. In a minute both were
seated within.
'You will forgive me?' pleaded the young fellow, remarking a look of
serious irritation on his companion's face. 'I must be with you a
few minutes longer.'
'I think when I have begged you not to--'
'I know how bad my behaviour must seem. But, Miss Madden, may I not
be on terms of friendship with you?'
'Of course you may--but you are not content with that.'
'Yes--indeed--I _will_ be content--'
'It's foolish to say so. Haven't you broken the understanding three
or four times?'
The bus stopped for a passenger, a man, who mounted to the top.
'I am so sorry,' murmured Bullivant, as the starting horses jolted
them together. 'I try not to worry you. Think of my position. You
have told me that there is no one else who--whose rights I ought
to respect. Feeling as I do, it isn't in human nature to give up
hope!'
'Then will you let me ask you a rude question?'
'Ask me _any_ question, Miss Madden.'
'How would it be possible for you to support a wife?'
She flushed and smiled. Bullivant, dreadfully discomposed, did not
move his eyes from her.
'It wouldn't be possible for some time,' he answered in a thick
voice. 'I have nothing but my wretched salary. But every one hopes.'
'What reasonable hope have you?' Monica urged, forcing herself to be
cruel, because it seemed the only way of putting an end to this
situation.
'Oh, there are so many opportunities in our business. I could point
to half a dozen successful men who were at the counter a few years
ago. I may become a walker, and get at least three pounds a week. If
I were lucky enough to be taken on as a buyer, I might make--why,
some make many hundreds a year--many hundreds.'
'And you would ask me to wait on and on for one of these wonderful
chances?'
'If I could move your feelings, Miss Madden,' he began, with a
certain dolorous dignity; but there his voice broke. He saw too
plainly that the girl had neither faith in him nor liking for him.
'Mr. Bullivant, I think you ought to wait until you really have
prospects. If you were encouraged by some person, it would be a
different thing. And indeed you haven't to look far. But where there
has never been the slightest encouragement, you are really wrong to
act in this way. A long engagement, where everything remains
doubtful for years, is so wretched that--oh, if I were a man, I
would _never_ try to persuade a girl into that! I think it wrong and
cruel.'
The stroke was effectual. Bullivant averted his face, naturally
woebegone, and sat for some minutes without speaking. The bus again
drew up; four or five people were about to ascend.
'I will say good-morning, Miss Madden,' he whispered hurriedly.
She gave her hand, glanced at him with embarrassment, and so let him
depart.
Ten minutes restored the mood in which she had set out. Once more
she smiled to herself. Indeed, her head was better for the fresh air
and the movement. If only the sisters would allow her to get away
soon after dinner!
It was Virginia who opened the door to her, and embraced and kissed
her with wonted fondness.
'You are nice and early! Poor Alice has been in bed since the day
before yesterday; a dreadful cold and one of her very worst
headaches. But I think she is a little better this morning.'
Alice--a sad spectacle--was propped up on pillows.
'Don't kiss me, darling,' she said, in a voice barely audible. 'You
mustn't risk getting a sore throat. How well you look!'
'I'm afraid she doesn't look _well_,' corrected Virginia; 'but
perhaps she has a little more colour than of late. Monica, dear, as
Alice can hardly' use her voice, I will speak for both of us, and
wish you many, many happy returns of the day. And we ask you to
accept this little book from us. It may be a comfort to you from
time to time.'
'You are good, kind dears!' replied Monica, kissing the one on the
lips and the other on her thinly-tressed head. 'It's no use saying
you oughtn't to have spent money on me; you _will_ always do it.
What a nice "Christian Year"! I'll do my best to read some of it now
and then.'
With a half-guilty air, Virginia then brought from some corner of
the room a very small but delicate currant cake. Monica must eat a
mouthful of this; she always had such a wretched breakfast, and the
journey from Walworth Road was enough to give an appetite.
'But you are ruining yourselves, foolish people!'
The others exchanged a look, and smiled with such a strange air that
Monica could not but notice it.
'I know!' she cried. 'There's good news. You have found something,
and better than usual Virgie.'
'Perhaps so. Who knows? Eat your slice of cake like a good child,
and then I shall have something to tell you.'
Obviously the two were excited. Virginia moved about with the
recovered step of girlhood, held herself upright, and could not
steady her hands.
'You would never guess whom I have seen,' she began, when Monica was
quite ready to listen. 'We had a letter the other morning which did
puzzle us so--I mean the writing before we opened it. And it was
from--Miss Nunn!'
This name did not greatly stir Monica.
'You had quite lost sight of her, hadn't you?' she remarked.
'Quite. I didn't suppose we should ever hear of her again. But
nothing more fortunate could have happened. My dear, she is
wonderful!'
At considerable length Virginia detailed all she had learnt of Miss
Nunn's career, and described her present position.
'She will be the most valuable friend to us. Oh, her strength, her
resolution! The way in which she discovers the right thing to do!
You are to call upon her as soon as possible. This very after noon
you had better go. She will relieve you from all your troubles
darling. Her friend, Miss Barfoot, will teach you typewriting, and
put you in the way of earning an easy and pleasant livelihood. She
will, indeed!'
'But how long does it take?' asked the astonished girl.
'Oh, quite a short time, I should think. We didn't speak of details;
they were postponed. You will hear everything yourself. And she
suggested all sorts of ways,' pursued Virginia, with quite
unintentional exaggeration, 'in which we could make better use of
our invested money. She is _full_ of practical expedients. The most
wonderful person! She is quite like a _man_ in energy and resources.
I never imagined that one of our sex could resolve and plan and act
as she does!'
Monica inquired anxiously what the projects for improving their
income might be.
'Nothing is decided yet,' was the reply, given with a confident
smile. 'Let us first of all put _you_ in comfort and security; that
is the immediate need.'
The listener was interested, but did not show any eagerness for the
change proposed. Presently she stood at the window and lost herself
in thought. Alice gave signs of an inclination to doze; she had had
a sleepless night, in spite of soporifics. Though no sun entered the
room, it was very hot, and the presence of a third person made the
air oppressive.
'Don't you think we might go out for half an hour?' Monica
whispered, when Virginia had pointed to the invalid's closed eves.
'I'm sure it's very unhealthy for us all to be in this little
place.'
I don't like to leave her,' the other whispered back. 'But I
certainly think it would be better for you to have fresh air.
Wouldn't you like to go to church, dear? The bells haven't stopped
yet.'
The elder sisters were not quite regular in their church-going. When
weather or lassitude kept them at home on Sunday morning they read
the service aloud. Monica found the duty of listening rather
grievous. During the months that she was alone in London she had
fallen into neglect of public worship; not from any conscious
emancipation, but because her companions at the house of business
never dreamt of entering a church, and their example by degrees
affected her with carelessness. At present she was glad of the
pretext for escaping until dinner-time.
She went forth with the intention of deceiving her sisters, of
walking to Clapham Common, and on her return inventing some sermon
at a church the others never visited. But before she had gone many
yards conscience overcame her. Was she not getting to be a very
lax-minded girl? And it was shameful to impose upon the two after
their loving-kindness to her. As usual, her little prayer-book was
in her pocket. She walked quickly to the familiar church, and
reached it just as the doors were being closed.
Of all the congregation she probably was the one who went through
the service most mechanically. Not a word reached her understanding.
Sitting, standing, or on her knees, she wore the same preoccupied
look, with ever and again a slight smile or a movement of the lips,
as if she were recalling some conversation of special interest.
Last Sunday she had had an adventure, the first of any real moment
that had befallen her in London. She had arranged to go with Miss
Eade on a steamboat up the river. They were to meet at the Battersea
Park landing-stage at half-past two. But Miss Eade did not keep her
appointment, and Monica, unwilling to lose the trip, started alone.
She disembarked at Richmond and strayed about for an hour or two,
then had a cup of tea and a bun. As it was still far too early to
return, she went down to the riverside and seated herself on one of
the benches. Many boats were going by, a majority of them containing
only two persons--a young man who pulled, and a girl who held the
strings of the tiller. Some of these couples Monica disregarded; but
occasionally there passed a skiff from which she could not take her
eyes. To lie back like that on the cushions and converse with a
companion who had nothing of the _shop_ about him!
It seemed hard that she must be alone. Poor Mr. Bullivant would
gladly have taken her on the river; but Mr. Bullivant--
She thought of her sisters. Their loneliness was for life, poor
things. Already they were old; and they would grow older, sadder,
perpetually struggling to supplement that dividend from the precious
capital--and merely that they might keep alive. Oh!--her heart
ached at the misery of such a prospect. How much better if the poor
girls had never been born.
Her own future was more hopeful than theirs had ever been. She knew
herself good-looking. Men had followed her in the street and tried
to make her acquaintance. Some of the girls with whom she lived
regarded her enviously, spitefully. But had she really the least
chance of marrying a man whom she could respect--not to say love?
One-and-twenty a week hence. At Weston she had kept tolerable
health, but certainly her constitution was not strong, and the
slavery of Walworth Road threatened her with premature decay. Her
sisters counselled wisely. Coming to London was a mistake. She would
have had better chances at Weston, notwithstanding the extreme
discretion with which she was obliged to conduct herself.
While she mused thus, a profound discouragement settling on her
sweet face, some one took a seat by her--on the same bench, that
is to say. Glancing aside, she saw that it was an oldish man, with
grizzled whiskers and rather a stern visage. Monica sighed.
Was it possible that he had heard her? He looked this way, and with
curiosity. Ashamed of herself, she kept her eyes averted for a long
time. Presently, following the movement of a boat, her face turned
unconsciously towards the silent companion; again he was looking at
her, and he spoke. The gravity of his appearance and manner, the
good-natured commonplace that fell from his lips, could not alarm
her; a dialogue began, and went on for about half an hour.
How old might he be? After all, he was probably not fifty--
perchance not much more than forty. His utterance fell short of
perfect refinement, but seemed that of an educated man. And
certainly his clothes were such as a gentleman wears. He had thin,
hairy hands, unmarked by any effect of labour; the nails could not
have been better cared for. Was it a bad sign that he carried
neither gloves nor walking-stick?
His talk aimed at nothing but sober friendliness; it was perfectly
inoffensive--indeed, respectful. Now and then--not too often--
he fixed his eyes upon her for an instant. After the introductory
phrases, he mentioned that he had had a long drive, alone; his horse
was baiting in preparation for the journey back to London. He often
took such drives in the summer, though generally on a weekday; the
magnificent sky had tempted him out this morning. He lived at Herne
Hill.
At length he ventured a question. Monica affected no reluctance to
tell him that she was in a house of business, that she had relatives
in London, that only by chance she found herself alone to-day.
'I should be sorry if I never saw you again.'
These words he uttered with embarrassment, his eyes on the ground.
Monica could only keep silence. Half an hour ago she would not have
thought it possible for any remark of this man's seriously to occupy
her mind, yet now she waited for the next sentence in discomposure
which was quite free from resentment.
'We meet in this casual way, and talk, and then say good-bye. Why
mayn't I tell you that you interest me very much, and that I am
afraid to trust only to chance for another meeting? If you were a
man'--he smiled--'I should give you my card, and ask you to my
house. The card I may at all events offer.'
Whilst speaking, he drew out a little case, and laid a visiting-card
on the bench within Monica's reach. Murmuring her 'thank you,' she
took the bit of pasteboard, but did not look at it.
'You are on my side of the river,' he continued, still with
scrupulous modesty of tone. 'May I not hope to see you some day,
when you are walking? All days and times are the same to me; but I
am afraid it is only on Sunday that you are at leisure?'
'Yes, only on a Sunday.'
It took a long time, and many circumlocutions, but in the end an
appointment was made. Monica would see her acquaintance next Sunday
evening on the river front of Battersea Park; if it rained, then the
Sunday after. She was ashamed and confused. Other girls were
constantly doing this kind of thing--other girls in business; but
it seemed to put her on the level of a servant. And why had she
consented? The man could never be anything to her; he was too old,
too hard-featured, too grave. Well, on that very account there would
be no harm in meeting him. In truth, she had not felt the courage to
refuse; in a manner he had overawed her.
And perhaps she would not keep the engagement. Nothing compelled
her. She had not told him her name, nor the house where she was
employed. There was a week to think it over.
All days and times were the same to him--he said. And he drove
about the country for his pleasure. A man of means. His name,
according to the card, was Edmund Widdowson.
He was upright in his walk, and strongly built. She noticed this as
he moved away from her. Fearful lest he should turn round, her eyes
glanced at his figure from moment to moment. But he did not once
look back.
* * * * * * * * * *
'And now to God the Father.' The bustle throughout the church
wakened her from reverie so complete that she knew not a syllable of
the sermon. After all she must deceive her sisters by inventing a
text, and perhaps a comment.
By an arrangement with Mrs. Conisbee, dinner was down in the parlour
to-day. A luxurious meal, moreover; for in her excitement Virginia
had resolved to make a feast of Monica's birthday. There was a tiny
piece of salmon, a dainty cutlet, and a cold blackcurrant tart.
Virginia, at home a constant vegetarian, took no share of the fish
and meat--which was only enough for one person. Alice, alone
upstairs, made a dinner of gruel.
Monica was to be at Queen's Road, Chelsea, by three o'clock. The
sisters hoped she would return to Lavender Hill with her news, but
that was left uncertain--by Monica herself purposely. As an
amusement, she had decided to keep her promise to Mr. Edmund
Widdowson. She was curious to see him again, and receive a new
impression of his personality. If he behaved as inoffensively as at
Richmond, acquaintance with him might be continued for the variety
it brought into her life. If anything unpleasant happened, she had
only to walk away. The slight, very slight, tremor of anticipation
was reasonably to be prized by a shop-girl at Messrs. Scotcher's.
Drawing near to Queen's Road--the wrapped-up Keble in her hand--
she began to wonder whether Miss Nunn would have any serious
proposal to offer. Virginia's report and ecstatic forecasts were,
she knew, not completely trustworthy; though more than ten years her
sister's junior, Monica saw the world with eyes much less disposed
to magnify and colour ordinary facts.
Miss Barfoot was still from home. Rhoda Nunn received the visitor in
a pleasant, old-fashioned drawing-room, where there was nothing
costly, nothing luxurious; yet to Monica it appeared richly
furnished. A sense of strangeness amid such surroundings had more to
do with her constrained silence for the first few minutes than the
difficulty with which she recognized in this lady before her the
Miss Nunn whom she had known years ago.
'I should never have known you,' said Rhoda, equally surprised. 'For
one thing, you look like a fever patient just recovering. What can
be expected? Your sister gave me a shocking account of how you
live.'
'The work is very hard.'
'Preposterous. Why do you stay at such a place, Monica?'
'I am getting experience.'
'To be used in the next world?'
They laughed.
'Miss Madden is better to-day, I hope?'
'Alice? Not much, I'm sorry to say.'
'Will you tell me something more about the "experience" you are
getting? For instance, what time is given you for meals?'
Rhoda Nunn was not the person to manufacture light gossip when a
matter of the gravest interest waited for discussion. With a face
that expressed thoughtful sympathy, she encouraged the girl to speak
and confide in her.
'There's twenty minutes for each meal,' Monica explained; 'but at
dinner and tea one is very likely to be called into the shop before
finishing. If you are long away you find the table cleared.'
'Charming arrangement! No sitting down behind the counter, I
suppose?'
'Oh, of course not. We stiffer a great deal from that. Some of us
get diseases. A girl has just gone to the hospital with varicose
veins, and two or three others have the same thing in a less
troublesome form. Sometimes, on Saturday night, I lose all feeling
in my feet; I have to stamp on the floor to be sure it's still under
me.'
'Ah, that Saturday night!'
'Yes, it's bad enough now; but at Christmas! There was a week or
more of Saturday night--going on to one o'clock in the morning. A
girl by me was twice carried out fainting, one night after another.
They gave her brandy, and she came back again.'
'They compelled her to?'
'Well, no, it was her own wish. Her "book of takings" wasn't very
good, poor thing, and if it didn't come up to a certain figure at
the end of the week she would lose her place. She lost it after all.
They told her she was too weak. After Christmas she was lucky enough
to get a place as a lady's-maid at twenty-five pounds a year--at
Scotcher's she had fifteen. But we heard that she burst a
blood-vessel, and now she's in the hospital at Brompton.'
'Delightful story! Haven't you an early-closing day?'
'They had before I went there; but only for about three months. Then
the agreement broke down.'
'Like the assistants. A pity the establishment doesn't follow suit.'
'But you wouldn't say so, Miss Nunn, if you knew how terribly hard
it is for many girls to find a place, even now.'
'I know it perfectly well. And I wish it were harder. I wish girls
fell down and died of hunger in the streets, instead of creeping to
their garrets and the hospitals. I should like to see their dead
bodies collected together in some open place for the crowd to stare
at.'
Monica gazed at her with wide eyes.
'You mean, I suppose, that people would try to reform things.'
'Who knows? Perhaps they might only congratulate each other that a
few of the superfluous females had been struck off. Do they give you
any summer holiday?'
'A week, with salary continued.'
'Really? With salary continued? That takes one's breath away Are
many of the girls ladies?'
'None, at Scotcher's. They nearly all come from the country. Several
are daughters of small farmers and those are dreadfully ignorant.
One of them asked me the other day in what country Africa was.'
'You don't find them very pleasant company?'
'One or two are nice quiet girls.'
Rhoda drew a deep sigh, and moved with impatience.
'Well, don't you think you've had about enough of it--experience
and all?'
'I might go into a country business: it would be easier.'
'But you don't care for the thought?'
'I wish now they had brought me up to something different. Alice and
Virginia were afraid of having me trained for a school; you remember
that one of our sisters who went through it died of overwork. And
I'm not clever, Miss Nunn. I never did much at school.'
Rhoda regarded her, smiling gently.
'You have no inclination to study now?'
'I'm afraid not,' replied the other, looking away. 'Certainly I
should like to be better educated, but I don't think I could study
seriously, to earn my living by it. The time for that has gone by.'
'Perhaps so. But there are things you might manage. No doubt your
sister told you how I get my living. There's a good deal of
employment for women who learn to use a typewriter. Did you ever
have piano lessons?'
'No.'
'No more did I, and I was sorry for it when I went to typewriting.
The fingers have to be light and supple and quick. Come with me, and
I'll show you one of the machines.'
They went to a room downstairs--a bare little room by the library.
Here were two Remingtons, and Rhoda patiently explained their use.
'One must practise until one can do fifty words a minute at least. I
know one or two people who have reached almost twice that speed. It
takes a good six months' work to learn for any profitable use. Miss
Barfoot takes pupils.'
Monica, at first very attentive, was growing absent. Her eyes
wandered about the room. The other observed her closely, and, it
seemed, doubtfully.
'Do you feel any impulse to try for it?'
'I should have to live for six months without earning anything.'
'That is by no means impossible for you, I think?'
'Not really impossible,' Monica replied with hesitation.
Something like dissatisfaction passed over Miss Nunn's face, though
she did not allow Monica to see it. Her lips moved in a way that
perhaps signified disdain for such timidity. Tolerance was not one
of the virtues expressed in her physiognomy.
'Let us go back to the drawing-room and have some tea.'
Monica could not become quite at ease. This energetic woman had
little attraction for her. She saw the characteristics which made
Virginia enthusiastic, but feared rather than admired them. To put
herself in Miss Nunn's hands might possibly result in a worse form
of bondage than she suffered at the shop; she would never be able to
please such a person, and failure, she imagined, would result in
more or less contemptuous dismissal.
Then of a sudden, as it she had divined these thoughts, Rhoda
assumed an air of gaiety of frank kindness.
'So it is your birthday? I no longer keep count of mine, and
couldn't tell you without a calculation what I am exactly. It
doesn't matter, you see. Thirty-one or fifty-one is much the same
for a woman who has made up her mind to live alone and work steadily
for a definite object. But you are still a young girl, Monica. My
best wishes!'
Monica emboldened herself to ask what the object was for which her
friend worked.
'How shall I put it?' replied the other, smiling. 'To make women
hard-hearted.'
'Hard-hearted? I think I understand.'
'Do you?'
'You mean that you like to see them live unmarried.'
Rhoda laughed merrily.
'You say that almost with resentment.'
'No--indeed--I didn't intend it.'
Monica reddened a little.
'Nothing more natural if you have done. At your age, I should have
resented it.'
'But--' the girl hesitated--'don't you approve of any one
marrying?'
'Oh, I'm not so severe! But do you know that there are half a
million more women than men in this happy country of ours?'
'Half a million!'
Her naive alarm again excited Rhoda to laughter.
'Something like that, they say. So many _odd_ women--no making a
pair with them. The pessimists call them useless, lost, futile
lives. I, naturally--being one of them myself--take another
view. I look upon them as a great reserve. When one woman vanishes
in matrimony, the reserve offers a substitute for the world's work.
True, they are not all trained yet--far from it. I want to help in
that--to train the reserve.'
'But married woman are not idle,' protested Monica earnestly.
'Not all of them. Some cook and rock cradles.'
Again Miss Nunn's mood changed. She laughed the subject away, and
abruptly began to talk of old days down in Somerset, of rambles
about Cheddar Cliffs, or at Glastonbury, or on the Quantocks.
Monica, however, could not listen, and with difficulty commanded her
face to a pleasant smile.
'Will you come and see Miss Barfoot?' Rhoda asked, when it had
become clear to her that the girl would gladly get away. 'I am only
her subordinate, but I know she will wish to be of all the use to
you she can.'
Monica expressed her thanks, and promised to act as soon as possible
on any invitation that was sent her. She took leave just as the
servant announced another caller.
CHAPTER V
THE CASUAL ACQUAINTANCE
At that corner of Battersea Park which is near Albert Bridge there
has lain for more than twenty years a curious collection of
architectural fragments, chiefly dismembered columns, spread in
order upon the ground, and looking like portions of a razed temple.
It is the colonnade of old Burlington House, conveyed hither from
Piccadilly who knows why, and likely to rest here, the sporting
ground for adventurous infants, until its origin is lost in the
abyss of time.
It was at this spot that Monica had agreed to meet with her casual
acquaintance, Edmund Widdowson, and there, from a distance, she saw
his lank, upright, well-dressed figure moving backwards and forwards
upon the grass. Even at the last moment Monica doubted whether to
approach. Emotional interest in him she had none, and the knowledge
of life she had gained in London assured her that in thus
encouraging a perfect stranger she was doing a very hazardous thing.
But the evening must somehow be spent, and is she went off in
another direction it would only be to wander about with an
adventurous mind; for her conversation with Miss Nunn had had
precisely the opposite effect of that which Rhoda doubtless
intended; she felt something of the recklessness which formerly
excited her wonder when she remarked it in the other shop-girls. She
could no longer be without a male companion, and as she had given
her promise to this man--
He had seen her, and was coming forward. Today he carried a
walking-stick, and wore gloves; otherwise his appearance was the
same as at Richmond. At the distance of a few yards he raised his
hat, not very gracefully. Monica did not offer her hand, nor did
Widdowson seem to expect it. But he gave proof of an intense
pleasure in the meeting; his sallow cheeks grew warm, and in the
many wrinkles about his eyes played a singular smile, good-natured
but anxious, apprehensive.
'I am so glad you were able to come,' he said in a low voice,
bending towards her.
'It has been even finer than last Sunday,' was Monica's rather vague
reply, as she glanced at some people who were passing.
'Yes, a wonderful day. But I only left home an hour ago. Shall we
walk this way?'
They went along the path by the river. Widdowson exhibited none of
the artifices of gallantry practised by men who are in the habit of
picking up an acquaintance with shop-girls. His smile did not
return; an extreme sobriety characterized his manner and speech; for
the most part he kept his eyes on the ground, and when silent he had
the look of one who inwardly debates a grave question.
'Have you been into the country?' was one of his first inquiries.
'No. I spent the morning with my sisters, and in the afternoon I had
to see a lady in Chelsea.'
'Your sisters are older than yourself?'
'Yes, some years older.'
'Is it long since you went to live apart from them?'
'We have never had a home of our own since I was quite a child.'
And, after a moment's hesitation, she went on to give a brief
account of her history. Widdowson listened with the closest
attention, his lips twitching now and then, his eyes half closed.
But for cheek-bones that were too prominent and nostrils rather too
large, he was not ill-featured. No particular force of character
declared itself in his countenance, and his mode of speech did not
suggest a very active brain. Speculating again about his age, Monica
concluded that he must be two or three and forty, in spite of the
fact that his grizzled beard argued for a higher figure. He had
brown hair untouched by any sign of advanced life, his teeth were
white and regular, and something--she could not make clear to her
mind exactly what--convinced her that he had a right to judge
himself comparatively young.
'I supposed you were not a Londoner,' he said, when she came to a
pause.
'How?'
'Your speech. Not,' he added quickly, 'that you have any provincial
accent. And even if you had been a Londoner you would not have shown
it in that way.'
He seemed to be reproving himself for a blunder, and after a short
silence asked in a tone of kindness,--
'Do you prefer the town?'
'In some ways--not in all.'
'I am glad you have relatives here, and friends. So many young
ladies come up from the country who are quite alone.'
'Yes, many.'
Their progress to familiarity could hardly have been slower. Now and
then they spoke with a formal coldness which threatened absolute
silence. Monica's brain was so actively at work that she lost
consciousness of the people who were moving about them, and at times
her companion was scarcely more to her than a voice.
They had walked along the whole front of the park, and were near
Chelsea Bridge. Widdowson gazed at the pleasure-boats lying below on
the strand, and said diffidently,--
'Would you care to go on the river?'
The proposal was so unexpected that Monica looked up with a startled
air. She had not thought of the man as likely to offer any kind of
amusement.
'It would be pleasant, I think,' he added. 'The tide is still
running up. We might go very quietly for a mile or two, and be back
as soon as you like.'
'Yes, I should like it.'
He brightened up, and moved with a livelier step. In a few minutes
they had chosen their boat, had pushed off, and were gliding to the
middle of the broad water. Widdowson managed the sculls without
awkwardness, but by no means like a man well trained in this form of
exercise. On sitting down, he had taken off his hat, stowed it away,
and put on a little travelling-cap, which he drew from his pocket.
Monica thought this became him. After all, he was not a companion to
be ashamed of. She looked with pleasure at his white hairy hands
with their firm grip; then at his boots--very good boots indeed.
He had gold links in his white shirt-cuffs, and a gold watch-guard
chosen with a gentleman's taste.
'I am at your service,' he said, with an approach to gaiety. 'Direct
me. Shall we go quickly--some distance, or only just a little
quicker than the tide would float us?'
'Which you like. To row much would make you too hot.'
'You would like to go some distance--I see.'
'No, no. Do exactly what you like. Of course we must be back in an
hour or two.'
He drew out his watch.
'It's now ten minutes past six, and there is daylight till nine or
after. When do you wish to be home?'
'Not much later than nine,' Monica answered, with the insincerity of
prudence.
'Then we will just go quietly along. I wish we could have started
early in the afternoon. But that may be for another day, I hope.'
On her lap Monica had the little brown-paper parcel which contained
her present. She saw that Widdowson glanced at it from time to time,
but she could not bring herself to explain what it was.
'I was very much afraid that I should not see you to-day,' he said,
as they glided softly by Chelsea Embankment.
'But I promised to come if it was fine.'
'Yes. I feared something might prevent you. You are very kind to
give me your company.' He was looking at the tips of her little
boots. 'I can't say how I thank you.'
Much embarrassed, Monica could only gaze at one of the sculls, as it
rose and fell, the water dripping from it in bright beads.
'Last year,' he pursued, 'I went on the river two or three times,
but alone. This year I haven't been in a boat till to-day.'
'You prefer driving?'
'Oh, it's only chance. I do drive a good deal, however. I wish it
were possible to take you through the splendid country I saw a day
or two ago--down in Surrey. Perhaps some day you will let me. I
live rather a lonely life, as you see. I have a housekeeper; no
relative lives with me. My only relative in London is a
sister-in-law, and we very seldom meet.'
'But don't you employ yourself in any way?'
'I'm very idle. But that's partly because I have worked very hard
and hopelessly all my life--till a year and a half ago. I began to
earn my own living when I was fourteen, and now I am forty-four--
to-day.'
'This is your birthday?' said Monica, with an odd look the other
could not understand.
'Yes--I only remembered it a few hours ago. Strange that such a
treat should have been provided for me. Yes, I am very idle. A year
and a half ago my only brother died. He had been very successful in
life, and he left me what I regard as a fortune, though it was only
a small part of what he had.'
The listener's heart throbbed. Without intending it, she pulled the
tiller so that the boat began to turn towards land.
'The left hand a little,' said Widdowson, smiling correctly. 'That's
right. Many days I don't leave home. I am fond of reading, and now I
make up for all the time lost in years gone by. Do you care for
books?'
'I never read very much, and I feel very ignorant.'
'But that is only for want of opportunity, I'm sure.'
He glanced at the brown-paper parcel. Acting on an impulse which
perturbed her, Monica began to slip off the loosely-tied string, and
to unfold the paper.
'I thought it was a book!' exclaimed Widdowson merrily, when she had
revealed a part of her present.
'When you told me your name,' said Monica, 'I ought perhaps to have
told you mine. It's written here. My sisters gave me this to-day.'
She offered the little volume. He took it as though it were
something fragile, and--the sculls fixed under his elbows--
turned to the fly-leaf.
'What? It is _your_ birthday?'
'Yes. I am twenty-one.'
'Will you let me shake hands with you?' His pressure of her fingers
was the lightest possible. 'Now that's rather a strange thing--
isn't it? Oh, I remember this book very well, though I haven't seen
it or heard of it for twenty years. My mother used to read it on
Sundays. And it is really your birthday? I am more than twice your
age, Miss Madden.'
The last remark was uttered anxiously, mournfully. Then, as if to
reassure himself by exerting physical strength, he drove the boat
along with half a dozen vigorous strokes. Monica was rustling over
the pages, but without seeing them.
'I don't think,' said her companion presently, 'you are very well
contented with your life in that house of business.'
'No, I am not.'
'I have heard a good deal of the hardships of such a life. Will you
tell me something about yours?'
Readily she gave him a sketch of her existence from Sunday to
Sunday, but without indignation, and as if the subject had no great
interest for her.
'You must be very strong,' was Widdowson's comment.
'The lady I went to see this afternoon told me I looked ill.'
'Of course I can see the effects of overwork. My wonder is that you
endure it at all. Is that lady an old acquaintance?'
Monica answered with all necessary detail, and went on to mention
the proposal that had been made to her. The hearer reflected, and
put further questions. Unwilling to speak of the little capital she
possessed, Monica told him that her sisters might perhaps help her
to live whilst she was learning a new occupation. But Widdowson had
become abstracted; he ceased pulling, crossed his arms on the oars,
and watched other boats that were near. Two deep wrinkles, rippling
in their course, had formed across his forehead, and his eyes
widened in a gaze of complete abstraction at the farther shore.
'Yes,' fell from him at length, as though in continuation of
something he had been saying, 'I began to earn my bread when I was
fourteen. My father was an auctioneer at Brighton. A few years after
his marriage he had a bad illness, which left him completely deaf.
His partnership with another man was dissolved, and as things went
worse and worse with him, my mother started a lodging-house, which
somehow supported us for a long time. She was a sensible, good, and
brave woman. I'm afraid my father had a good many faults that made
her life hard. He was of a violent temper, and of course the
deafness didn't improve it. Well, one day a cab knocked him down in
the King's Road, and from that injury, though not until a year
after, he died. There were only two children; I was the elder. My
mother couldn't keep me at school very long, so, at fourteen, I was
sent into the office of the man who had been my father's partner, to
serve him and learn the business. I did serve him for years, and for
next to no payment, but he taught me nothing more than he could
help. He was one of those heartless, utterly selfish men that one
meets too often in the business world. I ought never to have been
sent there, for my father had always an ill opinion of him; but he
pretended a friendly interest in me--just, I am convinced, to make
the use of me that he did.'
He was silent, and began rowing again.
'What happened them?' asked Monica.
'I mustn't make out that I was a faultless boy,' he continued, with
the smile that graved wrinkles about his eyes; 'quite the opposite.
I had a good deal of my father's temper; I often behaved very badly
to my mother; what I needed was some stern but conscientious man to
look after me and make me work. In my spare time I lay about on the
shore, or got into mischief with other boys. It needed my mother's
death to make a more sensible fellow of me, and by that time it was
too late. I mean I was too old to be trained into profitable
business habits. Up to nineteen I had been little more than an
errand and office boy, and all through the after years I never got a
much better position.'
'I can't understand that,' remarked Monica thoughtfully.
'Why not?'
'You seem to--to be the kind of man that would make your way.'
'Do I?' The description pleased him; he laughed cheerfully. 'But I
never found what my way was to be. I have always hated office work,
and business of every kind; yet I could never see an opening in any
other direction. I have been all my life a clerk--like so many
thousands of other men. Nowadays, if I happen to be in the City when
all the clerks are coming away from business, I feel an
inexpressible pity for them. I feel I should like to find two or
three of the hardest driven, and just divide my superfluous income
between. A clerk's life--a life of the office without any hope of
rising--that is a hideous fate!'
'But your brother got on well. Why didn't he help you?'
'We couldn't agree. We always quarrelled.'
'Are you really so ill-tempered?'
It was asked in Monica's most naive tone, with a serious air of
investigation which at first confused Widdowson, then made him
laugh.
'Since I was a lad,' he replied, 'I have never quarrelled with any
one except my brother. I think it's only very unreasonable people
that irritate me. Some men have told me that I was far too
easy-going, too good-natured. Certainly I _desire_ to be
good-natured. But I don't easily make friends; as a rule I can't
talk to strangers. I keep so much to myself that those who know me
only a little think me surly and unsociable.'
'So your brother always refused to help you?'
'It wasn't easy for him to help me. He got into a stockbroker's, and
went on step by step until he had saved a little money; then he
speculated in all sorts of ways. He couldn't employ me himself--
and if he could have done so, we should never have got on together.
It was impossible for him to recommend me to any one except as a
clerk. He was a born money-maker. I'll give you an example of how he
grew rich. In consequence of some mortgage business he came into
possession of a field at Clapham. As late as 1875 this field brought
him only a rent of forty pounds; it was freehold property, and he
refused many offers of purchase. Well, in 1885, the year before he
died, the ground-rents from that field--now covered with houses--
were seven hundred and ninety pounds a year. That's how men get on
who have capital and know how to use it. If _I_ had had capital, it
would never have yielded me more than three or four per cent. I was
doomed to work for other people who were growing rich. It doesn't
matter much now, except that so many years of life have been lost.'
'Had your brother any children?'
'No children. All the same, it astonished me when I heard his will;
I had expected nothing. In one day--in one hour--I passed from
slavery to freedom, from poverty to more than comfort. We never
_hated_ each other; I don't want you to think that.'
'But--didn't it bring you friends as well as comfort?'
'Oh,' he laughed, 'I am not so rich as to have people pressing for
my acquaintance. I have only about six hundred a year.'
Monica drew in her breath silently, then gazed at the distance.
'No, I haven't made any new friends. The one or two men I care for
are not much better off than I used to be, and I always feel ashamed
to ask them to come and see me. Perhaps they think I shun them
because of their position, and I don't know how to justify myself.
Life has always been full of worrying problems for me. I can't take
things in the simple way that comes natural to other men.'
'Don't you think we ought to be turning back, Mr. Widdowson?'
'Yes, we will. I am sorry the time goes so quickly.'
When a few minutes had passed in silence, he asked,--
'Do you feel that I am no longer quite a stranger to you, Miss
Madden?'
'Yes--you have told me so much.'
'It's very kind of you to listen so patiently. I wish I had more
interesting things to tell, but you see what a dull life mine has
been.' He paused, and let the boat waver on the stream for a moment.
'When I dared to speak to you last Sunday I had only the faintest
hope that you would grant me your acquaintance. You can't, I am
sure, repent of having done me that kindness--?'
'One never knows. I doubted whether I ought to talk with a stranger--'
'Rightly--quite rightly. It was my perseverance--you saw, I
hope, that I could never dream of giving you offence. The rule is
necessary, but you see there may be exceptional cases.' He was
giving a lazy stroke now and then, which, as the tide was still,
just moved the boat onwards. 'I saw something in your face that
_compelled_ me to speak to you. And now we may really be friends, I
hope?'
'Yes--I can think of you as a friend, Mr. Widdowson.'
A large boat was passing with four or five young men and girls who
sang in good time and tune. Only a song of the music-hall or of the
nigger minstrels, but it sounded pleasantly with the plash of the
oars. A fine sunset had begun to glow upon the river; its warmth
gave a tone to Monica's thin cheeks.
'And you will let me see you again before long? Let me drive you to
Hampton Court next Sunday--or any other place you would choose.'
'Very likely I shall be invited to my friend's in Chelsea.'
'Do you seriously think of leaving the shop?'
'I don't know--I must have time to think about it--'
'Yes--yes. But if I write a line to you, say on Friday, would you
let me know whether you can come?'
'Please to let me refuse for next Sunday. The one after, perhaps--'
He bent his head, looked desperately grave, and drove the boat
on Monica was disturbed, but held to her resolution, which Widdowson
silently accepted. The rest of the way they exchanged only brief
sentences, about the beauty of the sky, the scenes on river or bank,
and other impersonal matters. After landing, they walked in silence
towards Chelsea Bridge.
'Now I must go quickly home,' said Monica.
'But how?'
'By train--from York Road to Walworth Road.'
Widdowson cast a curious glance at her. One would have imagined that
he found something to disapprove in this ready knowledge of London
transit.
'I will go with you to the station, then.'
Without a word spoken, they walked the short distance to York Road.
Monica took her ticket, and offered a hand for good-bye.
'I may write to you,' said Widdowson, his face set in an expression
of anxiety, 'and make an appointment, if possible, for the Sunday
after next?'
'I shall be glad to come--if I can.'
'It will be a very long time to me.'
With a faint smile, Monica hurried away to the platform. In the
train she looked like one whose mind is occupied with grave trouble.
Fatigue had suddenly overcome her; she leaned back and closed her
eyes.
At a street corner very near to Messrs. Scotcher's establishment she
was intercepted by a tall, showily-dressed, rather coarse-featured
girl, who seemed to have been loitering about. It was Miss Eade.
'I want to speak to you, Miss Madden. Where did you go with Mr.
Bullivant this morning?'
The voice could not have been more distinctive of a London
shop-girl; its tone signified irritation.
'With Mr. Bullivant? I went nowhere with him.'
'But I _saw_ you both get into the bus in Kennington Park Road.'
'Did you?' Monica returned coldly. 'I can't help it if Mr. Bullivant
happened to be going the same way.'
'Oh, very well! I thought you was to be trusted. It's nothing to me--'
'You behave very foolishly, Miss Eade,' exclaimed the other, whose
nerves at this moment would not allow her to use patience with the
jealous girl. 'I can only tell you that I have never thought again
of Mr. Bullivant since he left the bus somewhere in Clapham Road.
I'm tired of talking about such things.'
'Now, see here, don't be cross. Come and walk a bit and tell me--'
'I'm too tired. And there's nothing whatever to tell you.'
'Oh, well, if you're going to be narsty?'
Monica walked on, but the girl caught her up.
'Don't be so sharp with me, Miss Madden. I don't say as you wanted
him to go in the bus with you. But you might tell me what he had to
say.'
'Nothing at all; except that he wished to know where I was going,
which was no business of his. I did what I could for you. I told him
that if he asked you to go up the river with him I felt sure you
wouldn't refuse.'
'Oh, you did!' Miss Eade threw up her head. 'I don't think it was a
very delicate thing to say.'
'You are very unreasonable. I myself don't think it was very
delicate, but haven't you worried me to say something of the kind?'
'No, that I'm sure I haven't! Worrited you, indeed!'
'Then please never to speak to me on the subject again. I'm tired of
it.'
'And what did _he_ say, when you'd said that?'
'I can't remember.'
'Oh, you _are_ narsty to-day! Really you are! If it had been the
other way about, I'd never have treated _you_ like this, that I
wouldn't.'
'Good-night!'
They were close to the door by which Messrs. Scotcher's resident
employees entered at night. Monica had taken out her latchkey. But
Miss Eade could not endure the thought of being left in torturing
ignorance.
'_Do_ tell me!' she whispered. 'I'll do anything for you I can.
Don't be unkind, Miss Madden!'
Monica turned back again.
'If I were you, I wouldn't be so silly. I can't do more than assure
you and promise you that I shall never listen to Mr. Bullivant.'
'But what did he say about _me_, dear?'
'Nothing.'
Miss Eade kept a mortified silence.
'You had much better not think of him at all. I would have more
pride. I wish I could make you see him as I do.'
'And you did really speak about me? Oh, I do wish you'd find some
one to go out with. Then perhaps--'
Monica stood still, hesitated, and at length said,--
'Well--I _have_ found some one.'
'You have?' The girl all but danced with joy. 'You really have?'
'Yes--so now don't trouble me any more.'
This time she was allowed to turn back and enter the house.
No one else had yet come in. Monica ate a mouthful of bread and
cheese, which was in readiness on the long table down in the
basement, and at once went to bed. But no welcome drowsiness fell
upon her. At half-past eleven, when two of the other five girls who
slept in the room made their appearance, she was still changing
uneasily from side to side. They lit the gas (it was not turned off
till midnight, after which hour the late arrivals had to use a
candle of their own procuring), and began a lively conversation on
the events of the day. Afraid of being obliged to talk, Monica
feigned sleep.
At twelve, just as the gas went out, another pair came to repose.
They had been quarrelling, and were very gloomy. After a long and
acrimonious discussion in the dark as to which of them should find a
candle--it ended in one of the girls who was in bed impatiently
supplying a light--they began sullenly to throw off their
garments.
'Is Miss Madden awake?' said one of them, looking in Monica's
direction.
There was no reply.
'She's picked up some feller to-day,' continued the speaker,
lowering her voice, and glancing round at her companions with a
grin. 'Or else she's had him all along--I shouldn't wonder.'
Heads were put forward eagerly, and inquiries whispered.
'He's oldish, I should say. I caught sight of them just as they was
going off in a boat from Battersea Park, but I couldn't see his face
very well. He looked rather like Mr. Thomas.'
Mr. Thomas was a member of the drapery firm, a man of fifty, ugly
and austere. At this description the listeners giggled and uttered
exclamations.
'Was he a swell?' asked one.
'Shouldn't wonder if he was. You can trust Miss M. to keep her eyes
open. She's one of the sly and quiet 'uns.'
'Oh, is she?' murmured another enviously. 'She's just one of those
as gets made a fool of--that's _my_ opinion.'
The point was argued for some minutes. It led to talk about Miss
Eade, who was treated with frank contempt because of her
ill-disguised pursuit of a mere counter-man. These other damsels
had, at present, more exalted views, for they were all younger than
Miss Eade.
Just before one o'clock, when silence had reigned for a quarter of
an hour, there entered with much bustle the last occupant of the
bedroom. She was a young woman with a morally unenviable reputation,
though some of her colleagues certainly envied her. Money came to
her with remarkable readiness whenever she had need of it. As usual,
she began to talk very loud, at first with innocent vulgarity;
exciting a little laughter, she became anecdotic and very
scandalous. It took her a long time to disrobe, and when the candle
was out, she still had her richest story to relate--of point so
Rabelaisian that one or two voices made themselves heard in serious
protest. The gifted anecdotist replied with a long laugh, then
cried, 'Good-night, young ladies!' and sank peacefully to slumber.
As for Monica, she saw the white dawn peep at the window, and closed
her tear-stained eyes only when the life of a new week had begun
noisily in Walworth Road.
CHAPTER VI
A CAMP OF THE RESERVE
In consequence of letters exchanged during the week, next Sunday
brought the three Miss Maddens to Queen's Road to lunch with Miss
Barfoot. Alice had recovered from her cold, but was still ailing,
and took rather a gloomy view of the situation she had lately
reviewed with such courage. Virginia maintained her enthusiastic
faith in Miss Nunn, and was prepared to reverence Miss Barfoot with
hardly less fervour. Both of them found it difficult to understand
their young sister, who, in her letters, had betrayed distaste for
the change of career proposed to her. They were received with the
utmost kindness, and all greatly enjoyed their afternoon, for not
even Monica's prejudice against a house, which in her own mind she
had stigmatized as 'an old-maid factory,' could resist the charm of
the hostess.
Though Miss Barfoot had something less than a woman's average
stature, the note of her presence was personal dignity. She was
handsome, and her carriage occasionally betrayed a consciousness of
the fact. According to circumstances, she bore herself as the lady
of aristocratic tastes, as a genial woman of the world, or as a
fervid prophetess of female emancipation, and each character was
supported with a spontaneity, a good-natured confidence, which
inspired liking and respect. A brilliant complexion and eyes that
sparkled with habitual cheerfulness gave her the benefit of doubt
when her age was in question; her style of dress, gracefully ornate,
would have led a stranger to presume her a wedded lady of some
distinction. Yet Mary Barfoot had known many troubles, poverty among
them. Her experiences and struggles bore a close resemblance to
those which Rhoda Nunn had gone through, and the time of trial had
lasted longer. Mental and moral stamina would have assured her
against such evils of celibacy as appeared in the elder Maddens, but
it was to a change of worldly fortune that she owed this revival of
youthful spirit and energy in middle life.
'You and I must be friends,' she said to Monica, holding the girl's
soft little hand. 'We are both black but comely.'
The compliment to herself seemed the most natural thing in the
world. Monica blushed with pleasure, and could not help laughing.
It was all but decided that Monica should become a pupil at the
school in Great Portland Street. In a brief private conversation,
Miss Barfoot offered to lend her the money that might be needful.
'Nothing but a business transaction, Miss Madden. You can give me
security; you will repay me at your convenience. If, in the end,
this occupation doesn't please you, you will at all events have
regained health. It is clear to me that you mustn't go on in that
dreadful place you described to Miss Nunn.'
The visitors took their leave at about five o'clock.
'Poor things! Poor things!' sighed Miss Barfoot, when she was alone
with her friend. 'What can we possibly do for the older ones?'
'They are excellent creatures,' said Rhoda; 'kind, innocent women;
but useful for nothing except what they have done all their lives.
The eldest can't teach seriously, but she can keep young children
out of mischief and give them a nice way of speaking. Her health is
breaking down, you can see.'
'Poor woman! One of the saddest types.'
'Decidedly. Virginia isn't quite so depressng--but how childish!'
'They all strike me as childish. Monica is a dear little girl; it
seemed a great absurdity to talk to her about business. Of course
she must find a husband.'
'I suppose so.'
Rhoda's tone of slighting concession amused her companion.
'My dear, after all we don't desire the end of the race.'
'No, I suppose not,' Rhoda admitted with a laugh.
'A word of caution. Your zeal is eating you up. At this rate, you
will hinder our purpose. We have no mission to prevent girls from
marrying suitably--only to see that those who can't shall have a
means of living with some satisfaction.'
'What chance is there that this girl will marry suitably?'
'Oh, who knows? At all events, there will be more likelihood of it
if she comes into our sphere.'
'Really? Do you know any man that would dream of marrying her?'
'Perhaps not, at present.'
It was clear that Miss Barfoot stood in some danger of becoming
subordinate to her more vehement friend. Her little body, for all
its natural dignity, put her at a disadvantage in the presence of
Rhoda, who towered above her with rather imperious stateliness. Her
suavity was no match for Rhoda's vigorous abruptness. But the two
were very fond of each other, and by this time thought themselves
able safely to dispense with the forms at first imposed by their
mutual relations.
'If she marry at all,' declared Miss Nunn, 'she will marry badly.
The family is branded. They belong to the class we know so well--
with no social position, and unable to win an individual one. I must
find a name for that ragged regiment.'
Miss Barfoot regarded her friend thoughtfully.
'Rhoda, what comfort have you for the poor in spirit?'
'None whatever, I'm afraid. My mission is not to them.'
After a pause, she added,--
'They have their religious faith, I suppose; and it's answerable for
a good deal.'
'It would be a terrible responsibility to rob them of it,' remarked
the elder woman gravely.
Rhoda made a gesture of impatience.
'It's a terrible responsibility to do anything at all. But I'm
glad'--she laughed scornfully--'that it's not my task to release
them.'
Mary Barfoot mused, a compassionate shadow on her fine face.
'I don't think we can do without the spirit of that religion,' she
said at length--'the essential human spirit. These poor women--
one ought to be very tender with them. I don't like your "ragged
regiment" phrase. When I grow old and melancholy, I think I shall
devote myself to poor hopeless and purposeless women--try to warm
their hearts a little before they go hence.'
'Admirable!' murmured Rhoda, smiling. 'But in the meantime they
cumber us; we have to fight.'
She threw forward her arms, as though with spear and buckler. Miss
Barfoot was smiling at this Palladin attitude when a servant
announced two ladies--Mrs. Smallbrook and Miss Haven. They were
aunt and niece; the former a tall, ungainly, sharp-featured widow;
the later a sweet-faced, gentle, sensible-looking girl of
five-and-twenty.
'I am so glad you are back again,' exclaimed the widow, as she shook
hands with Miss Barfoot, speaking in a hard, unsympathetic voice. 'I
do so want to ask your advice about an interesting girl who has
applied to me. I'm afraid her past won't bear looking into, but most
certainly she is a reformed character. Winifred is most favourably
impressed with her--'
Miss Haven, the Winifred in question, began to talk apart with Rhoda
Nunn.
'I do wish my aunt wouldn't exaggerate so,' she said in a subdued
voice, whilst Mrs. Smallbrook still talked loudly and urgently. 'I
never said that I was favourably impressed. The girl protests far
too much; she has played on aunt's weaknesses, I fear.'
'But who is she?'
'Oh, some one who lost her character long ago, and lives, I should
say, on charitable people. Just because I said that she must once
have had a very nice face, aunt misrepresents me in this way--it's
too bad.'
'Is she an educated person?' Miss Barfoot was heard to ask.
'Not precisely well educated.'
'Of the lower classes, then?'
'I don't like that term, you know. Of the _poorer_ classes.'
'She never was a lady,' put in Miss Haven quietly but decidedly.
'Then I fear I can be of no use,' said the hostess, betraying some
of her secret satisfaction in being able thus to avoid Mrs.
Smallbrook's request. Winifred, a pupil at Great Portland Street,
was much liked by both her teachers; but the aunt, with her
ceaseless philanthropy at other people's expense, could only be
considered a bore.
'But surely you don't limit your humanity, Miss Barfoot, by the
artificial divisions of society.'
'I think those divisions are anything but artificial,' replied the
hostess good-humouredly. 'In the uneducated classes I have no
interest whatever. You have heard me say so.
'Yes, but I cannot think--isn't that just a little narrow?'
'Perhaps so. I choose my sphere, that's all. Let those work for the
lower classes (I must call them lower, for they are, in every
sense), let those work for them who have a call to do so. I have
none. I must keep to my own class.'
'But surely, Miss Nunn,' cried the widow, turning to Rhoda, 'we work
for the abolition of all unjust privilege? To us, is not a woman a
woman?'
'I am obliged to agree with Miss Barfoot. I think that as soon as we
begin to meddle with uneducated people, all our schemes and views
are unsettled. We have to learn a new language, for one thing. But
your missionary enterprise is admirable.'
'For my part,' declared Mrs. Smallbrook, 'I aim at the solidarity of
woman. You, at all events, agree with me, Winifred?'
'I really don't think, aunt, that there can be any solidarity of
ladies with servant girls,' responded Miss Haven, encouraged by a
look from Rhoda.
'Then I grieve that your charity falls so far below the Christian
standard.'
Miss Barfoot firmly guided the conversation to a more hopeful
subject.
Not many people visited this house. Every Wednesday evening, from
half-past eight to eleven, Miss Barfoot was at home to any of her
acquaintances, including her pupils, who chose to call upon her; but
this was in the nature of an association with recognized objects. Of
society in the common sense Miss Barfoot saw very little; she had no
time to sacrifice in the pursuit of idle ceremonies. By the
successive deaths of two relatives, a widowed sister and an uncle,
she had come into possession of a modest fortune; but no thought of
a life such as would have suggested itself to most women in her
place ever tempted her. Her studies had always been of a very
positive nature; her abilities were of a kind uncommon in women, or
at all events very rarely developed in one of her sex. She could
have managed a large and complicated business, could have filled a
place on a board of directors, have taken an active part in
municipal government--nay, perchance in national. And this turn of
intellect consisted with many traits of character so strongly
feminine that people who knew her best thought of her with as much
tenderness as admiration. She did not seek to become known as the
leader of a 'movement,' yet her quiet work was probably more
effectual than the public career of women who propagandize for
female emancipation. Her aim was to draw from the overstocked
profession of teaching as many capable young women as she could lay
hands on, and to fit them for certain of the pursuits nowadays
thrown open to their sex. She held the conviction that whatever man
could do, woman could do equally well--those tasks only excepted
which demand great physical strength. At her instance, and with help
from her purse, two girls were preparing themselves to be
pharmaceutical chemists; two others had been aided by her to open a
bookseller's shop; and several who had clerkships in view received
an admirable training' at her school in Great Portland Street.
Thither every weekday morning Miss Barfoot and Rhoda repaired; they
arrived at nine o'clock, and with an hour's interval work went on
until five.
Entering by the private door of a picture-cleaner's shop, they
ascended to the second story, where two rooms had been furnished
like comfortable offices; two smaller on the floor above served for
dressing-rooms. In one of the offices, typewriting and occasionally
other kinds of work that demanded intelligence were carried on by
three or four young women regularly employed. To superintend this
department was Miss Nunn's chief duty, together with business
correspondence under the principal's direction. In the second room
Miss Barfoot instructed her pupils, never more than three being with
her at a time. A bookcase full of works on the Woman Question and
allied topics served as a circulating library; volumes were lent
without charge to the members of this little society. Once a month
Miss Barfoot or Miss Nunn, by turns, gave a brief address on some
set subject; the hour was four o'clock, and about a dozen hearers
generally assembled. Both worked very hard. Miss Barfoot did not
look upon her enterprise as a source of pecuniary profit, but she
had made the establishment more than self-supporting. Her pupils
increased in number, and the working department promised occupation
for a larger staff than was at present engaged. The young women in
general answered their friend's expectations, but of course there
were disappointing instances. One of these had caused Miss Barfoot
special distress. A young girl whom she had released from a life of
much hardship, and who, after a couple of months' trial, bade fair
to develop noteworthy ability, of a sudden disappeared. She was
without relatives in London, and Miss Barfoot's endeavours to find
her proved for several weeks very futile. Then came news of her; she
was living as the mistress of a married man. Every effort was made
to bring her back, but the girl resisted; presently she again passed
out of sight, and now more than a year had elapsed since Miss
Barfoot's last interview with her.
This Monday morning, among letters delivered at the house, was one
from the strayed girl. Miss Barfoot read it in private, and
throughout the day remained unusually grave. At five o'clock, when
staff and pupils had all departed, she sat for a while in
meditation, then spoke to Rhoda, who was glancing over a book by the
window.
'Here's a letter I should like you to read.'
'Something that has been troubling you since morning, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
Rhoda took the sheet and quickly ran through its contents. Her face
hardened, and she threw down the letter with a smile of contempt.
'What do you advise?' asked the elder woman, closely observing her.
'An answer in two lines--with a cheque enclosed, if you see fit.'
'Does that really meet the case?'
'More than meets it, I should say.'
Miss Barfoot pondered.
'I am doubtful. That is a letter of despair, and I can't close my
ears to it.'
'You had an affection for the girl. Help her, by all means, if you
feel compelled to. But you would hardly dream of taking her back
again?'
'That's the point. Why shouldn't I?'
'For one thing,' replied Rhoda, looking coldly down upon her friend,
'you will never do any good with her. For another, she isn't a
suitable companion for the girls she would meet here.'
'I can't be sure of either objection. She acted with deplorable
rashness, with infatuation, but I never discovered any sign of evil
in her. Did you?'
'Evil? Well, what does the word mean? I am not a Puritan, and I
don't judge her as the ordinary woman would. But I think she has put
herself altogether beyond our sympathy. She was twenty-two years
old--no child--and she acted with her eyes open. No deceit was
practised with her. She knew the man had a wife, and she was base
enough to accept a share of his attentions. Do you advocate
polygamy? That is an intelligible position, I admit. It is one way
of meeting the social difficulty. But not mine.'
'My dear Rhoda, don't enrage yourself.'
'I will try not to.'
'But I can't see the temptation to do so. Come and sit down, and
talk quietly. No, I have no fondness for polygamy. I find it very
hard to understand how she could act as she did. But a mistake,
however wretched, mustn't condemn a woman for life. That's the way
of the world, and decidedly it mustn't be ours.'
'On this point I practically agree with the world.'
'I see you do, and it astonishes me. You are going through curious
changes, in several respects. A year ago you didn't speak of her
like this.'
'Partly because I didn't know you well enough to speak my mind.
Partly yes, I have changed a good deal, no doubt. But I should never
have proposed to take her by the hand and let bygones be bygones.
That is an amiable impulse, but anti-social.'
'A favourite word on your lips just now, Rhoda. Why is it
anti-social?'
'Because one of the supreme social needs of our day is the education
of women in self-respect and self-restraint. There are plenty of
people--men chiefly, but a few women also of a certain temperament--who
cry for a reckless individualism in these matters. They would
tell you that she behaved laudably, that she was _living out
herself_--and things of that kind. But I didn't think you shared
such views.'
'I don't, altogether. "The education of women in self-respect." Very
well. Here is a poor woman whose self-respect has given way under
grievous temptation. Circumstances have taught her that she made a
wild mistake. The man gives her up, and bids her live as she can;
she is induced to beggary. Now, in that position a girl is tempted
to sink still further. The letter of two lines and an enclosed
cheque would as likely as not plunge her into depths from which she
could never be rescued. It would assure her that there was no hope.
On the other hand, we have it in our power to attempt that very
education of which you speak. She has brains, and doesn't belong to
the vulgar. It seems to me that you are moved by illogical impulses--and
certainly anything but kind ones.'
Rhoda only grew more stubborn.
'You say she yielded to a grievous temptation. What temptation? Will
it bear putting into words?'
'Oh yes, I think it will,' answered Miss Barfoot, with her gentlest
smile. 'She fell in love with the man.
'Fell in love!' Concentration of scorn was in this echo. 'Oh, for
what isn't that phrase responsible!'
'Rhoda, let me ask you a question on which I have never ventured. Do
you know what it is to be in love?'
Miss Nunn's strong features were moved as if by a suppressed laugh;
the colour of her cheeks grew very slightly warm.
'I am a normal human being,' she answered, with an impatient
gesture. 'I understand perfectly well what the phrase signifies.'
'That is no answer, my dear. Have you ever been in love with any
man?'
'Yes. When I was fifteen.'
'And not since,' rejoined the other, shaking her head and smiling.
'No, not since?'
'Thank Heaven, no!'
'Then you are not very well able to judge this case. I, on the other
hand, can judge it with the very largest understanding. Don't smile
so witheringly, Rhoda. I shall neglect your advice for once.'
'You will bring this girl back, and continue teaching her as
before?'
'We have no one here that knows her, and with prudence she need
never be talked about by those of our friends who did.'
'Oh, weak--weak--weak!'
'For once I must act independently.'
'Yes, and at a stroke change the whole character of your work. You
never proposed keeping a reformatory. Your aim is to help chosen
girls, who promise to be of some use in the world. This Miss Royston
represents the profitless average--no, she is below the average.
Are you so blind as to imagine that any good will ever come of such
a person? If you wish to save her from the streets, do so by all
means. But to put her among your chosen pupils is to threaten your
whole undertaking. Let it once become known--and it _would_ become
known--that a girl of that character came here, and your
usefulness is at an end. In a year's time you will have to choose
between giving up the school altogether and making it a refuge for
outcasts.'
Miss Barfoot was silent. She tapped with her fingers on the table.
'Personal feeling is misleading you,' Rhoda pursued. 'Miss Royston
had a certain cleverness, I grant; but do you think I didn't know
that she would never become what you hoped? All her spare time was
given to novel-reading. If every novelist could be strangled and
thrown into the sea we should have some chance of reforming women.
The girl's nature was corrupted with sentimentality, like that of
all but every woman who is intelligent enough to read what is called
the best fiction, but not intelligent enough to understand its vice.
Love--love--love; a sickening sameness of vulgarity. What is
more vulgar than the ideal of novelists? They won't represent the
actual world; it would be too dull for their readers. In real life,
how many men and women _fall in love_? Not one in every ten
thousand, I am convinced. Not one married pair in ten thousand have
felt for each other as two or three couples do in every novel. There
is the sexual instinct, of course, but that is quite a different
thing; the novelists daren't talk about that. The paltry creatures
daren't tell the one truth that would be profitable. The result is
that women imagine themselves noble and glorious when they are most
near the animals. This Miss Royston--when she rushed off to
perdition, ten to one she had in mind some idiot heroine of a book.
Oh, I tell you that you are losing sight of your first duty. There
are people enough to act the good Samaritan; _you_ have quite
another task in life. It is your work to train and encourage girls
in a path as far as possible from that of the husband-hunter. Let
them marry later, if they must; but at all events you will have
cleared their views on the subject of marriage, and put them in a
position to judge the man who offers himself. You will have taught
them that marriage is an alliance of intellects--not a means of
support, or something more ignoble still. But to do this with effect
you must show yourself relentless to female imbecility. If a girl
gets to know that you have received back such a person as Miss
Royston she will be corrupted by your spirit of charity--
corrupted, at all events, for our purposes. The endeavour to give
women a new soul is so difficult that we can't be cumbered by
side-tasks, such as fishing foolish people out of the mud they have
walked into. Charity for human weakness is all very well in its
place, but it is precisely one of the virtues that you must _not_
teach. You have to set an example of the sterner qualities--to
discourage anything that resembles sentimentalism. And think if you
illustrate in your own behaviour a sympathy for the very vice of
character we are trying our hardest to extirpate!'
'This is a terrible harangue,' said Miss Barfoot, when the
passionate voice had been silent for a few ticks of the clock. 'I
quite enter into your point of view, but I think you go beyond
practical zeal. However, I will help the girl in some other way, if
possible.'
'I have offended you.'
'Impossible to take offence at such obvious sincerity.'
'But surely you grant the force of what I say?'
'We differ a good deal, Rhoda, on certain points which as a rule
would never come up to interfere with our working in harmony. You
have come to dislike the very thought of marriage--and everything
of that kind. I think it's a danger you ought to have avoided. True,
we wish to prevent girls from marrying just for the sake of being
supported, and from degrading themselves as poor Bella Royston has
done; but surely between ourselves we can admit that the vast
majority of women would lead a wasted life if they did not marry.'
'I maintain that the vast majority of women lead a vain and
miserable life because they _do_ marry.'
'Don't you blame the institution of marriage with what is chargeable
to human fate? A vain and miserable life is the lot of nearly all
mortals. Most women, whether they marry or not, will suffer and
commit endless follies.'
'Most women--as life is at present arranged for them. Things are
changing, and we try to have our part in hastening a new order.'
'Ah, we use words in a different sense. I speak of human nature, not
of the effect of institutions.'
'Now it is you who are unpractical. Those views lead only to
pessimism and paralysis of effort.'
Miss Barfoot rose.
'I give in to your objection against bringing the girl back to work
here. I will help her in other ways. It's quite true that she isn't
to be relied upon.'
'Impossible to trust her in any detail of life. The pity is that her
degradation can't be used as an object lesson for our other girls.'
'There again we differ. You are quite mistaken in your ideas of how
the mind is influenced. The misery of Bella Royston would not in the
least affect any other girl's way of thinking about the destiny of
her sex. We must avoid exaggeration. If our friends get to think of
us as fanatics, all our usefulness is over. The ideal we set up must
be human. Do you think now that we know one single girl who in her
heart believes it is better never to love and never to marry?'
'Perhaps not,' admitted Rhoda, more cheerful now that she had gained
her point. 'But we know several who will not dream of marrying
unless reason urges them as strongly as inclination.'
Miss Barfoot laughed.
'Pray, who ever distinguished in such a case between reason and
inclination?'
'You are most unusually sceptical to-day,' said Rhoda, with an
impatient laugh.
'No, my dear. We happen to be going to the root of things, that's
all. Perhaps it's as well to do so now and then. Oh, I admire you
immensely, Rhoda. You are the ideal adversary of those care-nothing
and believe-nothing women who keep the world back. But don't prepare
for yourself a woeful disillusion.'
'Take the case of Winifred Haven,' urged Miss Nunn. 'She is a
good-looking and charming girl, and some one or other will want to
marry her some day, no doubt.'
'Forgive my interrupting you. There is great doubt. She has no money
but what she can earn, and such girls, unless they are exceptionally
beautiful, are very likely indeed to remain unsought.'
'Granted. But let us suppose she has an offer. Should you fear for
her prudence?'
'Winifred has much good sense,' admitted the other. 'I think she is
in as little danger as any girl we know. But it wouldn't startle me
if she made the most lamentable mistake. Certainly I don't fear it.
The girls of our class are not like the uneducated, who, for one
reason or another, will marry almost any man rather than remain
single. They have at all events personal delicacy. But what I insist
upon is, that Winifred would rather marry than not. And we must
carefully bear that fact in mind. A strained ideal is as bad,
practically, as no ideal at all. Only the most exceptional girl will
believe it her duty to remain single as an example and support to
what we call the odd women; yet _that_ is the most human way of
urging what you desire. By taking up the proud position that a woman
must be altogether independent of sexual things, you damage your
cause. Let us be glad if we put a few of them in the way of living
single with no more discontent than an unmarried man experiences.'
'Surely that's an unfortunate comparison,' said Rhoda coldly. 'What
man lives in celibacy? Consider that unmentionable fact, and then
say whether I am wrong in refusing to forgive Miss Royston. Women's
battle is not only against themselves. The necessity of the case
demands what you call a strained ideal. I am seriously convinced
that before the female sex can be raised from its low level there
will have to be a widespread revolt against sexual instinct.
Christianity couldn't spread over the world without help of the
ascetic ideal, and this great movement for woman's emancipation must
also have its ascetics.'
'I can't declare that you are wrong in that. Who knows? But it isn't
good policy to preach it to our young disciples.'
'I shall respect your wish; but--'
Rhoda paused and shook her head.
'My dear,' said the elder woman gravely, 'believe me that the less
we talk or think about such things the better for the peace of us
all. The odious fault of working-class girls, in town and country
alike, is that they are absorbed in preoccupation with their animal
nature. We, thanks to our education and the tone of our society,
manage to keep that in the background. Don't interfere with this
satisfactory state of things. Be content to show our girls that it
is their duty to lead a life of effort--to earn their bread and to
cultivate their minds. Simply ignore marriage--that's the wisest.
Behave as if the thing didn't exist. You will do positive harm by
taking the other course--the aggressive course.'
'I shall obey you.'
'Good, humble creature!' laughed Miss Barfoot. 'Come, let us be off
to Chelsea. Did Miss Grey finish that copy for Mr. Houghton?'
'Yes, it has gone to post.'
'Look, here's a big manuscript from our friend the antiquary. Two of
the girls must get to work on it at once in the morning.'
Manuscripts entrusted to them were kept in a fire-proof safe. When
this had been locked up, the ladies went to their dressing-room and
prepared for departure. The people who lived on the premises were
responsible for cleaning the rooms and other care; to them Rhoda
delivered the door-keys.
Miss Barfoot was grave and silent on the way home. Rhoda, annoyed at
the subject that doubtless occupied her friend's thoughts, gave
herself up to reflections of her own.
CHAPTER VII
A SOCIAL ADVANCE
A week's notice to her employers would release Monica from the
engagement in Walworth Road. Such notice must be given on Monday, so
that, if she could at once make up her mind to accept Miss Barfoot's
offer, the coming week would be her last of slavery behind the
counter. On the way home from Queen's Road, Alice and Virginia
pressed for immediate decision; they were unable to comprehend how
Monica could hesitate for another moment. The question of her place
of abode had already been discussed. One of Miss Barfoot's young
women, who lived at a convenient distance from Great Portland
Street, would gladly accept a partner in her lodging--an
arrangement to be recommended for its economy. Yet Monica shrank
from speaking the final word.
'I don't know whether it's worth while,' she said, after a long
silence, as they drew near to York Road Station, whence they were to
take train for Clapham Junction.
'Not worth while?' exclaimed Virginia. 'You don't think it would be
an improvement?'
'Yes, I suppose it would. I shall see how I feel about it tomorrow
morning.'
She spent the evening at Lavender Hill, but without change in the
mood thus indicated. A strange inquietude appeared in her behaviour.
It was as though she were being urged to undertake something hard
and repugnant.
On her return to Walworth Road, just as she came within sight of the
shop, she observed a man's figure some twenty yards distant, which
instantly held her attention. The dim gaslight occasioned some
uncertainty, but she believed the figure was that of Widdowson. He
was walking on the other side of the street, and away from her. When
the man was exactly opposite Scotcher's establishment he gazed in
that direction, but without stopping. Monica hastened, fearing to be
seen and approached. Already she had reached the door, when
Widdowson--yes, he it was--turned abruptly to walk back again.
His eye was at once upon her; but whether he recognized her or not
Monica could not know. At that moment she opened the door and passed
in.
A fit of trembling seized her, as if she had barely escaped some
peril. In the passage she stood motionless, listening with the
intensity of dread. She could hear footsteps on the pavement; she
expected a ring at the door-bell. If he were so thoughtless as to
come to the door, she would on no account see him.
But there was no ring, and after a few minutes' waiting she
recovered her self-command. She had not made a mistake; even his
features had been discernible as he turned towards her. Was this the
first time that he had come to look at the place where she lived--
possibly to spy upon her? She resented this behaviour, yet the
feeling was confused with a certain satisfaction.
From one of the dormitories there was a view of Walworth Road. She
ran upstairs, softly opened the door of that room, and peeped in.
The low burning gas showed her that only one bed had an occupant,
who appeared to be asleep. Softly she went to the window, drew the
blind aside, and looked down into the street. But Widdowson had
disappeared. He might of course be on this side of the way.
'Who's that?' suddenly asked a voice from the occupied bed.
The speaker was Miss Eade. Monica looked at her, and nodded.
'You? What are you doing here?'
'I wanted to see if some one was standing outside.'
'You mean _him_?'
The other nodded.
'I've got a beastly headache. I couldn't hold myself up, and I had
to come home at eight o'clock. There's such pains all down my back
too. I shan't stay at this beastly place much longer. I don't want
to get ill, like Miss Radford. Somebody went to see her at the
hospital this afternoon, and she's awfully bad. Well, have you seen
him?'
'He's gone. Good-night.'
And Monica left the room.
Next day she notified her intention of leaving her employment. No
questions were asked; she was of no particular importance; fifty,
or, for the matter of that, five score, young women equally capable
could be found to fill her place.
On Tuesday morning there came a letter from Virginia--a few lines
requesting her to meet her sisters, as soon as possible after
closing time that evening, in front of the shop. 'We have something
_very delightful_ to tell you. We _do hope_ you gave notice to-day,
as things are getting so bright in every direction.'
At a quarter to ten she was able to run out, and close at hand were
the two eagerly awaiting her.
'Mrs. Darby has found a place for Alice,' began Virginia. 'We heard
by the afternoon post yesterday. A lady at Yatton wants a governess
for two young children. Isn't it fortunate?'
'So delightfully convenient for what we were thinking of,' put in
the eldest, with her croaking voice. 'Nothing could have been
better.'
'You mean about the school?' said Monica dreamily.
'Yes, the school,' Virginia replied, with trembling earnestness.
'Yatton is convenient both for Clevedon and Weston. Alice will be
able to run over to both places and make enquiries, and ascertain
where the best opening would be.'
Miss Nunn's suggestion, hitherto but timidly discussed, had taken
hold upon their minds as soon as Alice received the practical call
to her native region. Both were enthusiastic for the undertaking. It
afforded them a novel subject of conversation, and inspirited them
by seeming to restore their self-respect. After all, they might have
a mission, a task in the world. They pictured themselves the heads
of a respectable and thriving establishment, with subordinate
teachers, with pleasant social relations; they felt young again, and
capable of indefinite activity. Why had they not thought of this
long ago? and thereupon they reverted to antistrophic laudation of
Rhoda Nunn.
'Is it a good place?' their younger sister inquired.
'Oh, pretty good. Only twelve pounds a year, but nice people, Mrs.
Darby says. They want me at once, and it is very likely that in a
few weeks I shall go with them to the seaside.'
'What _could_ have been better?' cried Virginia. 'Her health will be
established, and in half a year, or less, we shall be able to come
to a decision about the great step. Oh, and have you given notice,
darling?'
'Yes, I have.'
Both clapped their hands like children. It was an odd little scene
on the London pavement at ten o'clock at night; so intimately
domestic amid surroundings the very antithesis of domesticity. Only
a few yards away, a girl, to whom the pavement was a place of
commerce, stood laughing with two men. The sound of her voice hinted
to Monica the advisability of walking as they conversed, and they
moved towards Walworth Road Station.
'We thought at first,' said Virginia, 'that when Alice had gone you
might like to share my room; but then the distance from Great
Portland Street would be a decided objection. I might move, but we
doubt whether that would be worth while. It is so comfortable with
Mrs. Conisbee, and for the short remaining time--Christmas, I
should think, would be a very good time for opening. If it were
possible to decide upon dear old Clevedon, of course we should
prefer it; but perhaps Weston will offer more scope. Alice will
weigh all the arguments on the spot. Don't you envy her, Monica?
Think of being _there_ in this summer weather!'
'Why don't you go as well?' Monica asked.
'I? And take lodgings, you mean? We never thought of that. But we
still have to consider expenditure very seriously, you know. If
possible, I must find employment for the rest of the year. Remember
how very likely it is that Miss Nunn will have something to suggest
for me. And when I think it will be of so much practical use for me
to see her frequently for a few weeks. Already I have learnt so much
from her and from Miss Barfoot. Their conversation is so
encouraging. I feel that it is a training of the mind to be in
contact with them.'
'Yes, I quite share that view,' said Alice, with tremulous
earnestness. 'Virginia can reap much profit from intercourse with
them. They have the new ideas in education, and it would be so good
if our school began with the advantage of quite a modern system.'
Monica became silent. When her sisters had talked in the same strain
for a quarter of an hour, she said absently,--
'I wrote to Miss Barfoot last night, so I suppose I shall be able to
move to those lodgings next Sunday.'
It was eleven o'clock before they parted. Having taken leave of her
sisters near the station, Monica turned to walk quickly home. She
had gone about half the way, when her name was spoken just behind
her, in Widdowson's voice. She stopped, and there stood the man,
offering his hand.
'Why are you here at this time?' she asked in an unsteady voice.
'Not by chance. I had a hope that I might see you.'
He was gloomy, and looked at her searchingly.
'I mustn't wait to talk now, Mr. Widdowson. It's very late.'
'Very late indeed. It surprised me to see you.'
'Surprised you? Why should it?'
'I mean that it seemed so very unlikely--at this hour.'
'Then how could you have hoped to see me?'
Monica walked on, with an air of displeasure, and Widdowson kept
beside her, incessantly eyeing her countenance.
'No, I didn't really think of seeing you, Miss Madden. I wished to
be near the place where you were, that was all.'
'You saw me come out I dare say.'
'No.'
'If you had done, you would have known that I came to meet two
ladies, my sisters. I walked with them to the station, and now I am
going home. You seem to think an explanation necessary--'
'Do forgive me! What right have I to ask anything of the kind? But I
have been very restless since Sunday. I wished so to meet you, if
only for a few minutes. Only an hour or two ago I posted a letter to
you.'
Monica said nothing.
'It was to ask you to meet me next Sunday, as we arranged. Shall you
be able to do so?'
'I'm afraid I can't. At the end of this week I leave my place here,
and on Sunday I shall be moving to another part of London.'
'You are leaving? You have decided to make the change you spoke of?'
'Yes.'
'And will you tell me where you are going to live?'
'In lodgings near Great Portland Street. I must say good-night, Mr.
Widdowson. I must, indeed.'
'Please--do give me one moment!'
'I can't stay--I can't--good-night!'
It was impossible for him to detain her. Ungracefully he caught at
his hat, made the salute, and moved away with rapid, uneven strides.
In less than half an hour he was back again at this spot. He walked
past the shop many times without pausing; his eyes devoured the
front of the building, and noted those windows in which there was a
glimmer of light. He saw girls enter by the private door, but Monica
did not again show herself. Some time after midnight, when the house
had long been dark and perfectly quiet, the uneasy man took a last
look, and then sought a cab to convey him home.
The letter of which he had spoken reached Monica's hands next
morning. It was a very respectful invitation to accompany the writer
on a drive in Surrey. Widdowson proposed to meet her at Herne Hill
railway station, where his vehicle would be waiting. 'In passing, I
shall be able to point out to you the house which has been my home
for about a year.'
As circumstances were, it would be hardly possible to accept this
invitation without exciting curiosity in her sisters. The Sunday
morning would be occupied, probably, in going to the new lodgings
and making the acquaintance of her future companion there; in the
afternoon, her sisters were to pay here a visit, as Alice had
decided to start for Somerset on the Monday. She must write a
refusal, but it was by no means her wish to discourage Widdowson
altogether. The note which at length satisfied her ran thus:
'DEAR MR. WIDDOWSON--I am very sorry that it will be impossible
for me to see you next Sunday. All day I shall be occupied. My
eldest sister is leaving London, and Sunday will be my last day with
her, perhaps for a long time. Please do not think that I make light
of your kindness. When I am settled in my new life, I hope to be
able to let you know how it suits me.--Sincerely yours,
MONICA MADDEN.'
In a postscript she mentioned her new address. It was written in
very small characters--perhaps an unpurposed indication of the
misgiving with which she allowed herself to pen the words.
Two days went by, and again a letter from Widdowson was delivered,
'DEAR MISS MADDEN--My chief purpose in writing again so soon is to
apologize sincerely for my behaviour on Tuesday evening. It was
quite unjustifiable. The best way of confessing my fault is to own
that I had a foolish dislike of your walking in the streets
unaccompanied at so late an hour. I believe that any man who had
newly made your acquaintance, and had thought as much about you as I
have, would have experienced the same feeling. The life which made
it impossible for you to see friends at any other time of the day
was so evidently unsuited to one of your refinement that I was made
angry by the thought of it. Happily it is coming to an end, and I
shall be greatly relieved when I know that you have left the house
of business.
'You remember that we are to be friends. I should be much less than
your friend if I did not desire for you a position very different
from that which necessity forced upon you. Thank you very much for
the promise to tell me how you like the new employment and your new
friends. Shall you not henceforth be at leisure on other days
besides Sunday? As you will now be near Regent's Park, perhaps I may
hope to meet you there some evening before long. I would go any
distance to see you and speak with you for only a few minutes.
'Do forgive my impertinence, and believe me, dear Miss Madden.--
Ever yours,
EDMUND WIDDOWSON.'
Now this undoubtedly might be considered a love-letter, and it was
the first of its kind that Monica had ever received. No man had ever
written to her that he was willing to go 'any distance' for the
reward of looking on her face. She read the composition many times,
and with many thoughts. It did not enchant her; presently she felt
it to be dull and prosy--anything but the ideal of a love-letter,
even at this early stage.
The remarks concerning Widdowson made in the bedroom by the girl who
fancied her asleep had greatly disturbed her conception of him. He
was old, and looked still older to a casual eye. He had a stiff dry
way, and already had begun to show how precise and exacting he could
be. A year or two ago the image of such a man would have repelled
her. She did not think it possible to regard him with warm feelings;
yet, if he asked her to marry him--and that seemed likely to
happen very soon--almost certainly her answer would be yes.
Provided, of course, that all he had told her about himself could be
in some satisfactory way confirmed.
Her acquaintance with him was an extraordinary thing. With what
amazement and rapture would any one of her shop companions listen to
the advances of a man who had six hundred a year! Yet Monica did not
doubt this truthfulness and the honesty of his intentions. His
life-story sounded credible enough, and the very dryness of his
manner inspired confidence. As things went in the marriage war, she
might esteem herself a most fortunate young woman. It seemed that he
had really fallen in love with her; be might prove a devoted
husband. She felt no love in return; but between the prospect of a
marriage of esteem and that of no marriage at all there was little
room for hesitation. The chances were that she might never again
receive an offer from a man whose social standing she could respect.
In the meantime there had come a civil little note from the girl
whose rooms she was to share. 'Miss Barfoot has spoken of you so
favourably that I did not think it necessary to see you before
consenting to what she suggested. Perhaps she has told you that I
have my own furniture; it is very plain, but, I think, comfortable.
For the two rooms, with attendance, I pay eight and sixpence a week;
my landlady will ask eleven shillings when there are two of us, so
that your share would be five-and-six. I hope you won't think this
is too much. I am a quiet and I think a very reasonable person.' The
signature was 'Mildred H. Vesper.'
The day of release arrived. As it poured with rain all the morning,
Monica the less regretted that she had been obliged to postpone her
meeting with Widdowson. At breakfast-time she said good-bye to the
three or four girls in whom she had any interest. Miss Eade was
delighted to se her go. This rival finally out of the way, Mr.
Bullivant might perchance turn his attention to the faithful admirer
who remained.
She went by train to Great Portland Street, and thence by cab, with
her two boxes, to Rutland Street, Hampstead Road--an uphill little
street of small houses. When the cab stopped, the door of the house
she sought at once opened, and on the threshold appeared a short,
prim, plain-featured girl, who smiled a welcome.
'You are Miss Vesper?' Monica said, approaching her.
'Yes--very pleased to see you, Miss Madden. As London cabmen have
a narrow view of their duties, I'll help you to get the boxes in.'
Monica liked the girl at once. Jehu condescending to hand down the
luggage, they transferred it to the foot of the staircase, then, the
fare having been paid, went up to the second floor, which was the
top of the house. Miss Vesper's two rooms were very humble, but
homely. She looked at Monica to remark the impression produced by
them.
'Will it do?'
'Oh, very nicely indeed. After my quarters in Walworth Road! But I
feel ashamed to intrude upon you.'
'I have been trying to find someone to share my rent,' said the
other, with a simple frankness that was very agreeable. 'Miss
Barfoot was full of your praises--and indeed I think we may suit
each other.'
'I shall try to be as little disturbance to you as possible.'
'And I to you. The street is a very quiet one. Up above here is
Cumberland Market; a hay and straw market. Quite pleasant odours--
country odours--reach us on market day. I am country-bred; that's
why I speak of such a trifle.'
'So am I,' said Monica. 'I come from Somerset.'
'And I from Hampshire. Do you know, I have a strong suspicion that
all the really nice girls in London _are_ country girls.'
Monica had to look at the speaker to be sure that this was said in
pleasantry. Miss Vesper was fond of making dry little jokes in the
gravest tone; only a twinkle of her eyes and a movement of her tight
little lips betrayed her.
'Shall I ask the landlady to help me up with the luggage?'
'You are rather pale, Miss Madden. Better let me see to that. I have
to go down to remind Mrs. Hocking to put salt into the saucepan with
the potatoes. She cooks for me only on Sunday, and if I didn't
remind her every week she would boil the potatoes without salt. Such
a state of mind is curious, but one ends by accepting it as a fact
in nature.'
They joined in merry laughter. When Miss Vesper gave way to open
mirth, she enjoyed it so thoroughly that it was a delight to look at
her.
By the time dinner was over they were on excellent terms, and had
exchanged a great deal of personal information. Mildred Vesper
seemed to be one of the most contented of young women. She had
sisters and brothers, whom she loved, all scattered about England in
pursuit of a livelihood; it was rare for any two of them to see each
other, but she spoke of this as quite in the order of things. For
Miss Barfoot her respect was unbounded.
'She had made more of me than any one else could have done. When I
first met her, three years ago, I was a simpleton; I thought myself
ill-used because I had to work hard for next to no payment and live
in solitude. Now I should be ashamed to complain of what falls to
the lot of thousands of girls.'
'Do you like Miss Nunn?' asked Monica.
'Not so well as Miss Barfoot, but I think very highly of her. Her
zeal makes her exaggerate a little now and then, but then the zeal
is so splendid. I haven't it myself--not in that form.'
'You mean--'
'I mean that I feel a shameful delight when I hear of a girl getting
married. It's very weak, no doubt; perhaps I shall improve as I grow
older. But I have half a suspicion, do you know, that Miss Barfoot
is not without the same weakness.'
Monica laughed, and spoke of something else. She was in good
spirits; already her companion's view of life began to have an
effect upon her; she thought of people and things in a more
lightsome way, and was less disposed to commiserate herself.
The bedroom which both were to occupy might with advantage have been
larger, but they knew that many girls of instinct no less delicate
than their own had to endure far worse accommodation in London--
where poverty pays for its sheltered breathing-space at so much a
square foot. It was only of late that Miss Vesper had been able to
buy furniture (four sovereigns it cost in all), and thus to allow
herself the luxury of two rooms at the rent she previously paid for
one. Miss Barfoot did not remunerate her workers on a philanthropic
scale, but strictly in accordance with market prices; common sense
dictated this principle. In talking over their arrangements, Monica
decided to expend a few shillings on the purchase of a
chair-bedstead for her own use.
'I often have nightmares,' she remarked, 'and kick a great deal. It
wouldn't be nice to give you bruises.'
A week passed. Alice had written from Yatton, and in a cheerful
tone. Virginia, chronically excited, had made calls at Rutland
Street and at Queen's Road; she talked like one who had suddenly
received a great illumination, and her zeal in the cause of
independent womanhood rivalled Miss Nunn's. Without enthusiasm, but
seemingly contented, Monica worked at the typewriting machine, and
had begun certain studies which her friends judged to be useful. She
experienced a growth of self-respect. It was much to have risen
above the status of shop-girl, and the change of moral atmosphere
had a very beneficial effect upon her.
Mildred Vesper was a studious little person, after a fashion of her
own. She possessed four volumes of Maunder's 'Treasuries', and to
one or other of these she applied herself for at least an hour every
evening.
'By nature,' she said, when Monica sought an explanation of this
study, 'my mind is frivolous. What I need is a store of solid
information, to reflect upon. No one could possibly have a worse
memory, but by persevering I manage to learn one or two facts a
day.'
Monica glanced at the books now and then, but had no desire to
cultivate Maunder's acquaintance. Instead of reading, she meditated
the problems of her own life.
Edmund Widdowson, of course, wrote to her at the new address. In her
reply she again postponed their meeting. Whenever she went out in
the evening, it was with expectation of seeing him somewhere in the
neighbourhood; she felt assured that he had long ago come to look at
the house, and more likely than not his eyes had several times been
upon her. That did not matter; her life was innocent, and Widdowson
might watch her coming and going as much as he would.
At length, about nine o'clock one evening, she came face to face
with him. It was in Hampstead Road; she had been buying at a
draper's, and carried the little parcel. At the moment of
recognition, Widdowson's face so flushed and brightened that Monica
could not help a sympathetic feeling of pleasure.
'Why are you so cruel to me?' he said in a low voice, as she gave
her hand. 'What a time since I saw you!'
'Is that really true?' she replied, with an air more resembling
coquetry than any he had yet seen in her.
'Since I spoke to you, then.'
'When did you see me?'
'Three evenings ago. You were walking in Tottenham Court Road with a
young lady.'
'Miss Vesper, the friend I live with.'
'Will you give me a few minutes now?' he asked humbly. 'Is it too
late?'
For reply Monica moved slowly on. They turned up one of the ways
parallel with Rutland Street, and so came into the quiet district
that skirts Regent's Park, Widdowson talking all the way in a strain
of all but avowed tenderness, his head bent towards her and his
voice so much subdued that occasionally she lost a few words.
'I can't live without seeing you,' he said at length. 'If you refuse
to meet me, I have no choice but to come wandering about the places
where you are. Don't, pray don't think I spy upon you. Indeed, it is
only just to see your face or your form as you walk along. When I
have had my journey in vain I go back in misery. You are never out
of my thoughts--never.'
'I am sorry for that, Mr. Widdowson.'
'Sorry? Are you really sorry? Do you think of me with less
friendliness than when we had our evening on the river?'
'Oh, not with less friendliness. But if I only make you unhappy--'
'In one way unhappy, but as no one else ever had the power to. If
you would let me meet you at certain times my restlessness would be
at an end. The summer is going so quickly. Won't you come for that
drive with me next Sunday? I will be waiting for you at any place
you like to appoint. If you could imagine what joy it would give
me!'
Presently Monica assented. If it were fine, she would be by the
southeast entrance to Regent's Park at two o'clock. He thanked her
with words of the most submissive gratitude, and then they parted.
The day proved doubtful, but she kept her appointment. Widdowson was
on the spot with horse and trap. These were not, as he presently
informed Monica, his own property, but hired from a livery stable,
according to his custom.
'It won't rain,' he exclaimed, gazing at the sky. 'It _shan't_ rain!
These few hours are too precious to me.'
'It would be very awkward if it _did_,' Monica replied, in merry
humour, as they drove along.
The sky threatened till sundown, but Widdowson was able to keep
declaring that rain would not come. He took a south-westward course,
crossed Waterloo Bridge, and thence by the highways made for Herne
Hill. Monica observed that he made a short detour to avoid Walworth
Road. She asked his reason.
'I hate the road!' Widdowson answered, with vehemence.
'You hate it?'
'Because you slaved and suffered there. If I had the power, I would
destroy it--every house. Many a time,' he added, in a lower voice,
'when you were lying asleep, I walked up and down there in horrible
misery.'
'Just because I had to stand at a counter?'
'Not only that. It wasn't fit for you to work in that way--but the
people about you! I hated every face of man or woman that passed
along the street.'
'I didn't like the society.'
'I should hope not. Of course, I know you didn't. Why did you ever
come to such a place?'
There was severity rather than sympathy in his look.
'I was tired of the dull country life,' Monica replied frankly. 'And
then I didn't know what the shops and the people were like.'
'Do you need a life of excitement?' he asked, with a sidelong
glance.
'Excitement? No, but one must have change.'
When they reached Herne Hill, Widdowson became silent, and presently
he allowed the horse to walk.
'That is my house, Miss Madden--the right-hand one.
Monica looked, and saw two little villas, built together with stone
facings, porches at the doors and ornamented gables.
'I only wanted to show it you,' he added quickly. 'There's nothing
pretty or noticeable about it, and it isn't at all grandly
furnished. My old housekeeper and one servant manage to keep it in
order.'
They passed, and Monica did not allow herself to look back.
'I think it's a nice house,' she said presently.
'All my life I have wished to have a house of my own, but I didn't
dare to hope I ever should. Men in general don't seem to care so
long as they have lodgings that suit them--I mean unmarried men.
But I always wanted to live alone--without strangers, that is to
say. I told you that I am not very sociable. When I got my house, I
was like a child with a toy; I couldn't sleep for satisfaction. I
used to walk all over it, day after day, before it was furnished.
There was something that delighted me in the sound of my footsteps
on the staircases and the bare floors. Here I shall live and die, I
kept saying to myself. Not in solitude, I hoped. Perhaps I might
meet some one--'
Monica interrupted him to ask a question about some object in the
landscape. He answered her very briefly, and for a long time neither
spoke. Then the girl, glancing at him with a smile of apology, said
in a gentle tone--
'You were telling me how the house pleased you. Have you still the
same pleasure in living there?'
'Yes. But lately I have been hoping--I daren't say more. You will
interrupt me again.'
'Which way are we going now, Mr. Widdowson?'
'To Streatham, then on to Carshalton. At five o'clock we will use
our right as travellers, and get some innkeeper to make tea for us.
Look, the sun is trying to break through; we shall have a fine
evening yet. May I, without rudeness, say that you look better since
you left that abominable place.'
'Oh, I feel better.'
After keeping his look fixed for a long time on the horse's ears,
Widdowson turned gravely to his companion.
'I told you about my sister-in-law. Would you be willing to make her
acquaintance?'
'I don't feel able to do that, Mr. Widdowson,' Monica answered with
decision.
Prepared for this reply, he began a long and urgent persuasion. It
was useless; Monica listened quietly, but without sign of yielding.
The subject dropped, and they talked of indifferent things.
On the homeward drive, when the dull sky grew dusk about them, and
the suburban street-lamps began to show themselves in long
glimmering lines, Widdowson returned with shamefaced courage to the
subject which for some hours had been in abeyance.
'I can't part from you this evening without a word of hope to
remember. You know that I want you to be my wife. Will you tell me
if there is anything I can say or do to make your consent possible?
Have you any doubt of me?'
'No doubt whatever of your sincerity.'
'In one sense, I am still a stranger to you. Will you give me the
Opportunity of making things between us more regular? Will you allow
me to meet some friend of yours whom you trust?'
'I had rather you didn't yet.'
'You wish to know still more of me, personally?'
'Yes--I think I must know you much better before I can consent to
any step of that kind.'
'But,' he urged, 'if we became acquaintances in the ordinary way,
and knew each other's friends, wouldn't that be most satisfactory to
you?'
'It might be. But you forget that so much would have to be
explained. I have behaved very strangely. If I told everything to my
friends I should leave myself no choice.'
'Oh, why not? You would be absolutely free. I could no more than try
to recommend myself to you. If I am so unhappy as to fail, how would
you be anything but quite free?'
'But surely you must understand me. In this position, I must either
not speak of you at all, or make it known that I am engaged to you.
I can't have it taken for granted that I am engaged to you when I
don't wish to be.'
Widdowson's head drooped; he set his lips in a hard gloomy
expression.
'I have behaved very imprudently,' continued the girl. But I don't
see--I can't see--what else I could have done. Things are so
badly arranged. It wasn't possible for us to be introduced by any
one who knew us both, so I had either to break off your acquaintance
after that first conversation, or conduct myself as I have been
doing. I think it's a very hard position. My sisters would call me
an immodest girl, but I don't think it is true. I may perhaps come
to feel you as a girl ought to when she marries, and how else can I
tell unless I meet you and talk with you? And your position is just
the same. I don't blame you for a moment; I think it would be
ridiculous to blame you. Yet we have gone against the ordinary rule,
and people would make us suffer for it--or me, at all events.
Her voice at the close was uncertain. Widdowson looked at her with
eyes of passionate admiration.
'Thank you for saying that--for putting it so well, and so kindly
for me. Let us disregard people, then. Let us go on seeing each
other. I love you with all my soul'--he choked a little at this
first utterance of the solemn word--'and your rules shall be mine.
Give me a chance of winning you. Tell me if I offend you in
anything--if there's anything you dislike in me.'
'Will you cease coming to look for me when I don't know of it?'
'I promise you. I will never come again. And you will meet me a
little oftener?'
'I will see you once every week. But I must still be perfectly
free.'
'Perfectly! I will only try to win you as any man may who loves a
woman.'
The tired horse clattered upon the hard highway and clouds gathered
for a night of storm.
CHAPTER VIII
COUSIN EVERARD
As Miss Barfoot's eye fell on the letters brought to her at
breakfast-time, she uttered an exclamation, doubtful in its
significance. Rhoda Nunn, who rarely had a letter from any one,
looked up inquiringly.
'I am greatly mistaken if that isn't my cousin Everard's writing. I
thought so. He is in London.'
Rhoda made no remark.
'Pray read it,' said the other, handing her friend the epistle after
she had gone through it.
The handwriting was remarkably bold, but careful. Punctuation was
strictly attended to, and in places a word had been obliterated with
a circular scrawl which left it still legible.
'DEAR COUSIN MARY,--I hear that you are still active in an
original way, and that civilization is more and more indebted to
you. Since my arrival in London a few weeks ago, I have several
times been on the point of calling at your house, but scruples
withheld me. Our last interview was not quite friendly on your side,
you will remember, and perhaps your failure to write to me means
continued displeasure; in that case I might be rejected at your
door, which I shouldn't like, for I am troubled with a foolish sense
of personal dignity. I have taken a flat, and mean to stay in London
for at least half a year. Please let me know whether I may see you.
Indeed I should like to. Nature meant us for good friends, but
prejudice came between us. Just a line, either of welcome or "get
thee behind me!" In spite of your censures, I always was, and still
am, affectionately yours,
EVERARD BARFOOT.'
Rhoda perused the sheet very attentively.
'An impudent letter,' said Miss Barfoot. 'Just like him.'
'Where does he appear from?'
'Japan, I suppose. "But prejudice came between us." I like that!
Moral conviction is always prejudice in the eyes of these advanced
young men. Of course he must come. I am anxious to see what time has
made of him.'
'Was it really moral censure that kept you from writing to him?'
inquired Rhoda, with a smile.
'Decidedly. I didn't approve of him at all, as I have frequently
told you.'
'But I gather that he hasn't changed much.'
'Not in theories,' replied Miss Barfoot. 'That isn't to be expected.
He is far too stubborn. But in mode of life he may possibly be more
tolerable.'
'After two or three years in Japan,' rejoined Rhoda, with a slight
raising of the eyebrows.
'He is about three-and-thirty, and before he left England I think he
showed possibilities of future wisdom. Of course I disapprove of
him, arid, if necessary, shall let him understand that quite as
plainly as before. But there's no harm in seeing if he has learnt to
behave himself.'
Everard Barfoot received an invitation to dine. It was promptly
accepted, and on the evening of the appointment he arrived at
half-past seven. His cousin sat alone in the drawing-room. At his
entrance she regarded him with keen but friendly scrutiny.
He had a tall, muscular frame, and a head of striking outline, with
large nose, full lips, deep-set eyes, and prominent eyebrows. His
hair was the richest tone of chestnut; his moustache and beard--
the latter peaking slightly forward--inclined to redness.
Excellent health manifested itself in the warm purity of his skin,
in his cheerful aspect, and the lightness of his bearing. The lower
half of his forehead was wrinkled, and when he did not fix his look
on anything in particular, his eyelids drooped, giving him for the
moment an air of languor. On sitting down, he at once abandoned
himself to a posture of the completest ease, which his admirable
proportions made graceful. From his appearance one would have
expected him to speak in rather loud and decided tones; but he had a
soft voice, and used it with all the discretion of good-breeding, so
that at times it seemed to caress the ear. To this mode of utterance
corresponded his smile, which was frequent, but restrained to the
expression of a delicate, good-natured irony.
'No one had told me of your return,' were Miss Barfoot's first words
as she shook hands with him.
'I fancy because no one knew. You were the first of my kinsfolk to
whom I wrote.'
'Much honour, Everard. You look very well.'
'I am glad to be able to say the same of you. And yet I hear that
you work harder than ever.'
'Who is the source of your information about me?'
'I had an account of you from Tom, in a letter that caught me at
Constantinople.'
'Tom? I thought he had forgotten my existence. Who told him about me
I can't imagine. So you didn't come straight home from Japan?'
Barfoot was nursing his knee, his head thrown back.
'No; I loitered a little in Egypt and Turkey. Are you living quite
alone?'
He drawled slightly on the last word, its second vowel making quite
a musical note, of wonderful expressiveness. The clear decision of
his cousin's reply was a sharp contrast.
'A lady lives with me--Miss Nunn. She will join us in a moment.'
'Miss Nunn?' He smiled. 'A partner in your activity?'
'She gives me valuable help.'
'I must hear all about it--if you will kindly tell me some day. It
will interest me greatly. You always were the most interesting of
our family. Brother Tom promised to be a genius, but marriage has
blighted the hope, I fear.'
'The marriage was a very absurd one.'
'Was it? I feared so; but Tom seems satisfied. I suppose they will
stay at Madeira.'
'Until his wife is tired of her imaginary phthisis, and amuses
herself with imagining some other ailment that requires them to go
to Siberia.'
'Ah, that kind of person, is she?' He smiled indulgently, and played
for a moment with the lobe of his right ear. His ears were small,
and of the ideal contour; the hand, too, thus displayed, was a fine
example of blended strength and elegance.
Rhoda came in, so quietly that she was able to observe the guest
before he had detected her presence. The movement of Miss Barfoot's
eyes first informed him that another person was in the room. In the
quietest possible way the introduction was performed, and all seated
themselves.
Dressed, like the hostess, in black, and without ornaments of any
kind save a silver buckle at her waist, Rhoda seemed to have
endeavoured to liken herself to the suggestion of her name by the
excessive plainness with which she had arranged her hair; its tight
smoothness was nothing like so becoming as the mode she usually
adopted, and it made her look older. Whether by accident or design,
she took an upright chair, and sat upon it in a stiff attitude.
Finding it difficult to suspect Rhoda of shyness, Miss Barfoot once
or twice glanced at her with curiosity. For settled conversation
there was no time; a servant announced dinner almost immediately.
'There shall be no forms, cousin Everard,' said the hostess. 'Please
to follow us.'
Doing so, Everard examined Miss Nunn's figure, which in its way was
strong and shapely as his own. A motion of his lips indicated amused
approval, but at once he commanded himself, and entered the
dining-room with exemplary gravity. Naturally, he sat opposite
Rhoda, and his eyes often skimmed her face; when she spoke, which
was very seldom, he gazed at her with close attention.
During the first part of the meal, Miss Barfoot questioned her
relative concerning his Oriental experiences. Everard spoke of them
in a light, agreeable way, avoiding the tone of instruction, and, in
short, giving evidence of good taste. Rhoda listened with a look of
civil interest, but asked no question, and smiled only when it was
unavoidable. Presently the talk turned to things of home.
'Have you heard of your friend Mr. Poppleton?' the hostess asked.
'Poppleton? Nothing whatever. I should like to see him.'
'I'm sorry to tell you he is in a lunatic asylum.'
As Barfoot kept the silence of astonishment, his cousin went on to
tell him that the unhappy man seemed to have lost his wits among
business troubles.
'Yet I should have suggested another explanation,' remarked the
young man, in his most discreet tone, 'You never met Mrs.
Poppleton?'
Seeing that Miss Nunn had looked up with interest, he addressed
himself to her.
'My friend Poppleton was one of the most delightful men--perhaps
the best and kindest I ever knew, and so overflowing with natural
wit and humour that there was no resisting his cheerful influence.
To the amazement of every one who knew him, he married perhaps the
dullest woman he could have found. Mrs. Poppleton not only never
made a joke, but couldn't understand what joking meant. Only the
flattest literalism was intelligible to her; she could follow
nothing but the very macadam of conversation--had no palate for
anything but the suet-pudding of talk.'
Rhoda's eyes twinkled, and Miss Barfoot laughed. Everard was
allowing himself a freedom in expression which hitherto he had
sedulously avoided.
'Yes,' he continued, 'she was by birth a lady--which made the
infliction harder to bear. Poor old Poppleton! Again and again I
have heard him--what do you think?--laboriously _explaining_
jests to her. That was a trial, as you may imagine. There we sat, we
three, in the unbeautiful little parlour--for they were anything
but rich. Poppleton would say something that convulsed me with
laughter--in spite of my efforts, for I always dreaded the result
so much that I strove my hardest to do no more than smile
appreciation. My laugh compelled Mrs. Poppleton to stare at me--
oh, her eyes I Thereupon, her husband began his dread performance.
The patience, the heroic patience, of that dear, good fellow! I have
known him explain, and re-explain, for a quarter of an hour, and
invariably without success. It might be a mere pun; Mrs. Poppleton
no more understood the nature of a pun than of the binomial theorem.
But worse was when the jest involved some allusion. When I heard
Poppleton begin to elucidate, to expound, the perspiration already
on his forehead, I looked at him with imploring anguish. Why _would_
he attempt the impossible? But the kind fellow couldn't disregard
his wife's request. Shall I ever forget her. "Oh--yes--I see"?--when
obviously she saw nothing but the wall at which she sat
staring.'
'I have known her like,' said Miss Barfoot merrily.
'I am convinced his madness didn't come from business anxiety. It
was the necessity, ever recurring, ever before him, of expounding
jokes to his wife. Believe me, it was nothing but that.'
'It seems very probable,' asserted Rhoda dryly.
'Then there's another friend of yours whose marriage has been
unfortunate,' said the hostess. 'They tell me that Mr. Orchard has
forsaken his wife, and without intelligible reason.'
'There, too, I can offer an explanation,' replied Barfoot quietly,
'though you may doubt whether it justifies him. I met Orchard a few
months ago in Alexandria, met him by chance in the street, and
didn't recognize him until he spoke to me. He was worn to skin and
bone. I found that he had abandoned all his possessions to Mrs.
Orchard, and just kept himself alive on casual work for the
magazines, wandering about the shores of the Mediterranean like an
uneasy spirit. He showed me the thing he had last written, and I see
it is published in this month's _Macmillan_. Do read it. An
exquisite description of a night in Alexandria. One of these days he
will starve to death. A pity; he might have done fine work.'
'But we await your explanation. What business has he to desert his
wife and children?'
'Let me give an account of a day I spent with him at Tintern, not
long before I left England. He and his wife were having a holiday
there, and I called on them. We went to walk about the Abbey. Now,
for some two hours--I will be strictly truthful--whilst we were
in the midst of that lovely scenery, Mrs. Orchard discoursed
unceasingly of one subject--the difficulty she had with her
domestic servants. Ten or twelve of these handmaidens were
marshalled before our imagination; their names, their ages, their
antecedents, the wages they received, were carefully specified. We
listened to a _catalogue raisonne_ of the plates, cups, and other
utensils that they had broken. We heard of the enormities which in
each case led to their dismissal. Orchard tried repeatedly to change
the subject, but only with the effect of irritating his wife. What
could he or I do but patiently give ear? Our walk was ruined, but
there was no help for it. Now, be good enough to extend this kind of
thing over a number of years. Picture Orchard sitting down in his
home to literary work, and liable at any moment to an invasion from
Mrs. Orchard, who comes to tell him, at great length, that the
butcher has charged for a joint they have not consumed--or
something of that kind. He assured me that his choice lay between
flight and suicide, and I firmly believed him.'
As he concluded, his eyes met those of Miss Nunn, and the latter
suddenly spoke.
'Why will men marry fools?'
Barfoot was startled. He looked down into his plate, smiling.
'A most sensible question,' said the hostess, with a laugh. 'Why,
indeed?'
'But a difficult one to answer,' remarked Everard, with his most
restrained smile. 'Possibly, Miss Nunn, narrow social opportunity
has something to do with it. They must marry some one, and in the
case of most men choice is seriously restricted.'
'I should have thought,' replied Rhoda, elevating her eyebrows,
'that to live alone was the less of two evils.'
'Undoubtedly. But men like these two we have been speaking of
haven't a very logical mind.'
Miss Barfoot changed the topic.
When, not long after, the ladies left him to meditate over his glass
of wine, Everard curiously surveyed the room. Then his eyelids
drooped, he smiled absently, and a calm sigh seemed to relieve his
chest. The claret had no particular quality to recommend it, and in
any case he would have drunk very little, for as regards the bottle
his nature was abstemious.
'It is as I expected,' Miss Barfoot was saying to her friend in the
drawing-room. 'He has changed very noticeably.'
'Mr. Barfoot isn't quite the man your remarks had suggested to me,'
Rhoda replied.
'I fancy he is no longer the man I knew. His manners are wonderfully
improved. He used to assert himself in rather alarming ways. His
letter, to be sure, had the old tone, or something of it.'
'I will go to the library for an hour,' said Rhoda, who had not
seated herself. 'Mr. Barfoot won't leave before ten, I suppose?'
'I don't think there will be any private talk.'
'Still, if you will let me--'
So, when Everard appeared, he found his cousin alone.
'What are you going to do?' she asked of him good-naturedly.
'To do? You mean, how do I propose to employ myself? I have nothing
whatever in view, beyond enjoying life.'
'At your age?'
'So young? Or so old? Which?'
'So young, of course. You deliberately intend to waste your life?'
'To enjoy it, I said. I am not prompted to any business or
profession; that's all over for me; I have learnt all I care to of
the active world.'
'But what do you understand by enjoyment?' asked Miss Barfoot, with
knitted brows.
'Isn't the spectacle of existence quite enough to occupy one through
a lifetime? If a man merely travelled, could he possibly exhaust all
the beauties and magnificences that are offered to him in every
country? For ten years and more I worked as hard as any man; I shall
never regret it, for it has given me a feeling of liberty and
opportunity such as I should not have known if I had always lived at
my ease. It taught me a great deal, too; supplemented my so-called
education as nothing else could have done. But to work for ever is
to lose half of life. I can't understand those people who reconcile
themselves to quitting the world without having seen a millionth
part of it.'
'I am quite reconciled to that. An infinite picture gallery isn't my
idea of enjoyment.'
'Nor mine. But an infinite series of modes of living. A ceaseless
exercise of all one's faculties of pleasure. That sounds shameless
to you? I can't understand why it should. Why is the man who toils
more meritorious than he who enjoys? What is the sanction for this
judgment?'
'Social usefulness, Everard.'
'I admit the demand for social usefulness, up to a certain point.
But, really, I have done my share. The mass of men don't toil with
any such ideal, but merely to keep themselves alive, or to get
wealth. I think there is a vast amount of unnecessary labour.'
'There is an old proverb about Satan and idle hands. Pardon me; you
alluded to that personage in your letter.'
'The proverb is a very true one, but, like other proverbs, it
applies to the multitude. If I get into mischief, it will not be
because I don't perspire for so many hours every day, but simply
because it is human to err. I have no intention whatever of getting
into mischief.'
The speaker stroked his beard, and smiled with a distant look.
'Your purpose is intensely selfish, and all indulged selfishness
reacts on the character,' replied Miss Barfoot, still in a tone of
the friendliest criticism.
'My dear cousin, for anything to be selfish, it must be a deliberate
refusal of what one believes to be duty. I don't admit that I am
neglecting any duty to others, and the duty to myself seems very
clear indeed.'
'Of _that_ I have no doubt,' exclaimed the other, laughing. 'I see
that you have refined your arguments.'
'Not my arguments only, I hope,' said Everard modestly. 'My time has
been very ill spent if I haven't in some degree, refined my nature.'
'That sounds very well, Everard. But when it comes to degrees of
self-indulgence--'
She paused and made a gesture of dissatisfaction.
'It comes to that, surely, with every man. But we certainly shall
not agree on this subject. You stand at the social point of view; I
am an individualist. You have the advantage of a tolerably
consistent theory; whilst I have no theory at all, and am full of
contradictions. The only thing clear to me is that I have a right to
make the most of my life.'
'No matter at whose expense?'
'You are quite mistaken. My conscience is a tender one. I dread to
do any one an injury. That has always been true of me, in spite of
your sceptical look; and the tendency increases as I grow older. Let
us have done with so unimportant a matter. Isn't Miss Nunn able to
rejoin us?'
'She will come presently, I think.'
'How did you make this lady's acquaintance?'
Miss Barfoot explained the circumstances.
'She makes an impression,' resumed Everard. 'A strong character, of
course. More decidedly one of the new women than you yourself--
isn't she?'
'Oh, _I_ am a very old-fashioned woman. Women have thought as I do
at any time in history. Miss Nunn has much more zeal for womanhood
militant.'
'I should delight to talk with her. Really, you know, I am very
strongly on your side.'
Miss Barfoot laughed.
'Oh, sophist! You despise women.'
'Why, yes, the great majority of women--the typical woman. All the
more reason for my admiring the exceptions, and wishing to see them
become more common. You, undoubtedly, despise the average woman.'
'I despise no human being, Everard.'
'Oh, in a sense! But Miss Nunn, I feel sure, would agree with me.'
'I am very sure Miss Nunn wouldn't. She doesn't admire the feebler
female, but that is very far from being at one with _your_ point of
view, my cousin.'
Everard mused with a smile.
'I must get to understand her line of thought. You permit me to call
upon you now and then?'
'Oh, whenever you like, in the evening. Except,' Miss Barfoot added,
'Wednesday evening. Then we are always engaged.'
'Summer holidays are unknown to you, I suppose?'
'Not altogether. I had mine a few weeks ago. Miss Nunn will be going
away in a fortnight, I think.'
Just before ten o'clock, when Barfoot was talking of some
acquaintances he had left in Japan, Rhoda entered the room. She
seemed little disposed for conversation, and Everard did not care to
assail her taciturnity this evening. He talked on a little longer,
observing her as she listened, and presently took an opportunity to
rise for departure.
'Wednesday is the forbidden evening, is it not?' he said to his
cousin.
'Yes, that is devoted to business.'
As soon as he had gone, the friends exchanged a look. Each
understood the other as referring to this point of Wednesday
evening, but neither made a remark. They were silent for some time.
When Rhoda at length spoke it was in a tone of half-indifferent
curiosity.
'You are sure you haven't exaggerated Mr. Barfoot's failings?'
The reply was delayed for a moment.
'I was a little indiscreet to speak of him at all. But no, I didn't
exaggerate.'
'Curious,' mused the other dispassionately, as she stood with one
foot on the fender. 'He hardly strikes one as that kind of man.
'Oh, he has certainly changed a great deal.'
Miss Barfoot went on to speak of her cousin's resolve to pursue no
calling.
'His means are very modest. I feel rather guilty before him; his
father bequeathed to me much of the money that would in the natural
course have been Everard's. But he is quite superior to any feeling
of grudge on that score.'
'Practically, his father disinherited him?'
'It amounted to that. From quite a child, Everard was at odds with
his father. A strange thing, for in so many respects they resembled
each other very closely. Physically, Everard is his father walking
the earth again. In character, too, I think they must be very much
alike. They couldn't talk about the simplest thing without
disagreeing. My uncle had risen from the ranks but he disliked to be
reminded of it. He disliked the commerce by which he made his
fortune. His desire was to win social position; if baronetcies could
be purchased in our time, he would have given a huge sum to acquire
one. But he never distinguished himself, and one of the reasons was,
no doubt, that he married too soon. I have heard him speak bitterly,
and very indiscreetly, of early marriages; his wife was dead then,
but every one knew what he meant. Rhoda, when one thinks how often a
woman is a clog upon a man's ambition, no wonder they regard us as
they do.'
'Of course, women are always retarding one thing or another. But men
are intensely stupid not to have remedied that long ago.'
'He determined that his boys should be gentlemen. Tom, the elder,
followed his wishes exactly; he was remarkably clever, but idleness
spoilt him, and now he has made that ridiculous marriage--the end
of poor Tom. Everard went to Eton, and the school had a remarkable
effect upon him; it made him a furious Radical. Instead of imitating
the young aristocrats he hated and scorned them. There must have
been great force of originality in the boy. Of course I don't know
whether any Etonians of his time preached Radicalism, but it seems
unlikely. I think it was sheer vigour of character, and the strange
desire to oppose his father in everything. From Eton he was of
course to pass to Oxford, but at that stage came practical
rebellion. No, said the boy; he wouldn't go to a university, to fill
his head with useless learning; he had made up his mind to be an
engineer. This was an astonishment to every one; engineering didn't
seem at all the thing for him; he had very little ability in
mathematics, and his bent had always been to liberal studies. But
nothing could shake his idea. He had got it into his head that only
some such work as engineering--something of a practical kind, that
called for strength and craftsmanship--was worthy of a man with
his opinions. He would rank with the classes that keep the world
going with their sturdy toil: that was how he spoke. And, after a
great fight, he had his way. He left Eton to study civil
engineering.'
Rhoda was listening with an amused smile.
'Then,' pursued her friend, 'came another display of firmness or
obstinacy, whichever you like to call it. He soon found out that he
had made a complete mistake. The studies didn't suit him at all, as
others had foreseen. But he would have worked himself to death
rather than confess his error; none of us knew how he was feeling
till long after. Engineering he had chosen, and an engineer he would
be, cost him what effort it might. His father shouldn't triumph over
him. And from the age of eighteen till nearly thirty he stuck to a
profession which I am sure he loathed. By force of resolve he even
got on to it, and reached a good position with the firm he worked
for. Of course his father wouldn't assist him with money after he
came of age; he had to make his way just like any young man who has
no influence.'
'All this puts him in quite another light,' remarked Rhoda.
'Yes, it would be all very well, if there were no vices to add to
the picture. I never experienced such a revulsion of feeling as the
day when I learnt shameful things about Everard. You know, I always
regarded him as a boy, and very much as if he had been my younger
brother; then came the shock--a shock that had a great part in
shaping my life thenceforward. Since, I have thought of him as I
have spoken of him to you--as an illustration of evils we have to
combat. A man of the world would tell you that I grossly magnified
trifles; it is very likely that Everard was on a higher moral level
than most men. But I shall never forgive him for destroying my faith
in his honour and nobility of feeling.'
Rhoda had a puzzled look.
'Perhaps even now you are unintentionally misleading me,' she said.
'I have supposed him an outrageous profligate.'
'He was vicious and cowardly--I can't say any more.'
'And that was the immediate cause of his father's leaving him poorly
provided for?'
'It had much to do with it, I have no doubt.'
'I see. I imagined that he was cast out of all decent society.'
'If society were really decent, he would have been. It's strange how
completely his Radicalism has disappeared. I believe he never had a
genuine sympathy with the labouring classes. And what's more, I
fancy he had a great deal of his father's desire for command and
social distinction. If he had seen his way to become a great
engineer, a director of vast enterprises, he wouldn't have abandoned
his work. An incredible stubbornness has possibly spoilt his whole
life. In a congenial pursuit he might by this time have attained to
something noteworthy. It's too late now, I fear.'
Rhoda meditated.
'Does he aim at nothing whatever?'
'He won't admit any ambition. He has no society. His friends are
nearly all obscure people, like those you heard him speak of this
evening.'
'After all, what ambition should he have?' said Rhoda, with a laugh.
'There's one advantage in being a woman. A woman with brains and
will may hope to distinguish herself in the greatest movement of our
time--that of emancipating her sex. But what can a man do, unless
he has genius?'
'There's the emancipation of the working classes. That is the great
sphere for men; and Everard cares no more for the working classes
than I do.'
'Isn't it enough to be free oneself?'
'You mean that he has task enough in striving to be an honourable
man?'
'Perhaps. I hardly know what I meant.'
Miss Barfoot mused, and her face lighted up with a glad thought.
'You are right. It's better to be a woman, in our day. With us is
all the joy of advance, the glory of conquering. Men have only
material progress to think about. But we--we are winning souls,
propagating a new religion, purifying the earth!'
Rhoda nodded thrice.
'My cousin is a fine specimen of a man, after all, in body and mind.
But what a poor, ineffectual creature compared with _you_, Rhoda! I
don't flatter you, dear. I tell you bluntly of your faults and
extravagances. But I am proud of your magnificent independence,
proud of your pride, dear, and of your stainless heart. Thank Heaven
we are women!'
It was rare indeed for Miss Barfoot to be moved to rhapsody. Again
Rhoda nodded, and then they laughed together, with joyous confidence
in themselves and in their cause.
CHAPTER IX
THE SIMPLE FAITH
Seated in the reading-room of a club to which he had newly procured
admission, Everard Barfoot was glancing over the advertisement
columns of a literary paper. His eye fell on an announcement that
had a personal interest to him, and at once he went to the
writing-table to pen a letter.
'DEAR MICKLETHWAITE,--I am back in England, and ought before this
to have written to you. I see you have just published a book with an
alarming title, "A Treatise on Trilinear Co-ordinates." My hearty
congratulations on the completion of such a labour; were you not the
most disinterested of mortals, I would add a hope that it may
somehow benefit you financially. I presume there _are_ people who
purchase such works. But of course the main point with you is to
have delivered your soul on Trilinear Co-ordinates. Shall I run down
to Sheffield to see you, or is there any chance of the holidays
bringing you this way? I have found a cheap flat, poorly furnished,
in Bayswater; the man who let it to me happens to be an engineer,
and is absent on Italian railway work for a year or so. My stay in
London won't, I think, be for longer than six months, but we must
see each other and talk over old times,' etc.
This he addressed to a school at Sheffield. The answer, directed to
the club, reached him in three days.
'My DEAR BARFOOT,--I also am in London; your letter has been
forwarded from the school, which I quitted last Easter.
Disinterested or not, I am happy to tell you that I have got a
vastly better appointment. Let me know when and where to meet you;
or if you like, come to these lodgings of mine. I don't enter upon
duties till end of October, and am at present revelling in
mathematical freedom. There's a great deal to tell.--Sincerely
yours,
THOMAS MICKLETHWAITE.'
Having no occupation for his morning, Barfoot went at once to the
obscure little street by Primrose Hill where his friend was lodging.
He reached the house about noon, and, as he had anticipated, found
the mathematician deep in study. Micklethwaite was a man of forty,
bent in the shoulders, sallow, but not otherwise of unhealthy
appearance; he had a merry countenance, a great deal of lank,
disorderly hair, and a beard that reached to the middle of his
waistcoat. Everard's acquaintance with him dated from ten years ago,
when Micklethwaite had acted as his private tutor in mathematics.
The room was a musty little back-parlour on the ground floor.
'Quiet, perfectly quiet,' declared its occupant, 'and that's all I
care for. Two other lodgers in the house; but they go to business
every morning at half-past eight, and are in bed by ten at night.
Besides, it's only temporary. I have great things in view--
portentous changes! I'll tell you all about it presently.'
He insisted, first of all, on hearing a full account of Barfoot's
history since they both met. They had corresponded about twice a
year, but Everard was not fond of letter-writing, and on each
occasion gave only the briefest account of himself. In listening,
Micklethwaite assumed extraordinary positions, the result,
presumably, of a need of physical exercise after hours spent over
his work. Now he stretched himself at full length on the edge of his
chair, his arms extended above him; now he drew up his legs, fixed
his feet on the chair, and locked his hands round his knees; thus
perched, he swayed his body backwards and forwards, till it seemed
likely that he would pitch head foremost on to the floor. Barfoot
knew these eccentricities of old, and paid no attention to them.
'And what is the appointment you have got?' he asked at length,
dismissing his own affairs with impatience.
It was that of mathematical lecturer at a London college.
'I shall have a hundred and fifty a year, and be able to take
private pupils. On two hundred, at least, I can count, and there are
possibilities I won't venture to speak of, because it doesn't do to
be too hopeful. Two hundred a year is a great advance for me.'
'Quite enough, I suppose,' said Everard kindly.
'Not--not enough. I must make a little more somehow.'
'Hollo! Why this spirit of avarice all at once?'
The mathematician gave a shrill, cackling laugh, and rolled upon his
chair.
'I must have more than two hundred. I should be satisfied with
_three_ hundred, but I'll take as much more as I can get.'
'My revered tutor, this is shameless. I came to pay my respects to a
philosopher, and I find a sordid worldling. Look at me! I am a man
of the largest needs, spiritual and physical, yet I make my pittance
of four hundred and fifty suffice, and never grumble. Perhaps you
aim at an income equal to my own?'
'I do! What's four hundred and fifty? If you were a man of
enterprise you would double or treble it. I put a high value on
money. I wish to be _rich_!'
'You are either mad or are going to get married.'
Micklethwaite cackled louder than ever.
'I am planning a new algebra for school use. If I'm not much
mistaken, I can turn out something that will supplant all the
present books. Think! If Micklethwaite's Algebra got accepted in all
the schools, what would that mean to Mick? Hundreds a year, my
boy--hundreds.'
'I never knew you so indecent.'
'I am renewing my youth. Nay, for the first time I am youthful. I
never had time for it before. At the age of sixteen I began to teach
in a school, and ever since I have pegged away at it, school and
private. Now luck has come to me, and I feel five-and-twenty. When I
was really five-and-twenty, I felt forty.'
'Well, what has that to do with money-making?'
'After Mick's Algebra would follow naturally Mick's Arithmetic,
Mick's Euclid, Mick's Trigonometry. Twenty years hence I should have
an income of thousands--thousands! I would then cease to teach
(resign my professorship--that is to say, for of course I should
be professor), and devote myself to a great work on Probability.
Many a man has begun the best of his life at sixty--the most
enjoyable part of it, I mean.'
Barfoot was perplexed. He knew his friend's turn for humorous
exaggeration, but had never once heard him scheme for material
advancement, and evidently this present talk meant something more
than a jest.
'Am I right or not? You are going to get married?'
Micklethwaite glanced at the door, then said in a tone of caution,--
'I don't care to talk about it here. Let us go somewhere and eat
together. I invite you to have dinner with me--or lunch, as I
suppose you would call it, in your aristocratic language.'
'No, you had better have lunch with me. Come to my club.'
'Confound your impudence! Am I not your father in mathematics?'
'Be so good as to put on a decent pair of trousers, and brush your
hair. Ah, here is your Trilinear production. I'll look over it
whilst you make yourself presentable.'
'There's a bad misprint in the Preface. Let me show you--'
'It's all the same to me, my dear fellow.'
But Micklethwaite was not content until he had indicated the error,
and had talked for five minutes about the absurdities that it
involved.
'How do you suppose I got the thing published?' he then asked. 'Old
Bennet, the Sheffield headmaster, is security for loss if the book
doesn't pay for itself in two years' time. Kind of him, wasn't it?
He pressed the offer upon me, and I think he's prouder of the book
than I am myself. But it's quite remarkable how kind people are when
one is fortunate. I fancy a great deal of nonsense is talked about
the world's enviousness. Now as soon as it got known that I was
coming to this post in London, people behaved to me with surprising
good nature all round. Old Bennet talked in quite an affectionate
strain. "Of course," he said, "I have long known that you ought to
be in a better place than this; your payment is altogether
inadequate; if it had depended upon _me_, I should long ago have
increased it. I truly rejoice that you have found a more fitting
sphere for your remarkable abilities." No; I maintain that the world
is always ready to congratulate you with sincerity, if you will only
give it a chance.'
'Very gracious of you to give it the chance. But, by-the-bye, how
did it come about?'
'Yes, I ought to tell you that. Why, about a year ago, I wrote an
answer to a communication signed by a Big Gun in one of the
scientific papers. It was a question in Probability--you wouldn't
understand it. My answer was printed, and the Big Gun wrote
privately to me--a very flattering letter. That correspondence led
to my appointment; the Big Gun exerted himself on my behalf. The
fact is, the world is bursting with good nature.'
'Obviously. And how long did it take you to write this little book?'
'Oh, only about seven years--the actual composition. I never had
much time to myself, you must remember.'
'You're a good soul, Thomas. Go and equip yourself for civilized
society.'
To the club they repaired on foot. Micklethwaite would talk of
anything but that which his companion most desired to hear.
'There are solemnities in life,' he answered to an impatient
question, 'things that can't be spoken of in the highway. When we
have eaten, let us go to your flat, and there I will tell you
everything.'
They lunched joyously. The mathematician drank a bottle of excellent
hock, and did corresponding justice to the dishes. His eyes gleamed
with happiness; again he enlarged upon the benevolence of mankind,
and the admirable ordering of the world. From the club they drove to
Bayswater, and made themselves comfortable in Barfoot's flat, which
was very plainly, but sufficiently, furnished. Micklethwaite, cigar
in mouth, threw his legs over the side of the easy-chair in which he
was sitting.
'Now,' he began gravely, 'I don't mind telling you that your
conjecture was right. I _am_ going to be married.'
'Well,' said the other, 'you have reached the age of discretion. I
must suppose that you know what you are about.'
'Yes, I think I do. The story is unexciting. I am not a romantic
person, nor is my future wife. Now, you must know that when I was
about twenty-three years old I fell in love. You never suspected me
of that, I dare say?'
'Why not?'
'Well, I did fall in love. The lady was a clergyman's daughter at
Hereford, where I had a place in a school; she taught the infants in
an elementary school connected with ours; her age was exactly the
same as my own. Now, the remarkable thing was that she took a liking
for me, and when I was scoundrel enough to tell her of my feeling,
she didn't reject me.'
'Scoundrel enough? Why scoundrel?'
'Why? But I hadn't a penny in the world. I lived at the school, and
received a salary of thirty pounds, half of which had to go towards
the support of my mother. What could possibly have been more
villainous? What earthly prospect was there of my being able to
marry?'
'Well, grant the monstrosity of it.'
'This lady--a very little lower than the angels--declared that
she was content to wait an indefinite time. She believed in me, and
hoped for my future. Her father--the mother was dead--sanctioned
our engagement. She had three sisters, one of them a governess,
another keeping house, and the third a blind girl. Excellent people,
all of them. I was at their house as often as possible, and they
made much of me. It was a pity, you know, for in those few leisure
hours I ought to have been working like a nigger.'
'Plainly you ought.'
'Fortunately, I left Hereford, and went to a school at Gloucester,
where I had thirty-five pounds. How we gloried over that extra five
pounds! But it's no use going on with the story in this way; it
would take me till to-morrow morning. Seven years went by; we were
thirty years old, and no prospect whatever of our engagement coming
to anything. I had worked pretty hard; I had taken my London degree;
but not a penny had I saved, and all I could spare was still needful
to my mother. It struck me all at once that I had no right to
continue the engagement. On my thirtieth birthday I wrote a letter
to Fanny--that is her name--and begged her to be free. Now,
would you have done the same, or not?'
'Really, I am not imaginative enough to put myself in such a
position. It would need a stupendous effort, at all events.'
'But was there anything gross in the proceeding?'
'The lady took it ill?'
'Not in the sense of being offended. But she said it had caused her
much suffering. She begged me to consider _myself_ free. She would
remain Faithful, and if, in time to come, I cared to write to her
again--After all these years, I can't speak of it without
huskiness. It seemed to me that I had behaved more like a scoundrel
than ever. I thought I had better kill myself, and even planned ways
of doing it--I did indeed. But after all we decided that our
engagement should continue.'
'Of course.'
'You think it natural? Well, the engagement has continued till this
day. A month ago I was forty, so that we have waited for seventeen
years.'
Micklethwaite paused on a note of awe.
'Two of Fanny's sisters are dead; they never married. The blind one
Fanny has long supported, and she will come to live with us. Long,
long ago we had both of us given up thought of marriage. I have
never spoken to any one of the engagement; it was something too
absurd, and also too sacred.'
The smile died from Everard's face, and he sat in thought.
'Now, when are _you_ going to marry?' cried Micklethwaite, with a
revival of his cheerfulness.
'Probably never.'
'Then I think you will neglect a grave duty. Yes. It is the duty of
every man, who has sufficient means, to maintain a wife. The life of
unmarried women is a wretched one; every man who is able ought to
save one of them from that fate.'
'I should like my cousin Mary and her female friends to hear you
talk in that way. They would overwhelm you with scorn.'
'Not sincere scorn, is my belief. Of course I have heard of that
kind of woman. Tell me something about them.'
Barfoot was led on to a broad expression of his views.
'I admire your old-fashioned sentiment, Micklethwaite. It sits well
on you, and you're a fine fellow. But I have much more sympathy with
the new idea that women should think Of marriage only as men do--I
mean, not to grow up in the thought that they must marry or be
blighted creatures. My own views are rather extreme, perhaps;
strictly, I don't believe in marriage at all. And I haven't anything
like the respect for women, as women, that you have. You belong to
the Ruskin school; and I--well, perhaps my experience has been
unusual, though I don't think so. You know, by-the-bye, that my
relatives consider me a blackguard?'
'That affair you told me about some years ago?'
'Chiefly that. I have a good mind to tell you the true story; I
didn't care to at the time. I accepted the charge of black-guardism;
it didn't matter much. My cousin will never forgive me, though she
has an air of friendliness once more. And I suspect she had told her
friend Miss Nunn all about me. Perhaps to put Miss Nunn on her
guard--Heaven knows!'
He laughed merrily.
'Miss Nunn, I dare say, needs no protection against you.'
'I had an odd thought whilst I was there.' Everard leaned his head
back, and half closed his eyes. 'Miss Nunn, I warrant, considers
herself proof against any kind of wooing. She is one of the grandly
severe women; a terror, I imagine, to any young girl at their place
who betrays weak thoughts of matrimony. Now, it's rather a
temptation to a man of my kind. There would be something piquant in
making vigorous love to Miss Nunn, just to prove her sincerity.'
Micklethwaite shook his head.
'Unworthy of you, Barfoot. Of course you couldn't really do such a
thing.'
'But such women really challenge one. If she were rich, I think I
could do it without scruple.'
'You seem to be taking it for granted,' said the mathematician,
smiling, 'that this lady would--would respond to your lovemaking.'
'I confess to you that women have spoilt me. And I am rather
resentful when any one cries out against me for lack of respect to
womanhood. I have been the victim of this groundless veneration for
females. Now you shall hear the story; and bear in mind that you are
the only person to whom I have ever told it. I never tried to defend
myself when I was vilified on all hands. Probably the attempt would
have been useless; and then it would certainly have increased the
odium in which I stood. I think I'll tell cousin Mary the truth some
day; it would be good for her.'
The listener looked uneasy, but curious.
'Well now, I was staying in the summer with some friends of ours at
a little place called Upchurch, on a branch line from Oxford. The
people were well-to-do--Goodall their name--and went in for
philanthropy. Mrs. Goodall always had a lot of Upchurch girls about
her, educated and not; her idea was to civilize one class by means
of the other, and to give a new spirit to both. My cousin Mary was
staying at the house whilst I was there. She had more reasonable
views than Mrs. Goodall, but took a great interest in what was going
on.
'Now one of the girls in process of spiritualization was called Amy
Drake. In the ordinary course of things I shouldn't have met her,
but she served in a shop where I went two or three times to get a
newspaper; we talked a little--with absolute propriety on my part,
I assure you--and she knew that I was a friend of the Goodalls.
The girl had no parents, and she was on the point of going to London
to live with a married sister.
'It happened that by the very train which took me back to London,
when my visit was over, this girl also travelled, and alone. I saw
her at Upchurch Station, but we didn't speak, and I got into a
smoking carriage. We had to change at Oxford, and there, as I walked
about the platform, Amy put herself in my way, so that I was obliged
to begin talking with her. This behaviour rather surprised me. I
wondered what Mrs. Goodall would think of it. But perhaps it was a
sign of innocent freedom in the intercourse of men and women. At all
events, Amy managed to get me into the same carriage with herself,
and on the way to London we were alone. You foresee the end of it.
At Paddington Station the girl and I went off together, and she
didn't get to her sister's till the evening.
'Of course I take it for granted that you believe my account of the
matter. Miss Drake was by no means the spiritual young person that
Mrs. Goodall thought her, or hoped to make her; plainly, she was a
reprobate of experience. This, you will say, doesn't alter the fact
that I also behaved like a reprobate. No; from the moralist's point
of view I was to blame. But I had no moral pretentions, and it was
too much to expect that I should rebuke the young woman and preach
her a sermon. You admit that, I dare say?'
The mathematician, frowning uncomfortably, gave a nod of assent.
'Amy was not only a reprobate, but a rascal. She betrayed me to the
people at Upchurch, and, I am quite sure, meant from the first to do
so. Imagine the outcry. I had committed a monstrous crime--had led
astray an innocent maiden, had outraged hospitality--and so on. In
Amy's case there were awkward results. Of course I must marry the
girl forthwith. But of course I was determined to do no such thing.
For the reasons I have explained, I let the storm break upon me. I
had been a fool, to be sure, and couldn't help myself. No one would
have believed my plea--no one would have allowed that the truth
was an excuse. I was abused on all hands. And when, shortly after,
my father made his will and died, doubtless he cut me off with my
small annuity on this very account. My cousin Mary got a good deal
of the money that would otherwise have been mine. The old man had
been on rather better terms with me just before that; in a will that
he destroyed I believe he had treated me handsomely.'
'Well, well,' said Micklethwaite, 'every one knows there are
detestable women to be found. But you oughtn't to let this affect
your view of women in general. What became of the girl?'
'I made her a small allowance for a year and a half. Then her child
died, and the allowance ceased. I know nothing more of her. Probably
she has inveigled some one into marriage.'
'Well, Barfoot,' said the other, rolling about in his chair, 'my
Opinion remains the same. You are in debt to some worthy woman to
the extent of half your income. Be quick and find her. It will be
better for you.'
'And do you suppose,' asked Everard, with a smile of indulgence,
'that I could marry on four hundred and fifty a year.
'Heavens! Why not?'
'Quite impossible. A wife _might_ be acceptable to me; but marriage
with poverty--I know myself and the world too well for that.'
'Poverty!' screamed the mathematician. 'Four hundred and fifty
pounds!'
'Grinding poverty--for married people.'
Micklethwaite burst into indignant eloquence, and Everard sat
listening with the restrained smile on his lips.
CHAPTER X
FIRST PRINCIPLES
Having allowed exactly a week to go by, Everard Barfoot made use of
his cousin's permission, and called upon her at nine in the evening.
Miss Barfoot's dinner-hour was seven o'clock; she and Rhoda, when
alone, rarely sat for more than half an hour at table, and in this
summer season they often went out together at sunset to enjoy a walk
along the river. This evening they had returned only a few minutes
before Everard's ring sounded at the door. Miss Barfoot (they were
just entering the library) looked at her friend and smiled.
'I shouldn't wonder if that is the young man. Very flattering if he
has come again so soon.'
The visitor was in mirthful humour, and met with a reception of
corresponding tone. He remarked at once that Miss Nunn had a much
pleasanter aspect than a week ago; her smile was ready and
agreeable; she sat in a sociable attitude and answered a jesting
triviality with indulgence.
'One of my reasons for coming to-day,' said Everard, 'was to tell
you a remarkable story. It connects'--he addressed his cousin--
'with our talk about the matrimonial disasters of those two friends
of mine. Do you remember the name of Micklethwaite--a man who used
to cram me with mathematics? I thought you would. He is on the point
of marrying, and his engagement has lasted just seventeen years.'
'The wisest of your friends, I should say.'
'An excellent fellow. He is forty, and the lady the same. An
astonishing case of constancy.'
'And how is it likely to turn out?'
'I can't predict, as the lady is unknown to me. But,' he added with
facetious gravity, 'I think it likely that they are tolerably well
acquainted with each other. Nothing but sheer poverty has kept them
apart. Pathetic, don't you think? I have a theory that when an
engagement has lasted ten years, with constancy on both sides, and
poverty still prevents marriage, the State ought to make provision
for a man in some way, according to his social standing. When one
thinks of it, a whole socialistic system lies in that suggestion.'
'If,' remarked Rhoda, 'it were first provided that no marriage
should take place until _after_ a ten years' engagement.'
'Yes,' Barfoot assented, in his smoothest and most graceful tone.
'That completes the system. Unless you like to add that no
engagement is permitted except between people who have passed a
certain examination; equivalent, let us say, to that which confers a
university degree.'
'Admirable. And no marriage, except where both, for the whole
decennium, have earned their living by work that the State
recognizes.'
'How would that effect Mr. Micklethwaite's betrothed?' asked Miss
Barfoot.
'I believe she has supported herself all along by teaching.'
'Of course!' exclaimed the other impatiently. 'And more likely than
not, with loathing of her occupation. The usual kind of drudgery,
was it?'
'After all, there must be some one to teach children to read and
write.'
'Yes; but people who are thoroughly well trained for the task, and
who take a pleasure in it. This lady may be an exception; but I
picture her as having spent a lifetime of uncongenial toil, longing
miserably for the day when poor Mr. Micklethwaite was able to offer
her a home. That's the ordinary teacher-woman, and we must abolish
her altogether.'
'How are you to do that?' inquired Everard suavely. 'The average man
labours that he may be able to marry, and the average woman
certainly has the same end in view. Are female teachers to be vowed
to celibacy?'
'Nothing of the kind. But girls are to be brought up to a calling in
life, just as men are. It's because they have no calling that, when
need comes, they all offer themselves as teachers. They undertake
one of the most difficult and arduous pursuits as if it were as
simple as washing up dishes. We can't earn money in any other way,
but we can teach children! A man only becomes a schoolmaster or
tutor when he has gone through laborious preparation--anything but
wise or adequate, of course, but still conscious preparation; and
only a very few men, comparatively, choose that line of work. Women
must have just as wide a choice.'
'That's plausible, cousin Mary. But remember that when a man chooses
his calling he chooses it for life. A girl cannot but remember that
if she marries her calling at once changes. The old business is
thrown aside--henceforth profitless.'
'No. Not henceforth profitless! There's the very point I insist
upon. So far is it from profitless, that it has made her a wholly
different woman from what she would otherwise have been. Instead of
a moping, mawkish creature, with--in most instances--a very
unhealthy mind, she is a complete human being. She stands on an
equality with the man. He can't despise her as he now does.'
'Very good,' assented Everard, observing Miss Nunn's satisfied
smile. 'I like that view very much. But what about the great number
of girls who are claimed by domestic duties? Do you abandon them,
with a helpless sigh, to be moping and mawkish and unhealthy?'
'In the first place, there needn't be a great number of unmarried
women claimed by such duties. Most of those you are thinking of are
not fulfilling a duty at all; they are only pottering about the
house, because they have nothing better to do. And when the whole
course of female education is altered; when girls are trained as a
matter of course to some definite pursuit; then those who really are
obliged to remain at home will do their duty there in quite a
different spirit. Home work will be their serious business, instead
of a disagreeable drudgery, or a way of getting through the time
till marriage offers. I would have no girl, however wealthy her
parent, grow up without a profession. There should be no such thing
as a class of females vulgarized by the necessity of finding daily
amusement.'
'Nor of males either, of course,' put in Everard, stroking his
beard.
'Nor of males either, cousin Everard.'
'You thoroughly approve all this, Miss Nunn?'
'Oh yes. But I go further. I would have girls taught that marriage
is a thing to be avoided rather than hoped for. I would teach them
that for the majority of women marriage means disgrace.'
'Ah! Now do let me understand you. Why does it mean disgrace?'
'Because the majority of men are without sense of honour. To be
bound to them in wedlock is shame and misery.'
Everard's eyelids drooped, and he did not speak for a moment.
'And you seriously think, Miss Nunn, that by persuading as many
woman as possible to abstain from marriage you will improve the
character of men?'
'I have no hope of sudden results, Mr. Barfoot. I should like to
save as many as possible of the women now living from a life of
dishonour; but the spirit of our work looks to the future. When
_all_ women, high and low alike, are trained to self-respect, then
men will regard them in a different light, and marriage may be
honourable to both.'
Again Everard was silent, and seemingly impressed.
'We'll go on with this discussion another time,' said Miss Barfoot,
with cheerful interruption. 'Everard, do you know Somerset at all?'
'Never was in that part of England.'
'Miss Nunn is going to take her holiday at Cheddar and we have been
looking over some photographs of that district taken by her
brother.'
From the table she reached a scrapbook, and Everard turned it over
with interest. The views were evidently made by an amateur, but in
general had no serious faults. Cheddar cliffs were represented in
several aspects.
'I had no idea the scenery was so fine. Cheddar cheese has quite
overshadowed the hills in my imagination. This might be a bit of
Cumberland, or of the Highlands.'
'It was my playground when I was a child,' said Rhoda.
'You were born at Cheddar?'
'No; at Axbridge, a little place not far off. But I had an uncle at
Cheddar, a farmer, and very often stayed with him. My brother is
farming there now.'
'Axbridge? Here is a view of the market-place. What a delightful old
town!'
'One of the sleepiest spots in England, I should say. The railway
goes through it now, but hasn't made the slightest difference.
Nobody pulls down or builds; nobody opens a new shop; nobody thinks
of extending his trade. A delicious place!'
'But surely you find no pleasure in that kind of thing, Miss Nunn?'
'Oh yes--at holiday time. I shall doze there for a fortnight, and
forget all about the "so-called nineteenth century."'
'I can hardly believe it. There will be a disgraceful marriage at
this beautiful old church, and the sight of it will exasperate you.'
Rhoda laughed gaily.
'Oh, it will be a marriage of the golden age! Perhaps I shall
remember the bride when she was a little girl; and I shall give her
a kiss, and pat her on the rosy cheek, and wish her joy. And the
bridegroom will be such a good-hearted simpleton, unable to
pronounce _f_ and _s_. I don't mind that sort of marriage a bit!'
The listeners were both regarding her--Miss Barfoot with an
affectionate smile, Everard with a puzzled, searching look, ending
in amusement.
'I must run down into that country some day,' said the latter.
He did not stay much longer, but left only because he feared to
burden the ladies with too much of his company.
Again a week passed, and the same evening found Barfoot approaching
the house in Queen's Road. To his great annoyance he learnt that
Miss Barfoot was not at home; she had dined, but afterwards had gone
out. He did not venture to ask for Miss Nunn, and was moving
disappointedly away, when Rhoda herself, returning from a walk, came
up to the door. She offered her hand gravely, but with friendliness.
'Miss Barfoot, I am sorry to say, has gone to visit one of our girls
who is ill. But I think she will very soon be back. Will you come
in?'
'Gladly. I had so counted on an hour's talk.'
Rhoda led him to the drawing-room, excused herself for a few
moments, and came back in her ordinary evening dress. Barfoot
noticed that her hair was much more becomingly arranged than when he
first saw her; so it had been on the last occasion, but for some
reason its appearance attracted his eyes this evening. He
scrutinized her, at discreet intervals, from head to foot. To
Everard, nothing female was alien; woman, merely as woman,
interested him profoundly. And this example of her sex had excited
his curiosity in no common degree. His concern with her was purely
intellectual; she had no sensual attraction for him, but he longed
to see further into her mind, to probe the sincerity of the motives
she professed, to understand her mechanism, her process of growth.
Hitherto he had enjoyed no opportunity of studying this type. For
his cousin was a very different person; by habit he regarded her as
old, whereas Miss Nunn, in spite of her thirty years, could not
possibly be considered past youth.
He enjoyed her air of equality; she sat down with him as a male
acquaintance might have done, and he felt sure that her behaviour
would be the same under any circumstances. He delighted in the
frankness of her speech; it was doubtful whether she regarded any
subject as improper for discussion between mature and serious
people. Part cause of this, perhaps, was her calm consciousness that
she had not a beautiful face. No, it was not beautiful; yet even at
the first meeting it did not repel him. Studying her features, he
saw how fine was their expression. The prominent forehead, with its
little unevenness that meant brains; the straight eyebrows, strongly
marked, with deep vertical furrows generally drawn between them; the
chestnut-brown eyes, with long lashes; the high-bridged nose, thin
and delicate; the intellectual lips, a protrusion of the lower one,
though very slight, marking itself when he caught her profile; the
big, strong chin; the shapely neck--why, after all, it was a kind
of beauty. The head might have been sculptured with fine effect. And
she had a well-built frame. He observed her strong wrists, with
exquisite vein-tracings on the pure white. Probably her constitution
was very sound; she had good teeth, and a healthy brownish
complexion.
With reference to the sick girl whom Miss Barfoot was visiting,
Everard began what was practically a resumption of their last talk.
'Have you a formal society, with rules and so on?'
'Oh no; nothing of the kind.'
'But you of course select the girls whom you instruct or employ?'
'Very carefully.'
'How I should like to see them all!--I mean,' he added, with a
laugh, 'it would he so very interesting. The truth is, my sympathies
are strongly with you in much of what you said the other day about
women and marriage. We regard the matter from different points of
view, but our ends are the same.'
Rhoda moved her eyebrows, and asked calmly,--
'Are you serious?'
'Perfectly. You are absorbed in your present work, that of
strengthening women's minds and character; for the final issue of
this you can't care much. But to me that is the practical interest.
In my mind, you are working for the happiness of men.'
'Indeed?' escaped Rhoda's lips, which had curled in irony.
'Don't misunderstand me. I am not speaking cynically or trivially.
The gain of women is also the gain of men. You are bitter against
the average man for his low morality; but that fault, on the whole,
is directly traceable to the ignobleness of women. Think, and you
will grant me this.'
'I see what you mean. Men have themselves to thank for it.'
'Assuredly they have. I say that I am on your side. Our civilization
in this point has always been absurdly defective. Men have kept
women at a barbarous stage of development, and then complain that
they are barbarous. In the same way society does its best to create
a criminal class, and then rages against the criminals. But, you
see, I am one of the men, and an impatient one too. The mass of
women I see about me are so contemptible that, in my haste, I use
unjust language. Put yourself in the man's place. Say that there are
a million or so of us very intelligent and highly educated. Well,
the women of corresponding mind number perhaps a few thousands. The
vast majority of men must make a marriage that is doomed to be a
dismal failure. We fall in love it is true; but do we really deceive
ourselves about the future? A very young man may; why, we know of
very young men who are so frantic as to marry girls of the working
class--mere lumps of human flesh. But most of us know that our
marriage is a _pis aller_. At first we are sad about it; then we
grow cynical, and snap our fingers at moral obligation.'
'Making a bad case very much worse, instead of bravely bettering
it.'
'Yes, but human nature is human nature. I am only urging to you the
case of average intelligent men. As likely as not--so preposterous
are our conventions--you have never heard it put honestly. I tell
you the simple truth when I say that more than half these men regard
their wives with active disgust. They will do anything to be
relieved of the sight of them for as many hours as possible at a
time. If circumstances allowed, wives would be abandoned very often
indeed.'
Rhoda laughed.
'You regret that it isn't done?'
'I prefer to say that I approve it when it is done without disregard
of common humanity. There's my friend Orchard. With him it was
suicide or freedom from his hateful wife. Most happily, he was able
to make provision for her and the children, and had strength to
break his bonds. If he had left them to starve, I should have
_understood_ it, but couldn't have approved it. There are men who
might follow his example, but prefer to put up with a life of
torture. Well, they _do_ prefer it, you see. I may think that they
are foolishly weak, but I can only recognize that they make a choice
between two forms of suffering. They have tender consciences; the
thought of desertion is too painful to them. And in a great number
of cases, mere considerations of money and the like keep a man
bound. But conscience and habit--detestable habit--and fear of
public opinion generally hold him.'
'All this is very interesting,' said Rhoda, with grave irony.
'By-the-bye, under the head of detestable habit you would put love
of children?'
Barfoot hesitated.
'That's a motive I oughtn't to have left out. Yet I believe, for
most men, it is represented by conscience. The love of children
would not generally, in itself, be strong enough to outweigh
matrimonial wretchedness. Many an intelligent and kind-hearted man
has been driven from his wife notwithstanding thought for his
children. He provides for them as well as he can--but, and even
for their sakes, he must save himself.'
The expression of Rhoda's countenance suddenly changed. An extreme
mobility of facial muscles was one of the things in her that held
Everard's attention.
'There's something in your way of putting it that I don't like,' she
said, with much frankness; 'but of course I agree with you in the
facts. I am convinced that most marriages are hateful, from every
point of view. But there will be no improvement until women have
revolted against marriage, from a reasonable conviction of its
hatefulness.'
'I wish you all success--most sincerely I do.'
He paused, looked about the room, and stroked his ear. Then, in a
grave tone,--
'My own ideal of marriage involves perfect freedom on both sides. Of
course it could only be realized where conditions are favourable;
poverty and other wretched things force us so often to sin against
our best beliefs. But there are plenty of people who might marry on
these ideal terms. Perfect freedom, sanctioned by the sense of
intelligent society, would abolish most of the evils we have in
mind. But women must first be civilized; you are quite right in
that.'
The door opened, and Miss Barfoot came in. She glanced from one to
the other, and without speaking gave her hand to Everard.
'How is your patient?' he asked.
'A little better, I think. It is nothing dangerous. Here's a letter
from your brother Tom. Perhaps I had better read it at once; there
may be news you would like to hear.'
She sat down and broke the envelope. Whilst she was reading the
letter to herself, Rhoda quietly left the room.
'Yes, there is news,' said Miss Barfoot presently, 'and of a
disagreeable kind. A few weeks ago--before writing, that is--he
was thrown off a horse and had a rib fractured.'
'Oh? How is he going on?'
'Getting right again, he says. And they are coming back to England;
his wife's consumptive symptoms have disappeared, of course, and she
is very impatient to leave Madeira. It is to be hoped she will allow
poor Tom time to get his rib set. Probably that consideration
doesn't weigh much with her. He says that he is writing to you by
the same mail.'
'Poor old fellow!' said Everard, with feeling. 'Does he complain
about his wife?'
'He never has done till now, but there's a sentence here that reads
doubtfully. "Muriel," he says, "has been terribly upset about my
accident. I can't persuade her that I didn't get thrown on purpose;
yet I assure you I didn't."'
Everard laughed.
'If old Tom becomes ironical, he must be hard driven. I have no
great longing to meet Mrs. Thomas.'
'She's a silly and a vulgar woman. But I told him that in plain
terms before he married. It says much for his good nature that he
remains so friendly with me. Read the letter, Everard.'
He did so.
'H'm--very kind things about me. Good old Tom! Why don't I marry?
Well, now, one would have thought that his own experience--'
Miss Barfoot began to talk about something else. Before very long
Rhoda came back, and in the conversation that followed it was
mentioned that she would leave for her holiday in two days.
'I have been reading about Cheddar,' exclaimed Everard, with
animation. 'There's a flower grows among the rocks called the
Cheddar pink. Do you know it?'
'Oh, very well,' Rhoda answered. 'I'll bring you some specimens.'
'Will you? That's very kind.'
'Bring _me_ a genuine pound or two of the cheese, Rhoda,' requested
Miss Barfoot gaily.
'I will. What they sell in the shops there is all sham, Mr. Barfoot--like
so much else in this world.'
'I care nothing about the cheese. That's all very well for a
matter-of-fact person like cousin Mary, but _I_ have a strong vein
of poetry; you must have noticed it?'
When they shook hands,--
'You will really bring me the flowers?' Everard said in a voice
sensibly softened.
'I will make a note of it,' was the reassuring answer.
CHAPTER XI
AT NATURE'S BIDDING
The sick girl whom Miss Barfoot had been to see was Monica Madden.
With strange suddenness, after several weeks of steady application
to her work, in a cheerful spirit which at times rose to gaiety,
Monica became dull, remiss, unhappy; then violent headaches attacked
her, and one morning she declared herself unable to rise. Mildred
Vesper went to Great Portland Street at the usual hour, and informed
Miss Barfoot of her companion's illness. A doctor was summoned; to
him it seemed probable that the girl was suffering from consequences
of overstrain at her old employment; there was nervous collapse,
hysteria, general disorder of the system. Had the patient any mental
disquietude? Was trouble of any kind (the doctor smiled) weighing
upon her? Miss Barfoot, unable to answer these questions, held
private colloquy with Mildred; but the latter, though she pondered a
good deal with corrugated brows, could furnish no information.
In a day or two Monica was removed to her sister's lodgings at
Lavender Hill. Mrs. Conisbee managed to put a room at her disposal,
and Virginia tended her. Thither Miss Barfoot went on the evening
when Everard found her away; she and Virginia, talking together
after being with the invalid for a quarter of an hour, agreed that
there was considerable improvement, but felt a like uneasiness
regarding Monica's state of mind.
'Do you think,' asked the visitor, 'that she regrets the step I
persuaded her to take?'
'Oh, I _can't_ think that! She has been so delighted with her
progress each time I have seen her. No, I feel sure it's only the
results of what she suffered at Walworth Road. In a very short time
we shall have her at work again, and brighter than ever.'
Miss Barfoot was not convinced. After Everard's departure that
evening she talked of the matter with Rhoda.
'I'm afraid,' said Miss Nunn, 'that Monica is rather a silly girl.
She doesn't know her own mind. If this kind of thing is repeated, we
had better send her back to the country.'
'To shop work again?'
'It might be better.'
'Oh, I don't like the thought of that.'
Rhoda had one of her fits of wrathful eloquence.
'Now could one have a better instance than this Madden family of the
crime that middle-class parents commit when they allow their girls
to go without rational training? Of course I know that Monica was
only a little child when they were left orphans; but her sisters had
already grown up into uselessness, and their example has been
harmful to her all along. Her guardians dealt with her absurdly;
they made her half a lady and half a shop-girl. I don't think she'll
ever be good for much. And the elder ones will go on just keeping
themselves alive; you can see that. They'll never start the school
that there's so much talk of. That poor, helpless, foolish Virginia,
alone there in her miserable lodging! How can we hope that any one
will take her as a companion? And yet they are capitalists; eight
hundred pounds between them. Think what capable women might do with
eight hundred pounds.'
'I am really afraid to urge them to meddle with the investments.'
'Of course; so am I. One is afraid to do or propose anything.
Virginia is starving, _must_ be starving. Poor creature! I can never
forget how her eyes shone when I put that joint of meat before her.'
'I do, do wish,' sighed Miss Barfoot, with a pained smile, 'that I
knew some honest man who would be likely to fall in love with little
Monica! In spite of you, my dear, I would devote myself to making
the match. But there's no one.'
'Oh, I would help,' laughed Rhoda, not unkindly. 'She's fit for
nothing else, I'm afraid. We mustn't look for any kind of heroism in
Monica.'
Less than half an hour after Miss Barfoot had left the house at
Lavender Hill, Mildred Vesper made a call there. It was about
half-past nine; the invalid, after sitting up since midday, had gone
to bed, but could not sleep. Summoned to the house-door, Virginia
acquainted Miss Vesper with the state of affairs.
'I think you might see her for a few minutes.'
'I should like to, if you please, Miss Madden,' replied Mildred, who
had a rather uneasy look.
She went upstairs and entered the bedroom, where a lamp was burning.
At the sight of her friend Monica showed much satisfaction; they
kissed each other affectionately.
'Good old girl! I had made up my mind to come back tomorrow, or at
all events the day after. It's so frightfully dull here. Oh, and I
wanted to know if anything--any letter--had come for me.'
'That's just why I came to see you to-night.'
Mildred took a letter from her pocket, and half averted her face as
she handed it.
'It's nothing particular,' said Monica, putting it away under her
pillow. 'Thank you, dear.'
But her cheeks had become hot, and she trembled.
'Monica--'
'Well?'
'You wouldn't care to tell me about--anything? You don't think it
would make your mind easier?'
For a minute Monica lay back, gazing at the wall, then she looked
round quickly, with a shamefaced laugh.
'It's very silly of me not to have told you long before this. But
you're so sensible; I was afraid. I'll tell you everything. Not now,
but as soon as I get to Rutland Street. I shall come to-morrow.'
'Do you think you can? You look dreadfully bad still.'
'I shan't get any better here,' replied the invalid in a whisper.
'Poor Virgie does depress me so. She doesn't understand that I can't
bear to hear her repeating the kind of things she has heard from
Miss Barfoot and Miss Nunn. She tries so hard to look forward
hopefully--but I _know_ she is miserable, and it makes me more
miserable still. I oughtn't to have left you; I should have been all
right in a day or two, with you to help me. You don't make-believe,
Milly; it's all real and natural good spirits. It has done me good
only to see your dear old face.'
'Oh, you're a flatterer. And do you really feel better?'
'Very much better. I shall go to sleep very soon.'
The visitor took her leave. When, a few minutes after, Monica had
bidden good-night to her sister (requesting that the lamp might be
left), she read what Mildred had brought.
'MY DEAREST MONICA,'--the missive began--'Why have you not
written before this? I have been dreadfully uneasy ever since
receiving your last letter. Your headache soon went away, I hope?
Why haven't you made another appointment? It is all I can do to keep
from breaking my promise and coming to ask about you. Write at once,
I implore you, my dearest. It's no use telling me that I must not
use these words of affection; they come to my lips and to my pen
irresistibly. You know so well that I love you with all my heart and
soul; I can't address you like I did when we first corresponded. My
darling! My dear, sweet, beautiful little girl--'
Four close pages of this, with scarce room at the end for 'E.W.'
When she had gone through it, Monica turned her face upon the pillow
and lay so for a long time. A clock in the house struck eleven; this
roused her, and she slipped out of the bed to hide the letter in her
dress-pocket. Not long after she was asleep.
The next day, on returning from her work and opening the
sitting-room door, Mildred Vesper was greeted with a merry laugh.
Monica had been here since three o'clock, and had made tea in
readiness for her friend's arrival. She looked very white, but her
eyes gleamed with pleasure, and she moved about the room as actively
as before.
'Virgie came with me, but she wouldn't stay. She says she has a most
important letter to write to Alice--about the school, of course.
Oh, that school! I do wish they could make up their minds. I've told
them they may have all my money, if they like.'
'Have you? I should like the sensation of offering hundreds of
pounds to some one. It must give a strange feeling of dignity and
importance.'
'Oh, only _two_ hundred! A wretched little sum.'
'You are a person of large ideas, as I have often told you. Where
did you get them, I wonder?'
'Don't put on that face! It's the one I like least of all your many
faces. It's suspicious.'
Mildred went to take off her things, and was quickly at the
tea-table. She had a somewhat graver look than usual, and chose
rather to listen than talk.
Not long after tea, when there had been a long and unnatural
silence, Mildred making pretence of absorption in a 'Treasury' and
her companion standing at the window, whence she threw back furtive
glances, the thunder of a postman's knock downstairs caused both of
them to start, and look at each other in a conscience-stricken way.
'That may be for me,' said Monica, stepping to the door. 'I'll go
and look.'
Her conjecture was right. Another letter from Widdowson, still more
alarmed and vehement than the last. She read it rapidly on the
staircase, and entered the room with sheet and envelope squeezed
together in her hand.
'I'm going to tell you all about this, Milly.'
The other nodded and assumed an attitude of sober attention. In
relating her story, Monica moved hither and thither; now playing
with objects on the mantlepiece, now standing in the middle of the
floor, hands locked nervously behind her. Throughout, her manner was
that of defence; she seemed doubtful of herself, and anxious to
represent the case as favourably as possible; not for a moment had
her voice the ring of courageous passion, nor the softness of tender
feeling. The narrative hung together but awkwardly, and in truth
gave a very indistinct notion of how she had comported herself at
the various stages of the irregular courtship. Her behaviour had
been marked by far more delicacy and scruple than she succeeded in
representing. Painfully conscious of this, she exclaimed at length,--
'I see your opinion of me has suffered. You don't like this story.
You wonder how I could do such things.'
'Well, dear, I certainly wonder how you could begin,' Mildred made
answer, with her natural directness, but gently. 'Afterwards, of
course, it was different. When you had once got to be sure that he
was a gentleman--'
'I was sure of that so soon,' exclaimed Monica, her cheeks still
red. 'You will understand it much better when you have seen him.'
'You wish me to?'
'I am going to write now, and say that I will marry him.'
They looked long at each other.
'You are--really?'
'Yes. I made up my mind last night.'
'But, Monica--you mustn't mind my speaking plainly--I don't
think you love him.'
'Yes, I love him well enough to feel that I am doing right in
marrying him.' She sat down by the table, and propped her head on
her hand. 'He loves me; I can't doubt that. If you could read his
letters, you would see how strong his feeling is.'
She shook with the cold induced by excitement; her voice was at
moments all but choked.
'But, putting love aside,' went on the other, very gravely, 'what do
you really know of Mr. Widdowson? Nothing whatever but what he has
told you himself. Of course you will let your friends make inquiries
for you?'
'Yes. I shall tell my sisters, and no doubt they will go to Miss
Nunn at once. I don't want to do anything rash. But it will be all
right--I mean, he has told me the truth about everything. You
would be sure of that if you knew him.'
Mildred, with hands before her on the table, made the tips of her
fingers meet. Her lips were drawn in; her eyes seemed looking for
something minute on the cloth.
'You know,' she said at length, 'I suspected what was going on. I
couldn't help.'
'Of course you couldn't.'
'Naturally I thought it was some one whose acquaintance you had made
at the shop.'
'How _could_ I think of marrying any one of that kind?'
'I should have been grieved.'
'You may believe me, Milly; Mr. Widdowson is a man you will respect
and like as soon as you know him. He couldn't have behaved to me
with more delicacy. Not a word from him, spoken or written, has ever
pained me--except that he tells me he suffers so dreadfully, and
of course I can't hear that without pain.'
'To respect, and even to like, a man, isn't at all the same as
loving him.'
'I said _you_ would respect and like him,' exclaimed Monica, with
humorous impatience. 'I don't want _you_ to love him.'
Mildred laughed, with constraint.
'I never loved any one yet, dear, and it's very unlikely I ever
shall. But I think I know the signs of the feeling.'
Monica came behind her, and leaned upon her shoulder.
'He loves me so much that he has made me think I _must_ marry him.
And I am glad of it. I'm not like you, Milly; I can't be contented
with this life. Miss Barfoot and Miss Nunn are very sensible and
good people, and I admire them very much, but I _can't_ go their
way. It seems to me that it would be dreadful, dreadful, to live
one's life alone. Don't turn round and snap at me; I want to tell
you the truth whilst you can't see me. Whenever I think of Alice and
Virginia, I am frightened; I had rather, oh, far rather, kill myself
than live such a life at their age. You can't imagine how miserable
they are, really. And I have the same nature as theirs, you know.
Compared with you and Miss Haven I'm very weak and childish.'
After drumming on the table for a moment, with wrinkled brows,
Mildred made grave response.
'You must let _me_ tell the truth as well. I think you're going to
marry with altogether wrong ideas. I think you'll do an injustice to
Mr. Widdowson. You will marry him for a comfortable home--that's
what it amounts to. And you'll repent it bitterly some day--you'll
repent.'
Monica raised herself and stood apart.
'For one thing,' pursued Mildred, with nervous earnestness, 'he's
too old. Your habits and his won't suit.'
'He has assured me that I shall live exactly the kind of life I
please. And that will be what _he_ pleases. I feel his kindness to
me very much, and I shall do my utmost to repay him.'
'That's a very nice spirit; but I believe married life is no easy
thing even when the people are well matched. I have heard the most
dreadful stories of quarrelling and all sorts of unhappiness between
people I thought safe from any such dangers. You _may_ be fortunate;
I only say that the chances are very much against it, marrying from
such motives as you confess.'
Monica drew herself up.
'I haven't confessed any motive to be ashamed of, Milly.'
'You say you have decided to marry now because you are afraid of
never having another chance'
'No; that's turning it very unkindly. I only said that _after_ I had
told you that I did love him. And I do love him. He has made me love
him.'
'Then I have no right to say any more. I can only wish you
happiness.'
Mildred heaved a sigh, and pretended to give her attention to
Maunder.
After waiting irresolutely for some minutes, Monica looked for
notepaper, and took it, together with her inkstand, into the
bedroom. She was absent half an hour. On her return there was a
stamped letter in her hand.
'It is going, Milly.'
'Very well, dear. I have nothing more to say.'
'You give me up for lost. We shall see.'
It was spoken light-heartedly. Again she left the room, put on her
out-of-door things, and went to post the letter. By this time she
began to feel the results of exertion and excitement; headache and
tremulous failing of her strength obliged her to go to bed almost as
soon as she returned. Mildred waited upon her with undiminished
kindness.
'It's all right,' Monica murmured, as her head sank on the pillow.
'I feel so relieved and so glad--so happy--now I have done it.'
'Good-night, dear,' replied the other, with a kiss, and went back to
her semblance of reading.
Two days later Monica called unexpectedly at Mrs. Conisbee's. Being
told by that worthy woman that Miss Madden was at home, she ran
upstairs and tapped at the door. Virginia's voice inquired hurriedly
who was there, and on Monica's announcing herself there followed a
startled exclamation.
'Just a minute, my love! Only a minute.'
When the door opened Monica was surprised by a disorder in her
sister's appearance. Virginia had flushed cheeks, curiously vague
eyes, and hair ruffled as if she had just risen from a nap. She
began to talk in a hurried, disconnected way, trying to explain that
she had not been quite well, and was not yet properly dressed.
'What a strange smell!' Monica exclaimed, looking about the room.
'It's like brandy.'
'You notice it? I have--I was obliged to get--to ask Mrs.
Conisbee for--I don't want to alarm you, dear, but I felt rather
faint. Indeed, I thought I should have a fainting fit. I was obliged
to call Mrs. Conisbee--But don't think anything about it. It's
all over. The weather is very trying--'
She laughed nervously and began to pat Monica's hand. The girl was
not quite satisfied, and pressed many questions, but in the end she
accepted Virginia's assurances that nothing serious had happened.
Then her own business occupied her; she sat down, and said with a
smile,--
'I have brought you astonishing news. If you didn't faint before
you'll be very likely to do so now.'
Her sister exhibited fresh agitation, and begged not to be kept in
suspense.
'My nerves are in a shocking state to-day. It _must_ be the weather.
What _can_ you have to tell me, Monica?'
'I think I shan't need to go on with typewriting.'
'Why? What are you going to do, child?' the other asked sharply.
'Virgie--I am going to be married.'
The shock was a severe one. Virginia's hands fell, her eyes started,
her mouth opened; she became the colour of clay, even her lips
losing for the moment all their colour.
'Married?' she at length gasped. 'Who--who is it?'
'Some one you have never heard of. His name is Mr. Edmund Widdowson.
He is very well off, and has a house at Herne Hill.'
'A private gentleman?'
'Yes. He used to be in business, but is retired. Now, I am not going
to tell you much more about him until you have made his
acquaintance. Don't ask a lot of questions. You are to come with me
this afternoon to his house. He lives alone, but a relative of his,
his sister-in-law, is going to be with him to meet us.'
'Oh, but it's so sudden! I can't go to pay a call like that at a
moment's notice. Impossible, darling! What _does_ it all mean? You
are going to be married, Monica? I can't understand it. I can't
realize it. Who is this gentleman? How long--'
'No; you won't get me to tell you more than I have done, till you
have seen him.'
'But what _have_ you told me? I couldn't grasp it. I am quite
confused. Mr.--what was the name?'
It took half an hour to familiarize Virginia with the simple fact.
When she was convinced of its truth, a paroxysm of delight appeared
in her. She laughed, uttered cries of joy, even clapped her hands.
'Monica to be married! A private gentleman--a large fortune! My
darling, how shall I ever believe it? Yet I felt so sure that the
day would come. What _will_ Alice say? And Rhoda Nunn? Have you--
have you ventured to tell her?'
'No, that I haven't. I want you to do that You shall go and see them
to-morrow, as it's Sunday.'
'Oh, the delight! Alice won't be able to contain herself. We always
said the day would come.'
'You won't have any more anxieties, Virgie. You can take the school
or not, as you like. Mr. Widdowson--'
'Oh, my dear,' interposed Virginia, with sudden dignity, 'we shall
certainly open the school. We have made up our minds; that is to be
our life's work. It is far, far more than a mere means of
subsistence. But perhaps we shall not need to hurry. Everything can
be matured at our leisure. If you would only just tell me, darling,
when you were first introduced?'
Monica laughed gaily, and refused to explain. It was time for
Virginia to make herself ready, and here arose a new perturbation;
what had she suitable for wear under such circumstances? Monica had
decked herself a little, and helped the other to make the best of
her narrow resources. At four o'clock they set out.
CHAPTER XII
WEDDINGS
When they reached the house at Herne Hill the sisters were both in a
state of nervous tremor. Monica had only the vaguest idea of the
kind of person Mrs. Luke Widdowson would prove to be, and Virginia
seemed to herself to be walking in a dream.
'Have you been here often?' whispered the latter, as soon as they
came in view of the place. Its aspect delighted her, but the
conflict of her emotions was so disturbing that she had to pause and
seek the support of her sister's arm.
'I've never been inside,' Monica answered indistinctly. 'Come; we
shall be unpunctual.'
'I do wish you would tell me, dear--'
'I can't talk, Virgie. Try and keep quiet, and behave as if it were
all quite natural.'
This was altogether beyond Virginia's power. It happened most
luckily, though greatly to Widdowson's annoyance, that the
sister-in-law, Mrs. Luke Widdowson, arrived nearly half an hour
later than the time she had appointed. Led by the servant into a
comfortable drawing-room, the visitors were received by the master
of the house alone; with a grim smile, the result of his
embarrassment, with profuse apologies and a courtesy altogether
excessive, Widdowson did his best to put them at their ease--of
course with small result. The sisters side by side on a settee at
one end of the room, and the host seated far away from them, they
talked with scarcely any understanding of what was said on either
side--the weather and the vastness of London serving as topics--
until of a sudden the door was thrown open, and there appeared a
person of such imposing presence that Virginia gave a start and
Monica gazed in painful fascination. Mrs. Luke was a tall and portly
woman in the prime of life, with rather a high colour; her features
were handsome, but without much refinement, their expression a
condescending good-humour. Her mourning garb, if mourning it could
be called, represented an extreme of the prevailing fashion; its
glint and rustle inspired awe in the female observer. A moment ago
the drawing-room had seemed empty; Mrs. Luke, in her sole person,
filled and illumined it.
Widdowson addressed this resplendent personage by her Christian
name, his familiarity exciting in Monica an irrational surprise. He
presented the sisters to her, and Mrs. Luke, bowing grandly at a
distance, drew from her bosom a gold-rimmed _pince-nez_, through
which she scrutinized Monica. The smile which followed might have
been interpreted in several senses; Widdowson, alone capable of
remarking it, answered with a look of severe dignity.
Mrs. Luke had no thought of apologizing for the lateness of her
arrival, and it was evident that she did not intend to stay long.
Her purpose seemed to be to make the occasion as informal as
possible.
'Do you, by chance, know the Hodgson Bulls?' she asked of her
relative, interrupting him in the nervous commonplaces with which he
was endeavouring to smooth the way to a general conversation. She
had the accent of cultivation, but spoke rather imperiously.
'I never heard of them,' was the cold reply.
'No? They live somewhere about here. I have to make a call on them.
I suppose my coachman will find the place.'
There was an awkward silence. Widdowson was about to say something
to Monica, when Mrs. Luke, who had again closely observed the girl
through the glasses, interposed in a gentle tone.
'Do you like this neighbourhood, Miss Madden?'
Monica gave the expected answer, her voice sounding very weak and
timid by comparison. And so, for some ten minutes, an appearance of
dialogue was sustained. Mrs. Luke, though still condescending,
evinced a desire to be agreeable; she smiled and nodded in reply to
the girl's remarks, and occasionally addressed Virginia with careful
civility, conveying the impression, perhaps involuntarily, that she
commiserated the shy and shabbily-dressed person. Tea was brought
in, and after pretending to take a cup, she rose for departure.
'Perhaps you will come and see me some day, Miss Madden,' fell from
her with unanticipated graciousness, as she stepped forward to the
girl and offered her hand. 'Edmund must bring you--at some quiet
time when we can talk. Very glad to have met you--very glad
indeed.'
And the personage was gone; they heard her carriage roll away from
beneath the window. All three drew a breath of relief, and
Widdowson, suddenly quite another man, took a place near to
Virginia, with whom in a few minutes he was conversing in the
friendliest way. Virginia, experiencing a like relief, also became
herself; she found courage to ask needful questions, which in every
case were satisfactorily met. Of Mrs. Luke there was no word, but
when they had taken their leave--the visit lasted altogether some
two hours--Monica and her sister discussed that great lady with
the utmost freedom. They agreed that she was personally detestable.
'But very rich, my dear,' said Virginia in a murmuring voice. 'You
can see that. I have met such people before; they have a manner--
oh! Of course Mr. Widdowson will take you to call upon her.'
'When nobody else is likely to be there; that's what she meant,'
remarked Monica coldly.
'Never mind, my love. You don't wish for grand society. I am very
glad to tell you that Edmund impresses me very favourably. He is
reserved, but that is no fault. Oh, we must write to Alice at once!
Her surprise! Her delight!'
When, on the next day, Monica met her betrothed in Regent's Park--
she still lived with Mildred Vesper, but no longer went to Great
Portland Street--their talk was naturally of Mrs. Luke. Widdowson
speedily led to the topic.
'I had told you,' he said, with careful accent, 'that I see very
little of her. I can't say that I like her, but she is a very
difficult person to understand, and I fancy she often gives offence
when she doesn't at all mean it. Still, I hope you were not--
displeased?'
Monica avoided a direct answer.
'Shall you take me to see her?' were her words.
'If you will go, dear. And I have no doubt she will be present at
our wedding. Unfortunately, she's my only relative; or the only one
I know anything about. After our marriage I don't think we shall see
much of her--'
'No, I dare say not,' was Monica's remark. And thereupon they turned
to pleasanter themes.
That morning Widdowson had received from his sister-in-law a
scribbled post-card, asking him to call upon Mrs. Luke early the day
that followed. Of course this meant that the lady was desirous of
further talk concerning Miss Madden. Unwillingly, but as a matter of
duty, he kept the appointment. It was at eleven in the morning, and,
when admitted to the flat in Victoria Street which was his
relative's abode, he had to wait a quarter of an hour for the lady's
appearance.
Luxurious fashion, as might have been expected, distinguished Mrs.
Luke's drawing-room. Costly and beautiful things superabounded;
perfume soothed the air. Only since her bereavement had Mrs.
Widdowson been able to indulge this taste for modern exuberance in
domestic adornment. The deceased Luke was a plain man of business,
who clung to the fashions which had been familiar to him in his
youth; his second wife found a suburban house already furnished, and
her influence with him could not prevail to banish the horrors amid
which he chose to live: chairs in maroon rep, Brussels carpets of
red roses on a green ground, horse-hair sofas of the most
uncomfortable shape ever designed, antimacassars everywhere, chimney
ornaments of cut glass trembling in sympathy with the kindred
chandeliers. She belonged to an obscure branch of a house that
culminated in an obscure baronetcy; penniless and ambitious, she had
to thank her imposing physique for rescue at a perilous age, and
though despising Mr. Luke Widdowson for his plebeian tastes, she
shrewdly retained the good-will of a husband who seemed no candidate
for length of years. The money-maker died much sooner than she could
reasonably have hoped, and left her an income of four thousand
pounds. Thereupon began for Mrs. Luke a life of feverish aspiration.
The baronetcy to which she was akin had inspired her, even from
childhood, with an aristocratic ideal; a handsome widow of only
eight-and-thirty, she resolved that her wealth should pave the way
for her to a titled alliance. Her acquaintance lay among City
people, but with the opportunities of freedom it was soon extended
to the sphere of what is known as smart society; her flat in
Victoria Street attracted a heterogeneous cluster of
pleasure-seekers and fortune-hunters, among them one or two vagrant
members of the younger aristocracy. She lived at the utmost pace
compatible with technical virtue. When, as shortly happened, it
became evident that her income was not large enough for her serious
purpose, she took counsel with an old friend great in finance, and
thenceforth the excitement of the gambler gave a new zest to her
turbid existence. Like most of her female associates, she had free
recourse to the bottle; but for such stimulus the life of a smart
woman would be physically impossible. And Mrs. Luke enjoyed life,
enjoyed it vastly. The goal of her ambition, if all went well in the
City, was quite within reasonable hope. She foretasted the day when
a vulgar prefix would no longer attach to her name, and when the
journals of society would reflect her rising effulgence.
Widdowson was growing impatient, when his relative at length
appeared. She threw herself into a deep chair, crossed her legs, and
gazed at him mockingly.
'Well, it isn't quite so bad as I feared, Edmund.'
'What do you mean?'
'Oh, she's a decent enough little girl, I can see. But you're a
silly fellow for all that. You couldn't have deceived me, you know.
If there'd been anything--you understand?--I should have spotted
it at once.'
'I don't relish this kind of talk,' observed Widdowson acidly. 'In
plain English, you supposed I was going to marry some one about whom
I couldn't confess the truth.'
'Of course I did. Now come; tell me how you got to know her.'
The man moved uneasily, but in the end related the whole story. Mrs.
Luke kept nodding, with an amused air.
'Yes, yes; she managed it capitally. Clever little witch. Fetching
eyes she has.'
'If you sent for me to make insulting remarks--'
'Bosh! I'll come to the wedding gaily. But you're a silly fellow.
Now, why didn't you come and ask me to find you a wife? Why, I know
two or three girls of really good family who would have jumped,
simply jumped, at a man with your money. Pretty girls too. But you
always were so horribly unpractical. Don't you know, my dear boy,
that there are heaps of ladies, real ladies, waiting the first
decent man who offers them five or six hundred a year? Why haven't
you used the opportunities that you knew I could put in your way?'
Widdowson rose from his seat and stood stiffly.
'I see you don't understand me in the least. I am going to marry
because, for the first time in my life, I have met the woman whom I
can respect and love.'
'That's very nice and proper. But why shouldn't you respect and love
a girl who belongs to good society?'
'Miss Madden is a lady,' he replied indignantly.
'Oh--yes--to be sure,' hummed the other, letting her head roll
back. 'Well, bring her here some day when we can lunch quietly
together. I see it's no use. You're not a sharp man, Edmund.'
'Do you seriously tell me,' asked Widdowson, with grave curiosity,
'that there are ladies in good society who would have married me
just because I have a few hundreds a year?'
'My dear boy, I would get together a round dozen in two or three
days. Girls who would make good, faithful wives, in mere gratitude
to the man who saved them from--horrors.'
'Excuse me if I say that I don't believe it.'
Mrs. Luke laughed merrily, and the conversation went on ill this
strain for another ten minutes. At the end, Mrs. Luke made herself
very agreeable, praised Monica for her sweet face and gentle
manners, and so dismissed the solemn man with a renewed promise to
countenance the marriage by her gracious presence.
When Rhoda Nunn returned from her holiday it wanted but a week to
Monica's wedding, so speedily had everything been determined and
arranged. Miss Barfoot, having learnt from Virginia all that was to
be known concerning Mr. Widdowson, felt able to hope for the best; a
grave husband, of mature years, and with means more than sufficient,
seemed, to the eye of experience, no unsuitable match for a girl
such as Monica. This view of the situation caused Rhoda to smile
with contemptuous tolerance.
'And yet,' she remarked, 'I have heard you speak severely of such
marriages.'
'It isn't the ideal wedlock,' replied Miss Barfoot. 'But so much in
life is compromise. After all, she may regard him more affectionally
than we imagine.'
'No doubt she has weighed advantages. If the prospects you offered
her had proved more to her taste she would have dismissed this
elderly admirer. His fate has been decided during the last few
weeks. It's probable that the invitation to your Wednesday evenings
gave her a hope of meeting young men.'
'I see no harm if it did,' said Miss Barfoot, smiling. 'But Miss
Vesper would very soon undeceive her on that point.'
'I hardly thought of her as a girl likely to make chance friendships
with men in highways and by-ways.'
'No more did I; and that makes all the more content with what has
come about. She ran a terrible risk, poor child. You see, Rhoda,
nature is too strong for us.'
Rhoda threw her head back.
'And the delight of her sister! It is really pathetic. The mere fact
that Monica is to be married blinds the poor woman to every
possibility of misfortune.' In the course of the same conversation,
Rhoda remarked thoughtfully,--
'It strikes me that Mr. Widdowson must be of a confiding nature. I
don't think men in general, at all events those with money, care to
propose marriage to girls they encounter by the way.'
'I suppose he saw that the case was exceptional.'
'How was he to see that?'
'You are severe. Her shop training accounts for much. The elder
sisters could never have found a husband in this way. The revelation
must have shocked them at first.'
Rhoda dismissed the subject lightly, and henceforth showed only the
faintest interest in Monica's concerns.
Monica meanwhile rejoiced in her liberation from the work and
philosophic seventies of Great Portland Street. She saw Widdowson
somewhere or other every day, and heard him discourse on the life
that was before them, herself for the most part keeping silence.
Together they called upon Mrs. Luke, and had luncheon with her.
Monica was not displeased with her reception, and began secretly to
hope that more than a glimpse of that gorgeous world might some day
be vouchsafed to her.
Apart from her future husband, Monica was in a sportive mood, with
occasional fits of exhilaration which seemed rather unnatural. She
had declared to Mildred her intention of inviting Miss Nunn to the
wedding, and her mind was evidently set on carrying out this joke,
as she regarded it. When the desire was intimated by letter, Rhoda
replied with a civil refusal: she would be altogether out of place
at such a ceremony, but hoped that Monica would accept her heartiest
good wishes. Virginia was then dispatched to Queen's Road, and
appealed so movingly that the prophetess at length yielded. On
hearing this Monica danced with delight, and her companion in
Rutland Street could not help sharing her merriment.
The ceremony was performed at a church at Herne Hill. By an odd
arrangement--like everything else in the story of this pair, a
result of social and personal embarrassments--Monica's belongings,
including her apparel for the day, were previously dispatched to the
bridegroom's house, whither, in company with Virginia, the bride
went early in the morning. It was one of the quietest of weddings,
but all ordinary formalities were complied with, Widdowson having no
independent views on the subject. Present were Virginia (to give
away the bride), Miss Vesper (who looked decidedly odd in a pretty
dress given her by Monica), Rhoda Nunn (who appeared to advantage in
a costume of quite unexpected appropriateness), Mrs. Widdowson (an
imposing figure, evidently feeling that she had got into strange
society), and, as friend of the bridegroom, one Mr. Newdick, a musty
and nervous City clerk. Depression was manifest on every
countenance, not excepting Widdowson's; the man had such a stern,
gloomy look, and held himself with so much awkwardness, that he
might have been imagined to stand here on compulsion. For an hour
before going to the church, Monica cried and seemed unutterably
doleful; she had not slept for two nights; her face was ghastly.
Virginia's gladness gave way just before the company assembled, and
she too shed many tears.
There was a breakfast, more dismal fooling than even this species of
fooling is wont to be. Mr. Newdick, trembling and bloodless,
proposed Monica's health; Widdowson, stern and dark as ever,
gloomily responded; and then, _that_ was happily over. By one
o'clock the gathering began to disperse. Monica drew Rhoda Nunn
aside.
'It was very kind of you to come,' she whispered, with half a sob.
'It all seems very silly, and I'm sure you have wished yourself away
a hundred times. I am really, seriously, grateful to you.'
Rhoda put a hand on each side of the girl's face, and kissed her,
but without saying a word; and thereupon left the house. Mildred
Vesper, after changing her dress in the room used by Monica, as she
had done on arriving, went off by train to her duties in Great
Portland Street. Virginia alone remained to see the married couple
start for their honeymoon. They were going into Cornwall, and on the
return journey would manage to see Miss Madden at her Somerset
retreat. For the present, Virginia was to live on at Mrs.
Conisbee's, but not in the old way; henceforth she would have proper
attendance, and modify her vegetarian diet--at the express bidding
of the doctor, as she explained to her landlady.
Though that very evening Everard Barfoot made a call upon his
friends in Chelsea, the first since Rhoda's return from Cheddar, he
heard nothing of the event that marked the day. But Miss Nunn
appeared to him unlike herself; she was absent, had little to say,
and looked, what he had never yet known her, oppressed by low
spirits. For some reason or other Miss Barfoot left the room.
'You are thinking with regret of your old home,' Everard remarked,
taking a seat nearer to Miss Nunn.'
'No. Why should you fancy that?'
'Only because you seem rather sad.'
'One is sometimes.'
'I like to see you with that look. May I remind you that you
promised me some flowers from Cheddar?'
'Oh, so I did,' exclaimed the other in a tone of natural
recollection. 'I have brought them, scientifically pressed between
blotting-paper. I'll fetch them.'
When she returned it was together with Miss Barfoot, and the
conversation became livelier.
A day or two after this Everard left town, and was away for three
weeks, part of the time in Ireland.
'I left London for a while,' he wrote from Killarney to his cousin,
'partly because I was afraid I had begun to bore you and Miss Nunn.
Don't you regret giving me permission to call upon you? The fact is,
I can't live without intelligent female society; talking with women,
as I talk with you two, is one of my chief enjoyments. I hope you
won't get tired of my visits; in fact, they are all but a necessity
to me, as I have discovered since coming away. But it was fair that
you should have a rest.'
'Don't be afraid,' Miss Barfoot replied to this part of his letter.
'We are not at all weary of your conversation. The truth is, I like
it much better than in the old days. You seem to me to have a
healthier mind, and I am quite sure that the society of intelligent
women (we affect no foolish self-depreciation, Miss Nunn and I) is a
good thing for you. Come back to us as soon as you like; I shall
welcome you.'
It happened that his return to England was almost simultaneous with
the arrival from Madeira of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Barfoot. Everard at
once went to see his brother, who for the present was staying at
Torquay. Ill-health dictated his choice of residence; Thomas was
still suffering from the results of his accident; his wife had left
him at a hotel, and was visiting relatives in different parts of
England. The brothers exhibited much affectionate feeling after
their long separation; they spent a week together, and planned for
another meeting when Mrs. Thomas should have returned to her
husband.
An engagement called Everard back to town. He was to be present at
the wedding of his friend Micklethwaite, now actually on the point
of taking place. The mathematician had found a suitable house, very
small and of very low rental, out at South Tottenham, and thither
was transferred the furniture which had been in his bride's
possession since the death of her parents; Micklethwaite bought only
a few new things. By discreet inquiry, Barfoot had discovered that
'Fanny,' though musically inclined, would not possess a piano, her
old instrument being quite worn out and not worth the cost of
conveyance; thus it came to pass that, a day or two before the
wedding, Micklethwaite was astonished by the arrival of an
instrument of the Cottage species, mysteriously addressed to a
person not yet in existence, Mrs. Micklethwaite.
'You scoundrel!' he cried, when, on the next day, Barfoot presented
himself at the house. 'This is _your_ doing. What the deuce do you
mean? A man who complains of poverty! Well, it's the greatest
kindness I ever received, that's all. Fanny will be devoted to you.
With music in the house, our blind sister will lead quite a
different life. Confound it! I want to begin crying. Why, man, I'm
not accustomed to receive presents, even as a proxy; I haven't had
one since I was a schoolboy.'
'That's an audacious statement. When you told me that Miss Wheatley
never allowed your birthday to pass without sending something.'
'Oh, Fanny! But I have never thought of Fanny as a separate person.
Upon my word, now I think of it, I never have. Fanny and I have been
one for ages.'
That evening the sisters arrived from their country home.
Micklethwaite gave up the house to them, and went to a lodging.
It was with no little curiosity that, on the appointed morning,
Barfoot repaired to South Tottenham. He had seen a photograph of
Miss Wheatley, but it dated from seventeen years ago. Standing in
her presence, he was moved with compassion, and with another feeling
more rarely excited in him by a women's face, that of reverential
tenderness. Impossible to recognize in this countenance the features
known to him from the portrait. At three-and-twenty she had
possessed a sweet, simple comeliness on which any man's eye would
have rested with pleasure; at forty she was wrinkled,
hollow-cheeked, sallow, indelible weariness stamped upon her brow
and lips. She looked much older than Mary Barfoot, though they were
just of an age. And all this for want of a little money. The life of
a pure, gentle, tender-hearted woman worn away in hopeless longing
and in hard struggle for daily bread. As she took his hand and
thanked him with an exquisite modesty for the present she had
received, Everard felt a lump rise in his throat. He was ashamed to
notice that the years had dealt so unkindly with her; fixing his
look upon her eyes, he gladdened at the gladness which shone in
them, at the soft light which they could still shed forth.
Micklethwaite was probably unconscious of the poor woman's faded
appearance. He had seen her from time to time, and always with the
love which idealizes. In his own pathetic phrase, she was simply a
part of himself; he no more thought of criticizing her features than
of standing before the glass to mark and comment upon his own. It
was enough to glance at him as he took his place beside her, the
proudest and happiest of men. A miracle had been wrought for him;
kind fate, in giving her to his arms, had blotted out those long
years of sorrow, and to-day Fanny was the betrothed of his youth,
beautiful in his sight as when first he looked upon her.
Her sister, younger by five years, had more regular lineaments, but
she too was worn with suffering, and her sightless eyes made it more
distressing to contemplate her. She spoke cheerfully, however, and
laughed with joy in Fanny's happiness. Barfoot pressed both her
hands with the friendliest warmth.
One vehicle conveyed them all to the church, and in half an hour the
lady to whom the piano was addressed had come into being. The
simplest of transformations; no bridal gown, no veil, no wreath;
only the gold ring for symbol of union. And it might have happened
nigh a score of years ago; nigh a score of years lost from the span
of human life--all for want of a little money.
'I will say good-bye to you here,' muttered Everard to his friend at
the church door.
The married man gripped him by the arm.
'You will do nothing of the kind.--Fanny, he wants to be off at
once!--You won't go until you have heard my wife play something on
that blessed instrument.'
So all entered a cab again and drove back to the house. A servant
who had come with Fanny from the country, a girl of fifteen, opened
the door to them, smiling and curtseying. And all sat together in
happy talk, the blind woman gayest among them; she wished to have
the clergyman described to her, and the appearance of the church.
Then Mrs. Micklethwaite placed herself at the piano, and played
simple, old-fashioned music, neither well nor badly, but to the
infinite delight of two of her hearers.
'Mr. Barfoot,' said the sister at length, 'I have known your name
for a long time, but I little thought to meet you on such a day as
this, and to owe you such endless thanks. So long as I can have
music I forget that I can't see.
'Barfoot is the finest fellow on earth,' exclaimed Micklethwaite.
'At least, he would be if he understood Trilinear Co-ordinates.'
'Are _you_ strong in mathematics, Mrs. Micklethwaite?' asked
Everard.
'I? Oh dear, no! I never got much past the Rule of Three. But Tom
has forgiven me that long ago.'
'I don't despair of getting you into plane trigonometry, Fanny. We
will gossip about sines and co-sines before we die.'
It was said half-seriously, and Everard could not but burst into
laughter.
He sat down with them to their plain midday meal, and early in the
afternoon took his leave. He had no inclination to go home, if the
empty fiat could be dignified with such a name. After reading the
papers at his club, he walked aimlessly about the streets until it
was time to return to the same place for dinner. Then he sat with a
cigar, dreaming, and at half-past eight went to the Royal Oak
Station, and jou
CHAPTER XIII
DISCORD OF LEADERS
A disappointment awaited him. Miss Barfoot was not well enough to
see any one. Had she been suffering long? he inquired. No; it was
only this evening; she had not dined, and was gone to her room. Miss
Nunn could not receive him.
He went home, and wrote to his cousin.
The next morning he came upon a passage in the newspaper which
seemed to suggest a cause for Miss Barfoot's indisposition. It was
the report of an inquest. A girl named Bella Royston had poisoned
herself. She was living alone, without occupation, and received
visits only from one lady. This lady, her name Miss Barfoot, had
been supplying her with money, and had just found her a situation in
a house of business; but the girl appeared to have gone through
troubles which had so disturbed her mind that she could not make the
effort required of her. She left a few lines addressed to her
benefactress, just saying that she chose death rather than the
struggle to recover her position.
It was Saturday. He decided to call in the afternoon and see whether
Mary had recovered.
Again a disappointment. Miss Barfoot was better, and had been away
since breakfast; Miss Nunn was also absent.
Everard sauntered about the neighbourhood, and presently found
himself in the gardens of Chelsea Hospital. It was a warm afternoon,
and so still that he heard the fall of yellow leaves as he walked
hither and thither along the alleys. His failure to obtain an
interview with Miss Nunn annoyed him; but for her presence in the
house he would not have got into this habit of going there. As far
as ever from harbouring any serious thoughts concerning Rhoda, he
felt himself impelled along the way which he had jokingly indicated
in talk with Micklethwaite; he was tempted to make love to her as an
interesting pastime, to observe how so strong-minded a woman would
conduct herself under such circumstances. Had she or not a vein of
sentiment in her character? Was it impossible to move her as other
women are moved? Meditating thus, he looked up and saw the subject
of his thoughts. She was seated a few yards away, and seemingly had
not yet become aware of him, her eyes were on the ground, and
troubled reverie appeared in her countenance.
'I have just called at the house, Miss Nunn. How is my cousin
to-day?'
She had looked up only a moment before he spoke, and seemed vexed at
being thus discovered.
'I believe Miss Barfoot is quite well,' she answered coldly, as they
shook hands.
'But yesterday she was not so.'
'A headache, or something of the kind.'
He was astonished. Rhoda spoke with a cold indifference. She has
risen, and showed her wish to move from the spot.
'She had to attend an inquest yesterday. Perhaps it rather upset
her?'
'Yes, I think it did.'
Unable to adapt himself at once to this singular mood of Rhoda's,
but resolved not to let her go before he had tried to learn the
cause of it, he walked along by her side. In this part of the
gardens there were only a few nursemaids and children; it would have
been a capital place and time for improving his intimacy with the
remarkable woman. But possibly she was determined to be rid of him.
A contest between his will and hers would be an amusement decidedly
to his taste.
'You also have been disturbed by it, Miss Nunn.'
'By the inquest?' she returned, with barely veiled scorn. 'Indeed I
have not.'
'Did you know that poor girl?'
'Some time ago.'
'Then it is only natural that her miserable fate should sadden you.'
He spoke as if with respectful sympathy, ignoring what she had said.
'It has no effect whatever upon me,' Rhoda answered, glancing at him
with surprise and displeasure.
'Forgive me if I say that I find it difficult to believe that.
Perhaps you--'
She interrupted him.
'I don't easily forgive anyone who charges me with falsehood, Mr.
Barfoot.'
'Oh, you take it too seriously. I beg your pardon a thousand times.
I was going to say that perhaps you won't allow yourself to
acknowledge any feeling of compassion in such a case.'
'I don't acknowledge what I don't feel. I will bid you
good-afternoon.'
He smiled at her with all the softness and persuasiveness of which
he was capable. She had offered her hand with cold dignity, and
instead of taking it merely for good-bye he retained it.
'You must, you shall forgive me! I shall be too miserable if you
dismiss me in this way. I see that I was altogether wrong. You know
all the particulars of the case, and I have only read a brief
newspaper account. I am sure the girl didn't deserve your pity.'
She was trying to draw her hand away. Everard felt the strength of
her muscles, and the sensation was somehow so pleasant that he could
not at once release her.
'You do pardon me, Miss Nunn?'
'Please don't be foolish. I will thank you to let my hand go.'
Was it possible? Her cheek had coloured, ever so slightly. But with
indignation, no doubt, for her eyes flashed sternly at him. Very
unwillingly, Everard had no choice but to obey the command.
'Will you have the kindness to tell me,' he said more gravely,
'whether my cousin was suffering only from that cause?'
'I can't say,' she added after a pause. 'I haven't spoken with Miss
Barfoot for two or three days.'
He looked at her with genuine astonishment.
'You haven't seen each other?'
'Miss Barfoot is angry with me. I think we shall be obliged to
part.'
'To part? What can possibly have happened? Miss Barfoot angry with
_you_?'
'If I _must_ satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Barfoot, I had better tell
you at once that the subject of our difference is the girl you
mentioned. Not very long ago she tried to persuade your cousin to
receive her again--to give her lessons at the place in Great
Portland Street, as before she disgraced herself. Miss Barfoot, with
too ready good-nature, was willing to do this, but I resisted. It
seemed to me that it would be a very weak and wrong thing to do. At
the time she ended by agreeing with me. Now that the girl has killed
herself, she throws the blame upon my interference. We had a painful
conversation, and I don't think we can continue to live together.'
Barfoot listened with gratification. It was much to have compelled
Rhoda to explain herself, and on such a subject.
'Nor even to work together?' he asked.
'It is doubtful.'
Rhoda still moved forward, but very slowly, and without impatience.
'You will somehow get over this difficulty, I am sure. Such friends
as you and Mary don't quarrel like ordinary unreasonable women.
Won't you let me be of use?'
'How?' asked Rhoda with surprise.
'I shall make my cousin see that she is wrong.'
'How do you know that she is wrong?'
'Because I am convinced that _you_ must be right. I respect Mary's
judgment, but I respect yours still more.'
Rhoda raised her head and smiled.
'That compliment,' she said, 'pleases me less than the one you have
uttered without intending it.'
'You must explain.'
'You said that by making Miss Barfoot see she was wrong you could
alter her mind towards me. The world's opinion would hardly support
you in that, even in the case of men.'
Everard laughed.
'Now this is better. Now we are talking in the old way. Surely you
know that the world's opinion has no validity for me.'
She kept silence.
'But, after all, _is_ Mary wrong? I'm not afraid to ask the question
now that your face has cleared a little. How angry you were with me!
But surely I didn't deserve it. You would have been much more
forbearing if you had known what delight I felt when I saw you
sitting over there. It is nearly a month since we met, and I
couldn't keep away any longer.'
Rhoda swept the distance with indifferent eyes.
'Mary was fond of this girl?' he inquired, watching her.
'Yes, she was.'
'Then her distress, and even anger, are natural enough. We won't
discuss the girl's history; probably I know all that I need to. But
whatever her misdoing, you certainly didn't wish to drive her to
suicide.'
Rhoda deigned no reply.
'All the same,' he continued in his gentlest tone, 'it turns out
that you have practically done so. If Mary had taken the girl back
that despair would most likely never have come upon her. Isn't it
natural that Mary should repent of having been guided by you, and
perhaps say rather severe things?'
'Natural, no doubt. But it is just as natural for me to resent blame
where I have done nothing blameworthy.'
'You are absolutely sure that this is the case?'
'I thought you expressed a conviction that I was in the right?'
There was no smile, but Everard believed that he detected its
possibility on the closed lips.
'I have got into the way of always thinking so--in questions of
this kind. But perhaps you tend to err on the side of severity.
Perhaps you make too little allowance for human weakness.'
'Human weakness is a plea that has been much abused, and generally
in an interested spirit.'
This was something like a personal rebuke. Whether she so meant it,
Barfoot could not determine. He hoped she did, for the more personal
their talk became the better he would be pleased.
'I, for one,' he said, 'very seldom urge that plea, whether in my
own defence or another's. But it answers to a spirit we can't
altogether dispense with. Don't you feel ever so little regret that
your severe logic prevailed?'
'Not the slightest regret.'
Everard thought this answer magnificent. He had anticipated some
evasion. However inappropriately, he was constrained to smile.
'How I admire your consistency! We others are poor halting creatures
in comparison.'
'Mr. Barfoot,' said Rhoda suddenly, 'I have had enough of this. If
your approval is sincere, I don't ask for it. If you are practising
your powers of irony, I had rather you chose some other person. I
will go my way, if you please.'
She just bent her head, and left him.
Enough for the present. Having raised his hat and turned on his
heels, Barfoot strolled away in a mood of peculiar satisfaction. He
laughed to himself. She was certainly a fine creature--yes,
physically as well. Her out-of-door appearance on the whole pleased
him; she could dress very plainly without disguising the advantages
of figure she possessed. He pictured her rambling about the hills,
and longed to be her companion on such an expedition; there would be
no consulting with feebleness, as when one sets forth to walk with
the everyday woman. What daring topics might come up in the course
of a twenty-mile stretch across country! No Grundyism in Rhoda Nunn;
no simpering, no mincing of phrases. Why, a man might do worse than
secure her for his comrade through the whole journey of life.
Suppose he pushed his joke to the very point of asking her to marry
him? Undoubtedly she would refuse; but how enjoyable to watch the
proud vigour of her freedom asserting itself! Yet would not an offer
of marriage be too commonplace? Rather propose to her to share his
life in a free union, without sanction of forms which neither for
her nor him were sanction at all. Was it too bold a thought?
Not if he really meant it. Uttered insincerely, such words would be
insult; she would see through his pretence of earnestness, and then
farewell to her for ever. But if his intellectual sympathy became
tinged with passion--and did he discern no possibility of that? An
odd thing were he to fall in love with Rhoda Nunn. Hitherto his
ideal had been a widely different type of woman; he had demanded
rare beauty of face, and the charm of a refined voluptuousness. To
be sure, it was but an ideal; no woman that approached it had ever
come within his sphere. The dream exercised less power over him than
a few years ago; perhaps because his youth was behind him. Rhoda
might well represent the desire of a mature man, strengthened by
modern culture and with his senses fairly subordinate to reason.
Heaven forbid that he should ever tie himself to the tame domestic
female; and just as little could he seek for a mate among the women
of society, the creatures all surface, with empty pates and vitiated
blood. No marriage for him, in the common understanding of the word.
He wanted neither offspring nor a 'home'. Rhoda Nunn, if she thought
of such things at all, probably desired a union which would permit
her to remain an intellectual being; the kitchen, the cradle, and
the work-basket had no power over her imagination. As likely as not,
however, she was perfectly content with single life--even regarded
it as essential to her purposes. In her face he read chastity; her
eye avoided no scrutiny; her palm was cold.
One does not break the heart of such a woman. Heartbreak is a very
old-fashioned disorder, associated with poverty of brain. If Rhoda
were what he thought her, she enjoyed this opportunity of studying a
modern male, and cared not how far he proceeded in his own
investigations, sure that at any moment she could bid him fall back.
The amusement was only just beginning. And if for him it became
earnest, why what did he seek but strong experiences?
Rhoda, in the meantime, had gone home. She shut herself in her
bedroom, and remained there until the bell rang for dinner.
Miss Barfoot entered the dining-room just before her; they sat down
in silence, and through the meal exchanged but a few sentences,
relative to a topic of the hour which interested neither of them.
The elder woman had a very unhappy countenance; she looked worn out;
her eyes never lifted themselves from the table.
Dinner over, Miss Barfoot went to the drawing-room alone. She had
sat there about half an hour, brooding, unoccupied, when Rhoda came
in and stood before her.
'I have been thinking it over. It isn't right for me to remain here.
Such an arrangement was only possible whilst we were on terms of
perfect understanding.'
'You must do what you think best, Rhoda,' the other replied gravely,
but with no accent of displeasure.
'Yes, I had better take a lodging somewhere. What I wish to know is,
whether you can still employ me with any satisfaction?'
'I don't employ you. That is not the word to describe your relations
with me. If we must use business language, you are simply my
partner.'
'Only your kindness put me into that position. When you no longer
regard me as a friend, I am only in your employment.'
'I haven't ceased to regard you as a friend. The estrangement
between us is entirely of your making.'
Seeing that Rhoda would not sit down, Miss Barfoot rose and stood by
the fireplace.
'I can't bear reproaches,' said the former; 'least of all when they
are irrational and undeserved.'
'If I reproached you, it was in a tone which should never have given
you offence. One would think that I had rated you like a disobedient
servant.'
'If _that_ had been possible,' answered Rhoda, with a faint smile,
'I should never have been here. You said that you bitterly repented
having given way to me on a certain occasion. That was unreasonable;
in giving way, you declared yourself convinced. And the reproach I
certainly didn't deserve, for I had behaved conscientiously.'
'Isn't it allowed me to disapprove of what your conscience
dictates?'
'Not when you have taken the same view, and acted upon it. I don't
lay claim to many virtues, and I haven't that of meekness. I could
never endure anger; my nature resents it.'
'I did wrong to speak angrily, but indeed I hardly knew what I was
saying. I had suffered a terrible shock. I loved that poor girl; I
loved her all the more for what I had seen of her since she came to
implore my help. Your utter coldness--it seemed to me inhuman--I
shrank from you. If your face had shown ever so little compassion--'
'I _felt_ no compassion.'
'No. You have hardened your heart with theory. Guard yourself,
Rhoda! To work for women one must keep one's womanhood. You are
becoming--you are wandering as far from the true way--oh, much
further than Bell a did!'
'I can't answer you. When we argued about our differences in a
friendly spirit, all was permissible; now if I spoke my thought it
would be mere harshness and cause of embitterment. I fear all is at
an end between us. I should perpetually remind you of this sorrow.'
There was a silence of some length. Rhoda turned away, and stood in
reflection.
'Let us do nothing hastily,' said Miss Barfoot. 'We have more to
think of than our own feelings.'
'I have said that I am quite willing to go on with my work, but it
must be on a different footing. The relation between us can no
longer be that of equals. I am content to follow your directions.
But your dislike of me will make this impossible.'
'Dislike? You misunderstand me wretchedly. I think rather it is you
who dislike me, as a weak woman with no command of her emotions.'
Again they ceased from speech. Presently Miss Barfoot stepped
forward.
'Rhoda, I shall be away all to-morrow; I may not return to London
until Monday morning. Will you think quietly over it all? Believe
me, I am not angry with you, and as for disliking you--what
nonsense are we talking! But I can't regret that I let you see how
painfully your behaviour impressed me. That hardness is not natural
to you. You have encouraged yourself in it, and you are warping a
very noble character.'
'I wish only to be honest. Where you felt compassion I felt
indignation.'
'Yes; we have gone through all that. The indignation was a forced,
exaggerated sentiment. You can't see it in that light perhaps. But
try to imagine for a moment that Bella had been your sister--'
'That is confusing the point at issue,' Rhoda exclaimed irritably.
'Have I ever denied the force of such feelings? My grief would have
blinded me to all larger considerations, of course. But she was
happily _not_ my sister, and I remained free to speak the simple
truth about her case. It isn't personal feeling that directs a great
movement in civilization. If you were right, I also was right. You
should have recognized the inevitable discord of our Opinions at
that moment.'
'It didn't seem to me inevitable.'
'I should have despised myself if I could have affected sympathy.'
'Affected--yes.'
'Or have really felt it. That would have meant that I did not know
myself. I should never again have dared to speak on any grave
subject.'
Miss Barfoot smiled sadly.
'How young you are! Oh, there is far more than ten years between our
ages, Rhoda! In spirit you are a young girl, and I an old woman. No,
no; we _will not_ quarrel. Your companionship is far too precious to
me, and I dare to think that mine is not without value for you. Wait
till my grief has had its course; then I shall be more reasonable
and do you more justice.'
Rhoda turned towards the door, lingered, but without looking back,
and so left the room.
Miss Barfoot was absent as she had announced, returning only in time
for her duties in Great Portland Street on Monday morning. She and
Rhoda then shook hands, but without a word of personal reference.
They went through the day's work as usual.
This was the day of the month on which Miss Barfoot would deliver
her four o'clock address. The subject had been announced a week ago:
'Woman as an Invader.' An hour earlier than usual work was put
aside, and seats were rapidly arranged for the small audience; it
numbered only thirteen--the girls already on the premises and a
few who came specially. All were aware of the tragedy in which Miss
Barfoot had recently been concerned; her air of sadness, so great a
contrast to that with which she was wont to address them, they
naturally attributed to this cause.
As always, she began in the simplest conversational tone. Not long
since she had received an anonymous letter, written by some clerk
out of employment, abusing her roundly for her encouragement of
female competition in the clerkly world. The taste of this epistle
was as bad as its grammar, but they should hear it; she read it all
through. Now, whoever the writer might be, it seemed pretty clear
that he was not the kind of person with whom one could profitably
argue; no use in replying to him, even had he given the opportunity.
For all that, his uncivil attack had a meaning, and there were
plenty of people ready to urge his argument in more respectable
terms. 'They will tell you that, in entering the commercial world,
you not only unsex yourselves, but do a grievous wrong to the
numberless men struggling hard for bare sustenance. You reduce
salaries, you press into an already overcrowded field, you injure
even your own sex by making it impossible for men to marry, who, if
they earned enough, would be supporting a wife.' To-day, continued
Miss Barfoot, it was not her purpose to debate the economic aspects
of the question. She would consider it from another point of view,
repeating, perhaps, much that she had already said to them on other
occasions, but doing so because these thoughts had just now very
strong possession of her mind.
This abusive correspondent, who declared that he was supplanted by a
young woman who did his work for smaller payment, doubtless had a
grievance. But, in the miserable disorder of our social state, one
grievance had to be weighed against another, and Miss Barfoot held
that there was much more to be urged on behalf of women who invaded
what had been exclusively the men's sphere. than on behalf of the
men who began to complain of this invasion.
'They point to half a dozen occupations which are deemed strictly
suitable for women. Why don't we confine ourselves to this ground?
Why don't I encourage girls to become governesses, hospital nurses,
and so on? You think I ought to reply that already there are too
many applicants for such places. It would be true, but I don't care
to make use of the argument, which at once involves us in a debate
with the out-crowded clerk. No; to put the truth in a few words, I
am not chiefly anxious that you should _earn money_, but that women
in general shall become _rational and responsible human beings_.
'Follow me carefully. A governess, a nurse, may be the most
admirable of women. I will dissuade no one from following those
careers who is distinctly fitted for them. But these are only a few
out of the vast number of girls who must, if they are not to be
despicable persons, somehow find serious work. Because I myself have
had an education in clerkship, and have most capacity for such
employment, I look about for girls of like mind, and do my best to
prepare them for work in offices. And (here I must become emphatic
once more) I am _glad_ to have entered on this course. I am _glad_
that I can show girls the way to a career which my opponents call
unwomanly.
'Now see why. Womanly and womanish are two very different words; but
the latter, as the world uses it, has become practically synonymous
with the former. A womanly occupation means, practically, an
occupation that a man disdains. And here is the root of the matter.
I repeat that I am not first of all anxious to keep you supplied
with daily bread. I am a troublesome, aggressive, revolutionary
person. I want to do away with that common confusion of the words
womanly and womanish, and I see very clearly that this can only be
effected by an armed movement, an invasion by women of the spheres
which men have always forbidden us to enter. I am strenuously
opposed to that view of us set forth in such charming language by
Mr. Ruskin--for it tells on the side of those men who think and
speak of us in a way the reverse of charming. Were we living in an
ideal world, I think women would not go to sit all day in offices.
But the fact is that we live in a world as far from ideal as can be
conceived. We live in a time of warfare, of revolt. If woman is no
longer to be womanish, but a human being of powers and
responsibilities. she must become militant, defiant. She must push
her claims to the extremity.
'An excellent governess, a perfect hospital nurse, do work which is
invaluable; but for our cause of emancipation they are no good--
nay, they are harmful. Men point to them, and say, Imitate these,
keep to your proper world. Our proper world is the world of
intelligence, of honest effort, of moral strength. The old types of
womanly perfection are no longer helpful to us. Like the Church
service, which to all but one person in a thousand has become
meaningless gabble by dint of repetition, these types have lost
their effect. They are no longer educational. We have to ask
ourselves, What course of training will wake women up, make them
conscious of their souls, startle them into healthy activity?
'It must be something new, something free from the reproach of
womanliness. I don't care whether we crowd out the men or not. I
don't care _what_ results, if only women are made strong and
self-reliant and nobly independent! The world must look to its
concerns. Most likely we shall have a revolution in the social order
greater than any that yet seems possible. Let it come, and let us
help its coming. When I think of the contemptible wretchedness of
women enslaved by custom, by their weakness, by their desires, I am
ready to cry, Let the world perish in tumult rather than things go
on in this way!'
For a moment her voice failed. There were tears in her eyes. The
hearers, most of them, understood what made her so passionate; they
exchanged grave looks.
'Our abusive correspondent shall do as best he can. He suffers for
the folly of men in all ages. We can't help it. It is very far from
our wish to cause hardship to any one, but we ourselves are escaping
from a hardship that has become intolerable. We are educating
ourselves. There must be a new type of woman, active in every sphere
of life: a new worker out in the world, a new ruler of the home. Of
the old ideal virtues we can retain many, but we have to add to them
those which have been thought appropriate only in men. Let a woman
be gentle, but at the same time let her be strong; let her be pure
of heart, but none the less wise and instructed. Because we have to
set an example to the sleepy of our sex, we must carry on an active
warfare--must be invaders. Whether woman is the equal of man I
neither know nor care. We are not his equal in size, in weight, in
muscle, and, for all I can say, we may have less power of brain.
That has nothing to do with it. Enough for us to know that our
natural growth has been stunted. The mass of women have always been
paltry creatures, and their paltriness has proved a curse to men.
So, if you like to put it in this way, we are working for the
advantage of men as well as for our own. Let the responsibility for
disorder rest on those who have made us despise our old selves. At
any cost--at any cost--we will free ourselves from the heritage
of weakness and contempt!'
The assembly was longer than usual in dispersing. When all were
gone, Miss Barfoot listened for a footstep in the other room. As she
could detect no sound, she went to see if Rhoda was there or not.
Yes; Rhoda was sitting in a thoughtful attitude. She looked up,
smiled, and came a few paces forward.
'It was very good.'
'I thought it would please you.'
Miss Barfoot drew nearer, and added,--
'It was addressed to you. It seemed to me that you had forgotten how
I really thought about these things.'
'I have been ill-tempered,' Rhoda replied. 'Obstinacy is one of my
faults.'
'It is.'
Their eyes met.
'I believe,' continued Rhoda, 'that I ought to ask your pardon.
Right or wrong, I behaved in an unmannerly way.'
'Yes, I think you did.'
Rhoda smiled, bending her head to the rebuke.
'And there's the last of it,' added Miss Barfoot. 'Let us kiss and
be friends.'
CHAPTER XIV
MOTIVES MEETING
When Barfoot made his next evening call Rhoda did not appear. He sat
for some time in pleasant talk with his cousin, no reference
whatever being made to Miss Nunn; then at length, beginning to fear
that he would not see her, he inquired after her health. Miss Nunn
was very well, answered the hostess, smiling.
'Not at home this evening?'
'Busy with some kind of study, I think.'
Plainly, the difference between these women had come to a happy end,
as Barfoot foresaw that it would. He thought it better to make no
mention of his meeting with Rhoda in the gardens.
'That was a very unpleasant affair that I saw your name connected
with last week,' he said presently.
'It made me very miserable--ill indeed for a day or two.'
'That was why you couldn't see me?'
'Yes.'
'But in your reply to my note you made no mention of the
circumstances.'
Miss Barfoot kept silence; frowning slightly, she looked at the fire
near which they were both sitting, for the weather had become very
cold.
'No doubt,' pursued Everard, glancing at her, 'you refrained out of
delicacy--on my account, I mean.'
'Need we talk of it?'
'For a moment, please. You are very friendly with me nowadays, but I
suppose your estimate of my character remains very much the same as
years ago?'
'What is the use of such questions?'
'I ask for a distinct purpose. You can't regard me with any
respect?'
'To tell you the truth, Everard, I know nothing about you. I have no
wish to revive disagreeable memories, and I think it quite possible
that you may be worthy of respect.'
'So far so good. Now, in justice, please answer me another question.
How have you spoken of me to Miss Nunn?'
'How can it matter?'
'It matters a good deal. Have you told her any scandal about me?'
'Yes, I have.'
Everard looked at her with surprise.
'I spoke to Miss Nunn about you,' she continued, 'before I thought
of your coming here. Frankly, I used you as an illustration of the
evils I abominate.'
'You are a courageous and plain-spoken woman, cousin Mary,' said
Everard, laughing a little. 'Couldn't you have found some other
example?'
There was no reply.
'So,' he proceeded, 'Miss Nunn regards me as a proved scoundrel?'
'I never told her the story. I made known the general grounds of my
dissatisfaction with you, that was all.'
'Come, that's something. I'm glad you didn't amuse her with that
unedifying bit of fiction.'
'Fiction?'
'Yes, fiction,' said Everard bluntly. 'I am not going into details;
the thing's over and done with, and I chose my course at the time.
But it's as well to let you know that my behaviour was grossly
misrepresented. In using me to point a moral you were grievously
astray. I shall say no more. Ii you can believe me, do; if you
can't, dismiss the matter from your mind.'
There followed a silence of some moments. Then, with a perfectly
calm manner, Miss Barfoot began to speak of a new subject. Everard
followed her lead. He did not stay much longer, and on leaving asked
to be remembered to Miss Nunn.
A week later he again found his cousin alone. He now felt sure that
Miss Nunn was keeping out of his way. Her parting from him in the
gardens had been decidedly abrupt, and possibly it signified more
serious offence than at the time he attributed to her. It was so
difficult to be sure of anything in regard to Miss Nunn. If another
woman had acted thus he would have judged it coquetry. But perhaps
Rhoda was quite incapable of anything of that kind. Perhaps she took
herself so very seriously that the mere suspicion of banter in his
talk had moved her to grave resentment. Or again, she might be half
ashamed to meet him after confessing her disagreement with Miss
Barfoot; on recovery from ill-temper (unmistakable ill-temper it
was), she had seen her behaviour in an embarrassing light. Between
these various conjectures he wavered whilst talking with Mary. But
he did not so much as mention Miss Nunn's name.
Some ten days went by, and he paid a call at the hour sanctioned by
society, five in the afternoon; it being Saturday. One of his
reasons for coming at this time was the hope that he might meet
other callers, for he felt curious to see what sort of people
visited the house. And this wish was gratified. On entering the
drawing-room, whither he was led by the servant straightway, after
the manner of the world, he found not only his cousin and her
friend, but two strangers, ladies. A glance informed him that both
of these were young and good-looking, one being a type that
particularly pleased him--dark, pale, with very bright eyes.
Miss Barfoot received him as any hostess would have done. She was
her cheerful self once more, and in a moment introduced him to the
lady with whom she had been talking--the dark one, by name Mrs.
Widdowson. Rhoda Nunn, sitting apart with the second lady, gave him
her hand, but at once resumed her conversation.
With Mrs. Widdowson he was soon chatting in his easy and graceful
way, Miss Barfoot putting in a word now and then. He saw that she
had not long been married; a pleasant diffidence and the maidenly
glance of her bright eyes indicated this. She was dressed very
prettily, and seemed aware of it.
'We went to hear the new opera at the Savoy last night,' she said to
Miss Barfoot, with a smile of remembered enjoyment.
'Did you? Miss Nunn and I were there.'
Everard gazed at his cousin with humorous incredulity.
'Is it possible?' he exclaimed. 'You were at the Savoy?'
'Where is the impossibility? Why shouldn't Miss Nunn and I go to the
theatre?'
'I appeal to Mrs. Widdowson. She also was astonished.'
'Yes, indeed I was, Miss Barfoot!' exclaimed the younger lady, with
a merry little laugh. 'I hesitated before speaking of such a
frivolous entertainment.'
Lowering her voice, and casting a smile in Rhoda's direction, Miss
Barfoot replied,--
'I have to make a concession occasionally on Miss Nunn's account. It
would be unkind never to allow her a little recreation.'
The two at a distance were talking earnestly, with grave
countenances. In a few moments they rose, and the visitor came
towards Miss Barfoot to take her leave. Thereupon Everard crossed to
Miss Nunn.
'Is there anything very good in the new Gilbert and Sullivan opera?'
he asked.
'Many good things. You really haven't been yet?'
'No--I'm ashamed to say.'
'Do go this evening, if you can get a seat. Which part of the
theatre do you prefer?'
His eye rested on her, but he could detect no irony.
'I'm a poor man, you know. I have to be content with the cheap
places. Which do you like best, the Savoy operas or the burlesques
at the Gaiety?'
A few more such questions and answers, of laboured commonplace or
strained flippancy, and Everard, after searching his companion's
face, broke off with a laugh.
'There now,' he said, 'we have talked in the approved five o'clock
way. Precisely the dialogue I heard in a drawing-room yesterday. It
goes on day after day, year after year, through the whole of
people's lives.'
'You are on friendly terms with such people?'
'I am on friendly terms with people of every kind.' He added, in an
undertone, 'I hope I may include you, Miss Nunn?'
But to this she paid no attention. She was looking at Monica and
Miss Barfoot, who had just risen from their seats. They approached,
and presently Barfoot found himself alone with the familiar pair.
'Another cup of tea, Everard?' asked his cousin.
'Thank you. Who was the young lady you didn't introduce me to?'
'Miss Haven--one of our pupils.'
'Does she think of going into business?'
'She has just got a place in the publishing department of a weekly
paper.'
'But really--from the few words of her talk that fell upon my ear
I should have thought her a highly educated girl.'
'So she is,' replied Miss Barfoot. 'What is your objection?'
'Why doesn't she aim at some better position?'
Miss Barfoot and Rhoda exchanged smiles.
'But nothing could be better for her. Some day she hopes to start a
paper of her own, and to learn all the details of such business is
just what she wants. Oh, you are still very conventional, Everard.
You meant she ought to take up something graceful and pretty--
something ladylike.'
'No, no. It's all right. I thoroughly approve. And when Miss Haven
starts her paper, Miss Nunn will write for it.'
'I hope so,' assented his cousin.
'You make me feel that I am in touch with the great movements of our
time. It's delightful to know you. But come now, isn't there any way
in which I could help?'
Mary laughed.
'None whatever, I'm afraid.'
'Well,--"They also serve who only stand and wait."'
If Everard had pleased himself he would have visited the house in
Queen's Road every other day. As this might not be, he spent a good
deal of his time in other society, not caring to read much. or
otherwise occupy his solitude. Starting with one or two
acquaintances in London, people of means and position, he easily
extended his social sphere. Had he cared to marry, he might,
notwithstanding his poverty, have wooed with fair chance in a
certain wealthy family, where two daughters, the sole children,
plain but well-instructed girls, waited for the men of brains who
should appreciate them. So rare in society, these men of brains,
and, alas! so frequently deserted by their wisdom when it comes to
choosing a wife. It being his principle to reflect on every
possibility, Barfoot of course asked himself whether it would not be
reasonable to approach one or other of these young women--the Miss
Brissendens. He needed a larger income; he wanted to travel in a
more satisfactory way than during his late absence. Agnes Brissenden
struck him as a very calm and sensible girl; not at all likely to
marry any one but the man who would be a suitable companion for her,
and probably disposed to look on marriage as a permanent friendship,
which must not be endangered by feminine follies. She had no beauty,
but mental powers above the average--superior, certainly, to her
sister's.
It was worth thinking about, but in the meantime he wanted to see
much more of Rhoda Nunn. Rhoda he was beginning to class with women
who are attractive both physically and mentally. Strange how her
face had altered to his perception since the first meeting. He
smiled now when he beheld it--smiled as a man does when his senses
are pleasantly affected. He was getting to know it so well, to be
prepared for its constant changes, to watch for certain movements of
brows or lips when he had said certain things. That forcible holding
of her hand had marked a stage in progressive appreciation; since
then he felt a desire to repeat the experiment.
'Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave--'
The lines occurred to his memory, and he understood them better than
heretofore. It would delight him to enrage Rhoda, and then to detain
her by strength, to overcome her senses, to watch her long lashes
droop over the eloquent eyes. But this was something very like being
in love, and he by no means wished to be seriously in love with Miss
Nunn.
It was another three weeks before he had an opportunity of private
talk with her. Trying a Sunday afternoon, about four, he found Rhoda
alone in the drawing-room; Miss Barfoot was out of town. Rhoda's
greeting had a frank friendliness which she had not bestowed upon
him for a long time; not, indeed, since they met on her return from
Cheddar. She looked very well, readily laughed, and seemed
altogether in a coming-on disposition. Barfoot noticed that the
piano was open.
'Do you play?' he inquired. 'Strange that I should still have to ask
the question.'
'Oh, only a hymn on Sunday,' she answered off-hand.
'A hymn?'
'Why not? I like some of the old tunes very much. They remind me of
the golden age.'
'In your own life, you mean?'
She nodded.
'You have once or twice spoken of that time as if you were not quite
happy in the present.'
'Of course I am not quite happy. What woman is? I mean, what woman
above the level of a petted pussy-cat?'
Everard was leaning towards her on the head of the couch where he
sat. He gazed into her face fixedly.
'I wish it were in my power to remove some of your discontents. I
would, more gladly than I can tell you.'
'You abound in good nature, Mr. Barfoot,' she replied laughing. 'But
unfortunately you can't change the world.'
'Not the world at large. But might I not change your views of it--
in some respects?'
'Indeed I don't see how you could. I think I had rather have my own
view than any you might wish to substitute for it.'
In this humour she seemed more than ever a challenge to his manhood.
She was armed at all points. She feared nothing that he might say.
No flush of apprehension; no nervous tremor; no weak
self-consciousness. Yet he saw her as a woman, and desirable.
'My views are not ignoble,' he murmured.
'I hope not. But they are the views of a man.'
'Man and woman ought to see life with much the same eyes.'
'Ought they? Perhaps so. I am not sure. But they never will in our
time.'
'Individuals may. The man and woman who have thrown away prejudice
and superstition. You and I, for instance.'
'Oh, those words have such different meanings. In your judgment I
should seem full of idle prejudice.'
She liked this conversation; he read pleasure in her face, saw in
her eyes a glint of merry defiance. And his pulses throbbed the
quicker for it.
'You have a prejudice against _me_, for instance.'
'Pray, did you go to the Savoy?' inquired Rhoda absently.
'I have no intention of talking about the Savoy, Miss Nunn. It is
teacup time, but as yet we have the room to ourselves.'
Rhoda went and rang the bell.
'The teacups shall come at once.'
He laughed slightly, and looked at her from beneath drooping lids.
Rhoda went on with talk of trifles, until the tea was brought and
she had given a cup. Having emptied it at two draughts, he resumed
his former leaning position.
'Well, you were saying that you had a prejudice against me. Of
course my cousin Mary is accountable for that. Mary has used me
rather ill. Before ever you saw me, I represented to your mind
something very disagreeable indeed. That was too bad of my cousin.'
Rhoda, sipping her tea, had a cold, uninterested expression.
'I didn't know of this,' he proceeded, 'when we met that day in the
gardens, and when I made you so angry.
'I wasn't disposed to jest about what had happened.'
'But neither was I. You quite misunderstood me. Will you tell me how
that unpleasantness came to an end?'
'Oh yes. I admitted that I had been ill-mannered and obstinate.'
'How delightful! Obstinate? I have a great deal of that in my
character. All the active part of my life was one long fit of
obstinacy. As a lad I determined on a certain career, and I stuck to
it in spite of conscious unfitness, in spite of a great deal of
suffering, out of sheer obstinacy. I wonder whether Mary ever told
you that.'
'She mentioned something of the kind once.'
'You could hardly believe it, I dare say? I am a far more reasonable
being now. I have changed in so many respects that I hardly know my
old self when I look back on it. Above all, in my thoughts about
women. If I had married during my twenties I should have chosen, as
the average man does, some simpleton--with unpleasant results. If
I marry now, it will be a woman of character and brains. Marry in
the legal sense I never shall. My companion must be as independent
of forms as I am myself.'
Rhoda looked into her teacup for a second or two, then said with a
smile,--
'You also are a reformer?'
'In that direction.'
He had difficulty in suppressing signs of nervousness. The bold
declaration had come without forethought, and Rhoda's calm
acceptance of it delighted him.
'Questions of marriage,' she went on to say, 'don't interest me
much; but this particular reform doesn't seem very practical. It is
trying to bring about an ideal state of things whilst we are yet
struggling with elementary obstacles.'
'I don't advocate this liberty for all mankind. Only for those who
are worthy of it.'
'And what'--she laughed a little--'are the sure signs of
worthiness? I think it would be very needful to know them.'
Everard kept a grave face.
'True. But a free union presupposes equality of position. No honest
man would propose it, for instance, to a woman incapable of
understanding all it involved, or incapable of resuming her separate
life if that became desirable. I admit all the difficulties. One
must consider those of feeling, as well as the material. If my wife
should declare that she must be released, I might suffer grievously,
but being a man of some intelligence, I should admit that the
suffering couldn't be helped; the brutality of enforced marriage
doesn't seem to me an alternative worth considering. It wouldn't
seem so to any woman of the kind I mean.'
Would she have the courage to urge one grave difficulty that he left
aside? No. He fancied her about to speak, but she ended by offering
him another cup of tea.
'After all, that is _not_ your ideal?' he said.
'I haven't to do with the subject at all,' Rhoda answered, with
perhaps a trace of impatience. 'My work and thought are for the
women who do not marry--the 'odd women' I call them. They alone
interest me. One mustn't undertake too much.'
'And you resolutely class yourself with them?'
'Of course I do.'
'And therefore you have certain views of life which I should like to
change. You are doing good work, but I had rather see any other
woman in the world devote her life to it. I am selfish enough to
wish--'
The door opened, and the servant announced,--
'Mr. and Mrs. Widdowson.'
With perfect self-command Miss Nunn rose and stepped forward.
Barfoot, rising more slowly, looked with curiosity at the husband of
the pretty, black-browed woman whom he had already met. Widdowson
surprised and amused him. How had this stiff, stern fellow with the
grizzled beard won such a wife? Not that Mrs. Widdowson seemed a
remarkable person, but certainly it was an ill-assorted union.
She came and shook hands. As he spoke a few natural words, Everard
chanced to notice that the husband's eye was upon him, and with what
a look! If ever a man declared in his countenance the worst species
of jealous temper, Mr. Widdowson did so. His fixed smile became
sardonic.
Presently Barfoot and he were introduced. They had nothing to say to
each other, but Everard maintained a brief conversation just to
observe the man. Turning at length, he began to talk with Mrs.
Widdowson, and, because he was conscious of the jealous eye, assumed
an especial sprightliness, an air of familiar pleasantry, to which
the lady responded, but with a nervous hesitation.
The arrival of these people was an intense annoyance to him. Another
quarter of an hour and things would have come to an exciting pass
between Rhoda and himself; he would have heard how she received a
declaration of love. Rhoda's self-possession notwithstanding, he
believed that he was not without power over her. She liked to talk
with him, enjoyed the freedom he allowed himself in choice of
subject. Perhaps no man before had ever shown an appreciation of her
qualities as woman. But she would not yield, was in no real danger
from his love-making. Nay, the danger was to his own peace. He felt
that resistance would intensify the ardour of his wooing, and
possibly end by making him a victim of genuine passion. Well, let
her enjoy that triumph, if she were capable of winning it.
He had made up his mind to outstay the Widdowsons, who clearly would
not make a long call. But the fates were against him. Another
visitor arrived, a lady named Cosgrove, who settled herself as if
for at least an hour. Worse than that, he heard her say to Rhoda,--
'Oh, then do come and dine with us. Do, I beg!'
'I will, with pleasure,' was Miss Nunn's reply. 'Can you wait and
take me with you?'
Useless to stay longer. As soon as the Widdowsons had departed he
went up to Rhoda and silently offered his hand. She scarcely looked
at him, and did not in the least return his pressure.
Rhoda dined at Mrs. Cosgrove's, and was home again at eleven
o'clock. When the house was locked up, and the servants had gone to
bed, she sat in the library, turning over a book that she had
brought from her friend's house. It was a volume of essays, one of
which dealt with the relations between the sexes in a very modern
spirit, treating the subject as a perfectly open one, and arriving
at unorthodox conclusions. Mrs. Cosgrove had spoken of this
dissertation with lively interest. Rhoda perused it very carefully,
pausing now and then to reflect.
In this reading of her mind, Barfoot came near the truth.
No man had ever made love to her; no man, to her knowledge, had ever
been tempted to do so. In certain moods she derived satisfaction
from this thought, using it to strengthen her life's purpose; having
passed her thirtieth year, she might take it as a settled thing that
she would never be sought in marriage, and so could shut the doors
on every instinct tending to trouble her intellectual decisions. But
these instincts sometimes refused to be thus treated. As Miss
Barfoot told her, she was very young for her years, young in
physique, young in emotion. As a girl she had dreamt passionately,
and the fires of her nature, though hidden beneath aggregations of
moral and mental attainment, were not yet smothered. An hour of
lassitude filled her with despondency, none the less real because
she was ashamed of it. If only she had once been loved, like other
women--if she had listened to an offer of devotion, and rejected
it--her heart would be more securely at peace. So she thought.
Secretly she deemed it a hard thing never to have known that common
triumph of her sex. And, moreover, it took away from the merit of
her position as a leader and encourager of women living
independently. There might be some who said, or thought, that she
made a virtue of necessity.
Everard Barfoot's advances surprised her not a little. Judging him
as a man wholly without principle, she supposed at first that this
was merely his way with all women, and resented it as impertinence.
But even then she did not dislike the show of homage; what her mind
regarded with disdain, her heart was all but willing to feed upon,
after its long hunger. Barfoot interested her, and not the less
because of his evil reputation. Here was one of the men for whom
women--doubtless more than one--had sacrificed themselves; she
could not but regard him with sexual curiosity. And her interest
grew, her curiosity was more haunting, as their acquaintance became
a sort of friendship; she found that her moral disapprobation
wavered, or was altogether forgotten. Perhaps it was to compensate
for this that she went the length of outraging Miss Barfoot's
feelings on the death of Bell a Royston.
Certainly she thought with much frequency of Barfoot, and looked
forward to his coming. Never had she wished so much to see him again
as after their encounter in Chelsea Gardens, and on that account she
forced herself to hold aloof when he came. It was not love, nor the
beginning of love; she judged it something less possible to avow.
The man's presence affected her with a perturbation which she had no
difficulty in concealing at the time, though afterwards it
distressed and shamed her. She took refuge in the undeniable fact
that the quality of his mind made an impression upon her, that his
talk was sympathetic. Miss Barfoot submitted to this influence; she
confessed that her cousin's talk had always had a charm for her.
Could it be that this man reciprocated, and more than reciprocated,
her complex feeling? To-day only accident had prevented him from
making an avowal of love--unless she strangely mistook him. All
the evening she had dwelt on this thought; it grew more and more
astonishing. Was he worse than she had imagined? Under cover of
independent thought, of serious moral theories, did he conceal mere
profligacy and heartlessness? It was an extraordinary thing to have
to ask such questions in relation to herself. It made her feel as if
she had to learn herself anew, to form a fresh conception of her
personality. She the object of a man's passion!
And the thought was exultant. Even thus late, then, the satisfaction
of vanity had been granted her--nay, not of vanity alone.
He must be sincere. What motive could he possibly have for playing a
part? Might it not be true that he was a changed man in certain
respects, and that a genuine emotion at length had control of him?
If so, she had only to wait for his next speech with her in private;
she could not misjudge a lover's pleading.
The interest would only be that of comedy. She did not love Everard
Barfoot, and saw no likelihood of ever doing so; on the whole, a
subject for thankfulness. Nor could he seriously anticipate an
assent to his proposal for a free union; in declaring that legal
marriage was out of the question for him, he had removed his
love-making to the region of mere ideal sentiment. But, if he loved
her, these theories would sooner or later be swept aside; he would
plead with her to become his legal wife.
To that point she desired to bring him. Offer what he might, she
would not accept it; but the secret chagrin that was upon her would
be removed. Love would no longer be the privilege of other women. To
reject a lover in so many respects desirable, whom so many women
might envy her, would fortify her self-esteem, and enable her to go
forward in the chosen path with firmer tread.
It was one o'clock; the fire had died out and she began to shiver
with cold. But a trembling of joy at the same time went through her
limbs; again she had the sense of exultation, of triumph. She would
not dismiss him peremptorily. He should prove the quality of his
love, if love it were. Coming so late, the experience must yield her
all it had to yield of delight and contentment.
CHAPTER XV
THE JOYS OF HOME
Monica and her husband, on leaving the house in Queen's Road, walked
slowly in the eastward direction. Though night had fallen, the air
was not unpleasant; they had no object before them, and for five
minutes they occupied themselves with their thoughts. Then Widdowson
stopped.
'Shall we go home again?' he asked, just glancing at Monica, then
letting his eyes stray vaguely in the gloom.
'I should like to see Milly, but I'm afraid I can hardly take you
there to call with me.'
'Why not?'
'It's a very poor little sitting-room, you know, and she might have
some friend. Isn't there anywhere you could go, and meet me
afterwards?'
Frowning, Widdowson looked at his watch.
'Nearly six o'clock. There isn't much time.'
'Edmund, suppose you go home, and let me come back by myself? You
wouldn't mind, for once? I should like so much to have a talk with
Milly. If I got back about nine or half-past, I could have a little
supper, and that's all I should want.'
He answered abruptly,--
'Oh, but I can't have you going about alone at night.'
'Why not?' answered Monica, with a just perceptible note of
irritation. 'Are you afraid I shall be robbed or murdered?'
'Nonsense. But you mustn't be alone.'
'Didn't I always use to be alone?'
He made an angry gesture.
'I have begged you not to speak of that. Why do you say what you
know is disagreeable to me? You used to do all sorts of things that
you never ought to have been obliged to do, and it's very painful to
remember it.'
Monica, seeing that people were approaching, walked on, and neither
spoke until they had nearly reached the end of the road.
'I think we had better go home,' Widdowson at length remarked.
'If you wish it; but I really don't see why I shouldn't call on
Milly, now that we are here.'
'Why didn't you speak of it before we left home? You ought to be
more methodical, Monica. Each morning I always plan how my day is to
be spent, and it would be much better if you would do the same. Then
you wouldn't be so restless and uncertain.'
'If I go to Rutland Street,' said Monica, without heeding this
admonition, 'couldn't you leave me there for an hour?'
'What in the world am I to do?'
'I should have thought you might walk about. It's a pity you don't
know more people, Edmund. It would make things so much pleasanter
for you.'
In the end he consented to see her safely as far as Rutland Street,
occupy himself for an hour, and come back for her. They went by cab,
which was dismissed in Hampstead Road. Widdowson did not turn away
until he had ocular proof of his wife's admittance to the house
where Miss Vesper lived, and even then he walked no farther than the
neighbouring streets, returning about every ten minutes to watch the
house from a short distance, as though he feared Monica might have
some project of escape. His look was very bilious; trudging
mechanically hither and thither where fewest people were to be met,
he kept his eyes on the ground, and clumped to a dismal rhythm with
the end of his walking-stick. In the three or four months since his
marriage, he seemed to have grown older; he no longer held himself
so upright.
At the very moment agreed upon he was waiting close by the house.
Five minutes passed; twice he had looked at his watch, and he grew
excessively impatient, stamping as if it were necessary to keep
himself warm. Another five minutes, and he uttered a nervous
ejaculation. He had all but made up his mind to go and knock at the
door when Monica came forth.
'You haven't been waiting here long, I hope?' she said cheerfully.
'Ten minutes. But it doesn't matter.'
'I'm very sorry. We were talking on--'
'Yes, but one must always be punctual. I wish I could impress that
upon you. Life without punctuality is quite impossible.'
'I'm very sorry, Edmund. I will be more careful. Please don't
lecture me, dear. How shall we go home?'
'We had better take a cab to Victoria. No knowing how long we may
have to wait for a train when we get there.'
'Now don't be so grumpy. Where have you been all the time?'
'Oh, walking about. What else was I to do?'
On the drive they held no conversation. At Victoria they were
delayed about half an hour before a train started for Herne Hill;
Monica sat in a waiting-room, and her husband trudged about the
platform, still clumping rhythmically with his stick.
Their Sunday custom was to dine at one o'clock, and at six to have
tea. Widdowson hated the slightest interference with domestic
routine, and he had reluctantly indulged Monica's desire to go to
Chelsea this afternoon. Hunger was now added to his causes of
discontent.
'Let us have something to eat at once,' he said on entering the
house. 'This disorder really won't do: we must manage better
somehow.'
Without replying, Monica rang the dining-room bell, and gave orders.
Little change had been made in the interior of the house since its
master's marriage. The dressing-room adjoining the principal
bed-chamber was adapted to Monica's use, and a few ornaments were
added to the drawing-room. Unlike his deceased brother, Widdowson
had the elements of artistic taste; in furnishing his abode he took
counsel with approved decorators, and at moderate cost had made
himself a home which presented no original features, but gave no
offence to a cultivated eye. The first sight of the rooms pleased
Monica greatly. She declared that all was perfect, nothing need be
altered. In those days, if she had bidden him spend a hundred pounds
on reconstruction, the lover would have obeyed, delighted to hear
her express a wish.
Though competence had come to him only after a lifetime of narrow
means, Widdowson felt no temptation to parsimony. Secure in his
all-sufficing income, he grudged no expenditure that could bring
himself or his wife satisfaction. On the wedding-tour in Cornwall,
Devon, and Somerset--it lasted about seven weeks--Monica learnt,
among other things less agreeable, that her husband was generous
with money.
He was anxious she should dress well, though only, as Monica soon
discovered, for his own gratification. Soon after they had settled
down at home she equipped herself for the cold season, and Widdowson
cared little about the price so long as the effect of her new
costumes was pleasing to him.
'You are making a butterfly of me,' said Monica merrily, when he
expressed strong approval of a bright morning dress that had just
come home.
'A beautiful woman,' he replied, with the nervous gravity which
still possessed him when complimenting her, or saying tender things,
'a beautiful woman ought to be beautifully clad.'
At the same time he endeavoured to impress her with the gravest
sense of a married woman's obligations. His raptures, genuine
enough, were sometimes interrupted in the oddest way if Monica
chanced to utter a careless remark of which he could not strictly
approve, and such interruptions frequently became the opportunity
for a long and solemn review of the wifely status. Without much
trouble he had brought her into a daily routine which satisfied him.
During the whole of the morning she was to be absorbed in household
cares. In the afternoon he would take her to walk or drive, and the
evening he wished her to spend either in drawing-room or library,
occupied with a book. Monica soon found that his idea of wedded
happiness was that they should always be together. Most reluctantly
he consented to her going any distance alone, for whatever purpose.
Public entertainments he regarded with no great favour, but when he
saw how Monica enjoyed herself at concert or theatre, he made no
objection to indulging her at intervals of a fortnight or so; his
own fondness for music made this compliance easier. He was jealous
of her forming new acquaintances; indifferent to society himself, he
thought his wife should be satisfied with her present friends, and
could not understand why she wished to see them so often.
The girl was docile, and for a time he imagined that there would
never be conflict between his will and hers. Whilst enjoying their
holiday they naturally went everywhere together, and were scarce an
hour out of each other's presence, day or night. In quiet spots by
the seashore, when they sat in solitude, Widdowson's tongue was
loosened, and he poured forth his philosophy of life with the happy
assurance that Monica would listen passively. His devotion to her
proved itself in a thousand ways; week after week he grew, if
anything, more kind, more tender; yet in his view of their relations
he was unconsciously the most complete despot, a monument of male
autocracy. Never had it occurred to Widdowson that a wife remains an
individual, with rights and obligations independent of her wifely
condition. Everything he said presupposed his own supremacy; he took
for granted that it was his to direct, hers to be guided. A display
of energy, purpose, ambition, on Monica's part, which had no
reference to domestic pursuits, would have gravely troubled him; at
once he would have set himself to subdue, with all gentleness,
impulses so inimical to his idea of the married state. It rejoiced
him that she spoke with so little sympathy of the principles
supported by Miss Barfoot and Miss Nunn; these persons seemed to him
well-meaning, but grievously mistaken. Miss Nunn he judged
'unwomanly,' and hoped in secret that Monica would not long remain
on terms of friendship with her. Of course his wife's former
pursuits were an abomination to him; he could not bear to hear them
referred to.
'Woman's sphere is the home, Monica. Unfortunately girls are often
obliged to go out and earn their living, but this is unnatural, a
necessity which advanced civilization will altogether abolish. You
shall read John Ruskin; every word he says about women is good and
precious. If a woman can neither have a home of her own, nor find
occupation in any one else's she is deeply to be pitied; her life is
bound to be unhappy. I sincerely believe that an educated woman had
better become a domestic servant than try to imitate the life of a
man.'
Monica seemed to listen attentively, but before long she accustomed
herself to wear this look whilst in truth she was thinking her own
thoughts. And as often as not they were of a nature little suspected
by her prosing companion.
He believed himself the happiest of men. He had taken a daring step,
but fortune smiled upon him, Monica was all he had imagined in his
love-fever; knowledge of her had as yet brought to light no single
untruth, not trait of character that he could condemn. That she
returned his love he would not and could not doubt. And something
she said to him one day, early in their honeymoon, filled up the
measure of his bliss.
'What a change you have made in my life, Edmund! How much I have to
thank you for!'
That was what he had hoped to hear. He had thought it himself; had
wondered whether Monica saw her position in this light. And when the
words actually fell from her lips he glowed with joy. This, to his
mind, was the perfect relation of wife to husband. She must look up
to him as her benefactor, her providence. It would have pleased him
still better if she had not possessed a penny of her own, but
happily Monica seemed never to give a thought to the sum at her
disposal.
Surely he was the easiest of men to live with. When he first became
aware that Monica suffered an occasional discontent, it caused him
troublous surprise. As soon as he understood that she desired more
freedom of movement, he became anxious, suspicious irritable.
Nothing like a quarrel had yet taken place between them, but
Widdowson began to perceive that he must exert authority in a way he
had imagined would never be necessary. All his fears, after all,
were not groundless. Monica's undomestic life, and perhaps the
association with those Chelsea people, had left results upon her
mind. By way of mild discipline, he first of all suggested a closer
attention to the affairs of the house. Would it not be well if she
spent an hour a day in sewing or fancy work? Monica so far obeyed as
to provide herself with some plain needlework, but Widdowson,
watching with keen eye, soon remarked that her use of the needle was
only a feint. He lay awake o' nights, pondering darkly.
On the present evening he was more decidedly out of temper than ever
hitherto. He satisfied his hunger hurriedly and in silence. Then,
observing that Monica ate only a few morsels, he took offence at
this.
'I'm afraid you are not well, dear. You have had no appetite for
several days.'
'As much as usual, I think,' she replied absently.
They went into the library, commonly their resort of an evening.
Widdowson possessed several hundred volumes of English literature,
most of them the works which are supposed to be indispensible to a
well-informed man, though very few men even make a pretence of
reading them. Self-educated, Widdowson deemed it his duty to make
acquaintance with the great, the solid authors. Nor was his study of
them affectation. For the poets he had little taste; the novelists
he considered only profitable in intervals of graver reading; but
history, political economy, even metaphysics, genuinely appealed to
him. He had always two or three solid books on hand, each with its
marker; he studied them at stated hours, and always sitting at a
table, a notebook open beside him. A little work once well-known,
Todd's 'Student's Manual,' had formed his method and inspired him
with zeal.
To-night, it being Sunday, he took down a volume of Barrow's
Sermons. Though not strictly orthodox in religious faith, he
conformed to the practices of the Church of England, and since his
marriage had been more scrupulous on this point than before. He
abhorred unorthodoxy in a woman, and would not on any account have
suffered Monica to surmise that he had his doubts concerning any
article of the Christian faith. Like most men of his kind, he viewed
religion as a precious and powerful instrument for directing the
female conscience. Frequently he read aloud to his wife, but this
evening he showed no intention of doing so. Monica, however, sat
unoccupied. After glancing at her once or twice, he said
reprovingly,--
'Have you finished your Sunday book?'
'Not quite. But I don't care to read just now.'
The silence that followed was broken by Monica herself.
'Have you accepted Mrs. Luke's invitation to dinner?' she asked.
'I have declined it,' was the reply, carelessly given.
Monica bit her lip.
'But why?'
'Surely we needn't discuss that over again, Monica.'
His eyes were still on the book, and he stirred impatiently.
'But,' urged his wife, 'do you mean to break with her altogether? If
so, I think it's very unwise, Edmund. What an opinion you must have
of me, if you think I can't see people's faults! I know it's very
true, all you say about her. But she wishes to be kind to us, I'm
sure--and I like to see something of a life so different from our
own.'
Widdowson drummed on the floor with his foot. In a few moments,
ignoring Monica's remarks, he stroked his beard, and asked, with a
show of casual interest--
'How was it you knew that Mr. Barfoot?'
'I had met him before--when I went there on the Saturday.'
Widdowson's eyes fell; his brow was wrinkled.
'He's often there, then?'
'I don't know. Perhaps he is. He's Miss Barfoot's cousin, you know.'
'You haven't seen him more than once before?'
'No. Why do you ask?'
'Oh, it was only that he seemed to speak as if you were old
acquaintances.'
'That's his way, I suppose.'
Monica had already learnt that the jealousy which Widdowson so often
betrayed before their manage still lurked in his mind. Perceiving
why he put these questions, she could not look entirely unconcerned,
and the sense of his eye being upon her caused her some annoyance.
'You talked to him, didn't you?' she said, changing her position in
the deep chair.
'Oh, the kind of talk that is possible with a perfect stranger. I
suppose he is in some profession?'
'I really don't know. Why, Edmund? Does he interest you?'
'Only that one likes to know something about the people that are
introduced to one's wife,' Widdowson answered rather acridly.
Their bedtime was half-past ten. Precisely at that moment Widdowson
closed his book--glad to be relieved from the pretence of reading--and
walked over the lower part of the house to see that all was
right. He had a passion for routine. Every night, before going
upstairs, he did a number of little things in unvarying sequence--
changed the calendar for next day, made perfect order on his
writing-table, wound lip his watch, and so on. That Monica could not
direct her habits with like exactitude was frequently a distress to
him; if she chanced to forget any most trivial detail of daily
custom he looked very solemn, and begged her to be more vigilant.
Next morning after breakfast, as Monica stood by the dining-room
window and looked rather cheerlessly at a leaden sky, her husband
came towards her as if he had something to say. She turned, and saw
that his face no longer wore the austere expression which had made
her miserable last night, and even during the meal this morning.
'Are we friends?' he said, with the attempt at playfulness which
always made him look particularly awkward.
'Of course we are,' Monica answered, smiling, but not regarding him.
'Didn't he behave gruffly last night to his little girl?'
'Just a little.'
'And what can the old bear do to show that he's sorry?'
'Never be gruff again.'
'The old bear is sometimes an old goose as well, and torments
himself in the silliest way. Tell him so, if ever he begins to
behave badly. Isn't it account-book morning?'
'Yes. I'll come to you at eleven.'
'And if we have a nice, quiet, comfortable week, I'll take you to
the Crystal Palace concert next Saturday.'
Monica nodded cheerfully, and went off to look after her
housekeeping.
The week was in all respects what Widdowson desired. Not a soul came
to the house; Monica went to see no one. Save on two days, it
rained, sleeted, drizzled, fogged; on those two afternoons they had
an hour's walk. Saturday brought no improvement of the atmosphere,
but Widdowson was in his happiest mood; he cheerfully kept his
promise about the concert. As they sat together at night, his
contentment overflowed in tenderness like that of the first days of
marriage.
'Now, why can't we always live like this? What have we to do with
other people? Let us be everything to each other, and forget that
any one else exists.'
'I can't help thinking that's a mistake,' Monica ventured to reply.
'For one thing, if we saw more people, we should have so much more
to talk about when we are alone.'
'It's better to talk about ourselves. I shouldn't care if I never
again saw any living creature but you. You see, the old bear loves
his little girl better than she loves him.'
Monica was silent.
'Isn't it true? You don't feel that my company would be enough for
you?'
'Would it be right if I ceased to care for every one else? There are
my sisters. I ought to have asked Virginia to come to-morrow; I'm
sure she thinks I neglect her, and it must be dreadful living all
alone like she does.'
'Haven't they made up their mind yet about the school? I'm sure it's
the right thing for them to do. If the venture were to fail, and
they lost money, we would see that they never came to want.'
'They're so timid about it. And it wouldn't be nice, you know, to
feel they were going to be dependent upon us for the rest of their
lives. I had better go and see Virgie to-morrow morning, and bring
her back for dinner.
'If you like,' Widdowson assented slowly. 'But why not send a
message, and ask her to come here?'
'I had rather go. It makes a change for me.'
This was a word Widdowson detested. Change, on Monica's lips, always
seemed to mean a release from his society. But he swallowed his
dissatisfaction, and finally consented to the arrangement.
Virginia came to dinner, and stayed until nightfall. Thanks to her
sister's kindness, she was better clad than in former days, but her
face signified no improvement of health. The enthusiasm with which
Rhoda Nunn had inspired her appeared only in fitful affectations of
interest when Monica pressed her concerning the projected
undertaking down in Somerset. In general she had a dreamy, reticent
look, and became uncomfortable when any one gazed at her
inquiringly. Her talk was of the most insignificant things; this
afternoon she spent nearly half an hour in describing a kitten which
Mrs. Conisbee had given her; care of the little animal appeared to
have absorbed her whole attention for many days past.
Another visitor to-day was Mr. Newdick, the City clerk who had been
present at Monica's wedding. He and Mrs. Luke Widdowson were the
sole friends of her husband that Monica had seen. Mr. Newdick
enjoyed coming to Herne Hill. Always lugubrious to begin with, he
gradually cheered up, and by the time for departure was loquacious.
But he had the oddest ideas of talk suitable to a drawing-room. Had
he been permitted, he would have held forth to Monica by the hour on
the history of the business firm which he had served for a quarter
of a century. This subject alone could animate him. His anecdotes
were as often as not quite unintelligible, save to people of City
experience. For all that Monica did not dislike the man; he was a
good, simple, unselfish fellow, and to her he behaved with
exaggeration of respect.
A few days later Monica had a sudden fit of illness. Her marriage,
and the long open-air holiday, had given her a much healthier
appearance than when she was at the shop; but this present disorder
resembled the attack she had suffered in Rutland Street. Widdowson
hoped that it signified a condition for which he was anxiously
waiting. That, however, did not seem to be the case. The medical man
who was called in asked questions about the patient's mode of life.
Did she take enough exercise? Had she wholesome variety of
occupation? At these inquiries Widdowson inwardly raged. He was
tormented with a suspicion that they resulted from something Monica
had said to the doctor.
She kept her bed for three or four days, and on rising could only
sit by the fireside, silent, melancholy. Widdowson indulged his
hope, though Monica herself laughed it aside, and even showed
annoyance if he return to the subject. Her temper was strangely
uncertain; some chance word in a conversation would irritate her
beyond endurance, and after an outburst of petulant displeasure she
became obstinately mute. At other times she behaved with such
exquisite docility and sweetness that Widdowson was beside himself
with rapture.
After a week of convalescence, she said one morning,--
'Couldn't we go away somewhere? I don't think I shall ever be quite
well staying here.'
'It's wretched weather,' replied her husband.
'Oh, but there are places where it wouldn't be like this. You don't
mind the expense, do you, Edmund?'
'Expense? Not I, indeed! But--were you thinking of abroad?'
She looked at him with eyes that had suddenly brightened.
'Oh! would it be possible? People do go out of England in the
winter.'
Widdowson plucked at his grizzled beard and fingered his
watch-chain. It was a temptation. Why not take her away to some
place where only foreigners and strangers would be about them? Yet
the enterprise alarmed him.
'I have never been out of England,' he said, with misgiving.
'All the more reason why we should go. I think Miss Barfoot could
advise us about it. She has been abroad, I know, and she has so many
friends.'
'I don't see any need to consult Miss Barfoot,' he replied stiffly.
'I am not such a helpless man, Monica.'
Yet a feeling of inability to grapple with such an undertaking as
this grew on him the more he thought of it. Naturally, his mind
busied itself with such vague knowledge as he had gathered of those
places in the South of France, where rich English people go to
escape their own climate: Nice, Cannes. He could not imagine himself
setting forth to these regions. Doubtless it was possible to travel
thither, and live there when one arrived, without a knowledge of
French; but he pictured all sorts of humiliating situations
resulting from his ignorance. Above everything he dreaded
humiliation in Monica's sight; it would be intolerable to have her
comparing him with men who spoke foreign languages, and were at home
on the Continent.
Nevertheless, he wrote to his friend Newdick, and invited him to
dine, solely for the purpose of talking over this question with him
in private. After dinner he broached the subject. To his surprise,
Newdick had ideas concerning Nice and Cannes and such places. He had
heard about them from the junior partner of his firm, a young
gentleman who talked largely of his experiences abroad.
'An immoral lot there,' he said, smiling and shaking his head.
'Queer goings on.'
'Oh, but that's among the foreigners, isn't it?'
Thereupon Mr. Newdick revealed his acquaintance with English
literature.
'Did you ever read any of Ouida's novels?'
'No, I never did.'
'I advise you to before you think of taking your wife over there.
She writes a great deal about those parts. People get mixed up so,
it seems. You couldn't live by yourself. You have to eat at public
tables, and you'd have all sorts of people trying to make
acquaintance with Mrs. Widdowson. They're a queer lot, I believe.'
He abandoned the thought, at once and utterly. When Monica learnt
this--he gave only vague and unsatisfactory reasons--she fell
back into her despondent mood. For a whole day she scarcely uttered
a word.
On the next day, in the dreary afternoon, they were surprised by a
call from Mrs. Luke. The widow--less than ever a widow in
externals--came in with a burst of exuberant spirits, and began to
scold the moping couple like an affectionate parent.
'When are you silly young people coming to an end of your honeymoon?
Do you sit here day after day and call each other pretty names?
Really it's very charming in its way. I never knew such an obstinate
case.--Monica, my black-eyed beauty, change your frock, and come
with me to look up the Hodgson Bulls. They're quite too awful; I
can't face them alone; but I'm bound to keep in with them. Be off,
and let me pitch into your young man for daring to refuse my dinner.
Don't you know, sir, that my invitations are like those of Royalty--polite
commands?'
Widdowson kept silence, waiting to see what his wife would do. He
could not with decency object to her accompanying Mrs. Luke, yet
hated the thought of such a step. A grim smile on his face, he sat
stiffly, staring at the wall. To his inexpressible delight, Monica,
after a short hesitation, excused herself; she was not well; she did
not feel able--
'Oh!' laughed the visitor. 'I see, I see! Do just as you like, of
course. But if Edmund has any _nous_'--this phrase she had learnt
from a young gentleman, late of Oxford, now of Tattersall's and
elsewhere--'he won't let you sit here in the dumps. You _are_ in
the dumps, I can see.'
The vivacious lady did not stay long. When she had rustled forth
again to her carriage, Widdowson broke into a paean of amorous
gratitude. What could he do to show how he appreciated Monica's
self-denial on his behalf? For a day or two he was absent rather
mysteriously, and in the meantime made up his mind, after
consultation with Newdick, to take his wife for a holiday in
Guernsey.
Monica, when she heard of this project, was at first moderately
grateful, but in a day or two showed by reviving strength and
spirits that she looked forward eagerly to the departure. Her
husband advertised for lodgings in St. Peter Port; he would not face
the disagreeable chances of a hotel. In a fortnight's time all their
preparations were made. During their absence, which might extend
over a month, Virginia was to live at Herne Hill, in supervision of
the two servants.
On the last Sunday Monica went to see her friends in Queen's Road.
Widdowson was ashamed to offer an objection; he much disliked her
going there alone, but disliked equally the thought of accompanying
her, for at Miss Barfoot's he could not pretend to sit, stand, or
converse with ease.
It happened that Mrs. Cosgrove was again calling. On the first
occasion of meeting with Monica this lady paid her no particular
attention; to-day she addressed her in a friendly manner, and their
conversation led to the discovery that both of them were about to
spend the ensuing month in the same place. Mrs. Cosgrove hoped they
might occasionally see each other.
Of this coincidence Monica thought better to say nothing on her
return home. She could not be sure that her husband might not, at
the last moment, decide to stay at Herne Hill rather than incur the
risk of her meeting an acquaintance in Guernsey. On this point he
could not be trusted to exercise common sense. For the first time
Monica had a secret she desired to keep from him, and the necessity
was one which could not but have an unfavourable effect on her
manner of regarding Widdowson. They were to start on Monday evening.
Through the day her mind was divided between joy in the thought of
seeing a new part of the world and a sense of weary dislike for her
home. She had not understood until now how terrible would be the
prospect of living here for a long time with no companionship but
her husband's. On the return that prospect would lie before her. But
no; their way of life must somehow be modified; on that she was
resolved.
CHAPTER XVI
HEALTH FROM THE SEA
From Herne Hill to St. Peter Port was a change which made of Monica
a new creature. The weather could not have been more propitious; day
after day of still air and magnificent sky, with temperature which
made a brisk walk at any hour thoroughly enjoyable, yet allowed one
to sit at ease in the midday sunshine. Their lodgings were in the
best part of the town, high up, looking forth over blue sea to the
cliffs of Sark. Widdowson congratulated himself on having taken this
step; it was like a revival of his honeymoon; never since their
settling down at home had Monica been so grateful, so affectionate.
Why, his wife was what he had thought her from the first, perfect in
every wifely attribute. How lovely she looked as she sat down to the
breakfast-table, after breathing sea air at the open windows, in her
charming dress, her black hair arranged in some new fashion just to
please him! Or when she walked with him about the quays, obviously
admired by men who passed them. Or when she seated herself in the
open carriage for a drive which would warm her cheeks and make her
lips redder and sweeter.
'Edmund,' she said to him one evening, as they talked by the
fireside, 'don't you think you take life rather too gravely?'
He laughed.
'Gravely? Don't I seem to enjoy myself?'
'Oh yes; just now. But--still in a rather serious way. One would
think you always had cares on your mind, and were struggling to get
rid of them.'
'I haven't a care in the world. I am the most blessed of mortals.'
'So you ought to think yourself. But when we get back again, how
will it be? You won't be angry with me? I really don't think I can
live again as we were doing.'
'Not live as--'
His brow darkened; he looked at her in astonishment.
'We ought to have more enjoyment,' she pursued courageously. 'Think
of the numbers of people who live a dull, monotonous life just
because they can't help it. How they would envy us, with so much
money to spend, free to do just what we like! Doesn't it seem a pity
to sit there day after day alone--'
'Don't, my darling!' he implored. 'Don't! That makes me think you
don't really love me.
'Nonsense! I want you to see what I mean. I am not one of the silly
people who care for nothing but amusement, but I do think we might
enjoy our lives more when we are in London. We shan't live for ever,
you know. Is it right to spend day after day sitting there in the
house--'
'But come, come; we have our occupations. Surely it ought to be a
pleasure to you to see that the house is kept in order. There are
duties--'
'Yes, I know. But these duties I could perform in an hour or two.'
'Not thoroughly.'
'Quite thoroughly enough.'
'In my Opinion, Monica, a woman ought never to be so happy as when
she is looking after her home.'
It was the old pedantic tone. His figure, in sympathy with it,
abandoned an easy attitude and became awkward. But Monica would not
allow herself to be alarmed. During the past week she had conducted
herself so as to smooth the way for this very discussion.
Unsuspecting husband!
'I wish to do my duty,' she said in a firm tone, 'but I don't think
it's right to make dull work for oneself, when one might be living.
I don't think it _is_ living to go on week after week like that. If
we were poor, and I had a lot of children to look after as well as
all the housework to do, I believe I shouldn't grumble--at least,
I hope I shouldn't. I should know that I ought to do what there was
no one else to do, and make the best of it. But
'Make the best of it!' he interrupted indignantly. 'What an
expression to use! It would not only be your duty, dear, but your
privilege!'
'Wait a moment, Edmund. If you were a shopman earning fifteen
shillings a week, and working from early morning to late at night,
should you think it not Only your duty but your privilege?'
He made a wrathful gesture.
'What comparison is there? I should be earning a hard livelihood by
slaving for other people. But a married woman who works in her own
home, for her husband's children--'
'Work is work, and when a woman is overburdened with it she must
find it difficult not to weary of home and husband and children all
together. But of course I don't mean to say that my work is too
hard. All I mean is, that I don't see why any one should _make_
work, and why life shouldn't be as full of enjoyment as possible.'
'Monica, you have got these ideas from those people at Chelsea. That
is exactly why I don't care for you to see much of them. I utterly
disapprove of--'
'But you are mistaken. Miss Barfoot and Miss Nunn are all for work.
They take life as seriously as you do.'
'Work? What kind of work? They want to make women unwomanly, to make
them unfit for the only duties women ought to perform. You know very
well my opinions about that kind of thing.'
He was trembling with the endeavour to control himself, to speak
indulgently.
'I don't think, Edmund, there's much real difference between men and
women. That is, there wouldn't be, if women had fair treatment.'
'Not much difference? Oh, come; you are talking nonsense. There's as
much difference between their minds as between their bodies. They
are made for entirely different duties.'
Monica sighed.
'Oh, that word Duty!'
Pained unutterably, Widdowson bent forward and took her hand. He
spoke in a tone of the gravest but softest rebuke. She was giving
entertainment to thoughts that would lead her who knew whither, that
would undermine her happiness, would end by making both of them
miserable. He besought her to put all such monstrous speculations
out of her mind.
'Dear, good little wife! Do be guided by your husband. He is older
than you, darling, and has seen so much more of the world.'
'I haven't said anything dreadful, dear. My thoughts don't come from
other people; they rise naturally in my own head.'
'Now, what do you really want? You say you can't live as we were
doing. What change would you make?'
'I should like to make more friends, and to see them often. I want
to hear people talk, and know what is going on round about me. And
to read a different kind of books; books that would really amuse me,
and give me something I could think about with pleasure. Life will
be a burden to me before long if I don't have more freedom.'
'Freedom?'
'Yes, I don't think there's any harm in saying that.'
'Freedom?' He glared at her. 'I shall begin to think that you wish
you had never married me.'
'I should only wish that if I were made to feel that you shut me up
in a house and couldn't trust me to go where I chose. Suppose the
thought took you that you would go and walk about the City some
afternoon, and you wished to go alone, just to be more at ease,
should I have a right to forbid you, or grumble at you? And yet you
are very dissatisfied if I wish to go anywhere alone.'
'But here's the old confusion. I am a man; you are a woman.'
'I can't see that that makes any difference. A woman ought to go
about just as freely as a man. I don't think it's just. When I have
done my work at home I think I ought to be every bit as free as you
are--every bit as free. And I'm sure, Edmund, that love needs
freedom if it is to remain love in truth.'
He looked at her keenly.
'That's a dreadful thing for you to say. So, if I disapprove of your
becoming the kind of woman that acknowledges no law, you will cease
to love me?'
'What law do you mean?'
'Why, the natural law that points out a woman's place, and'--he
added, with shaken voice--'commands her to follow her husband's
guidance.'
'Now you are angry. We mustn't talk about it any more just now.'
She rose and poured out a glass of water. Her hand trembled as she
drank. Widdowson fell into gloomy abstraction. Later, as they lay
side by side, he wished to renew the theme, but Monica would not
talk; she declared herself too sleepy, turned her back to him, and
soon slept indeed.
That night the weather became stormy; a roaring wind swept the
Channel, and when day broke nothing could be seen but cloud and
rain. Widdowson, who had rested little, was in a heavy, taciturn
mood; Monica, on the other hand, talked gaily, seeming not to
observe her companion's irresponsiveness. She was glad of the wild
sky; now they would see another aspect of island life--the fierce
and perilous surges beating about these granite shores.
They had brought with them a few books, and Widdowson, after
breakfast, sat down by the fire to read. Monica first of all wrote a
letter to her sister; then, as it was still impossible to go out,
she took up one of the volumes that lay on a side-table in their
sitting-room, novels left by former lodgers. Her choice was
something or other with yellow back. Widdowson, watching all her
movements furtively, became aware of the pictured cover.
'I don't think you'll get much good out of that,' he remarked, after
one or two efforts to speak.
'No harm, at all events,' she replied good-humouredly.
'I'm not so sure. Why should you waste your time? Take "Guy
Mannering," if you want a novel.'
'I'll see how I like this first.'
He felt himself powerless, and suffered acutely from the thought
that Monica was in rebellion against him. He could not understand
what had brought about this sudden change. Fear of losing his wife's
love restrained him from practical despotism, yet he was very near
to uttering a definite command.
In the afternoon it no longer rained, and the wind had less
violence. They went out to look at the sea. Many people were
gathered about the harbour, whence was a fine view of the great
waves that broke into leaping foam and spray against the crags of
Sark. As they stood thus Occupied, Monica heard her name spoken in a
friendly voice--that of Mrs. Cosgrove.
'I have been expecting to see you,' said the lady. 'We arrived three
days ago.'
Widdowson, starting with surprise, turned to examine the speaker. He
saw a woman of something less than middle age, unfashionably
attired, good-looking, with an air of high spirits; only when she
offered her hand to him did he remember having met her at Miss
Barfoot's. To be graceful in a high wind is difficult for any man;
the ungainliness with which he returned Mrs. Cosgrove's greeting
could not have been surpassed, and probably would have been much the
same even had he not, of necessity, stood clutching at his felt hat.
The three talked for a few minutes. With Mrs. Cosgrove were two
persons, a younger woman and a man of about thirty--the latter a
comely and vivacious fellow, with rather long hair of the
orange-tawny hue. These looked at Monica, but Mrs. Cosgrove made no
introduction.
'Come and see me, will you?' she said, mentioning her address. 'One
can't get much in the evenings; I shall be nearly always at home
after dinner, and we have music--of a kind.'
Monica boldly accepted the invitation, said she would be glad to
come. Then Mrs. Cosgrove took leave of them, and walked landwards
with her companions.
Widdowson stood gazing at the sea. There was no misreading his
countenance. When Monica had remarked it, she pressed her lips
together, and waited for what he would say or do. He said nothing,
but presently turned his back upon the waves and began to walk on.
Neither spoke until they were in the shelter of the streets; then
Widdowson asked suddenly,--
'Who _is_ that person?'
'I only know her name, and that she goes to Miss Barfoot's.'
'It's a most extraordinary thing,' he exclaimed in high irritation.
'There's no getting out of the way of those people.'
Monica also was angry; her cheeks, reddened by the wind, grew
hotter.
'It's still more extraordinary that you should object so to them.'
'Whether or no--I _do_ object, and I had rather you didn't go to
see that woman.'
'You are unreasonable,' Monica answered sharply. 'Certainly I shall
go and see her.'
'I forbid you to do so! If you go, it will be in defiance of my
wish.'
'Then I am obliged to defy your wish. I shall certainly go.'
His face was frightfully distorted. Had they been in a lonely spot,
Monica would have felt afraid of him. She moved hurriedly away in
the direction of their lodgings, and for a few paces he followed;
then he checked himself, turned round about, took an opposite way.
With strides of rage he went along by the quay, past the hotels and
the smaller houses that follow, on to St. Sampson. The wind, again
preparing for a tempestuous night, beat and shook and at moments all
but stopped him; he set his teeth like a madman, and raged on. Past
the granite quarries at Bordeaux Harbour, then towards the wild
north extremity of the island, the sandy waste of L'Ancresse. When
darkness began to fall, no human being was in his range of sight. He
stood on one spot for nearly a quarter of an hour, watching, or
appearing to watch, the black, low-flying scud.
Their time for dining was seven. Shortly before this Widdowson
entered the house and went to the sitting-room; Monica was not
there. He found her in the bed-chamber, before the looking-glass. At
the sight of his reflected face she turned instantly.
'Monica!' He put his hands on her shoulders, whispering hoarsely,
'Monica! don't you love me?'
She looked away, not replying.
'Monica!'
And of a sudden he fell on his knees before her, clasped her about
the waist, burst into choking sobs.
'Have you no love for me? My darling! My dear, beautiful wife! Have
you begun to hate me?'
Tears came to her eyes. She implored him to rise and command
himself.
'I was so violent, so brutal with you. I spoke without thinking--'
'But _why_ should you speak like that? Why are you so unreasonable?
If you forbid me to do simple things, with not the least harm in
them, you can't expect me to take it like a child. I shall resist; I
can't help it.'
He had risen and was crushing her in his arms, his hot breath on her
neck, when he began to whisper,--
'I want to keep you all to myself. I don't like these people--they
think so differently--they put such hateful ideas into your mind--they
are not the right kind of friends for you--'
'You misunderstand them, and you don't in the least understand me.
Oh, you hurt me, Edmund!'
He released her body, and took her head between his hands.
'I had rather you were dead than that you should cease to love me!
You shall go to see her; I won't say a word against it. But, Monica,
be faithful, be faithful to me!'
'Faithful to you?' she echoed in astonishment. 'What have I said or
done to put you in such a state? Because I wish to make a few
friends as all women do--'
'It's because I have lived so much alone. I have never had more than
one or two friends, and I am absurdly jealous when you want to get
away from me and amuse yourself with strangers. I can't talk to such
people. I am not suited for society. If I hadn't met you in that
strange way, by miracle, I should never have been able to marry. If
I allow you to have these friends--'
'I don't like to hear that word. Why should you say _allow_? Do you
think of me as your servant, Edmund?'
'You know how I think of you. It is I who am your servant, your
slave.'
'Oh, I can't believe that!' She pressed her handkerchief to her
cheeks, and laughed unnaturally. 'Such words don't mean anything. It
is you who forbid and allow and command, and--'
'I will never again use such words. Only convince me that you love
me as much as ever.'
'It is so miserable to begin quarrelling--'
'Never again! Say you love me! Put your arms round my neck--press
closer to me--'
She kissed his cheek, but did not utter a word.
'You can't say that you love me?'
'I think I am always showing it. Do get ready for dinner now; it's
past seven. Oh, how foolish you have been!'
Of course their talk lasted half through the night. Monica held with
remarkable firmness to the position she had taken; a much older
woman might have envied her steadfast yet quite rational assertion
of the right to live a life of her Own apart from that imposed upon
her by the duties of wedlock. A great deal of this spirit and the
utterance it found was traceable to her association with the women
whom Widdowson so deeply suspected; prior to her sojourn in Rutland
Street she could not even have made clear to herself the demands
which she now very clearly formulated. Believing that she had learnt
nothing from them, and till of late instinctively opposing the
doctrines held by Miss Barfoot and Rhoda Nunn, Monica in truth owed
the sole bit of real education she had ever received to those few
weeks of attendance in Great Portland Street. Circumstances were now
proving how apt a pupil she had been, even against her will.
Marriage, as is always the case with women capable of development,
made for her a new heaven and a new earth; perhaps on no single
subject did she now think as on the morning of her wedding-day.
'You must either trust me completely,' she said, 'or not at all. If
you can't and won't trust me, how can I possibly love you?'
'Am I never to advise?' asked her husband, baffled, and even awed,
by this extraordinary revelation of a woman he had supposed himself
to know thoroughly.
'Oh, that's a very different thing from forbidding and commanding!'
she laughed. 'There was that novel this morning. Of course I know as
well as you do that "Guy Mannering" is better; but that doesn't say
I am not to form my opinion of other books. You mustn't be afraid to
leave me the same freedom you have yourself.'
The result of it all was that Widdowson felt his passionate love
glow with new fire. For a moment he thought himself capable of
accepting this change in their relations. The marvellous thought of
equality between man and wife, that gospel which in far-off days
will refashion the world, for an instant smote his imagination and
exalted him above his native level.
Monica paid for the energy she had put forth by a day of suffering.
Her head ached intolerably; she had feverish symptoms, and could
hardly raise herself from the bed. It passed, and she was once more
eager to go forth under the blue sky that followed the tempest.
'Will you go with me to Mrs. Cosgrove's this evening?' she asked of
her husband.
He consented, and after dinner they sought the hotel where their
acquaintance was staying. Widdowson was in extreme discomfort,
partly due to the fact that he had no dress clothes to put on; for
far from anticipating or desiring any such intercourse in Guernsey,
he had never thought of packing an evening suit. Had he known Mrs.
Cosgrave this uneasiness would have been spared him. That lady was
in revolt against far graver institutions than the swallow-tail; she
cared not a button in what garb her visitors came to her. On their
arrival, they found, to Widdowson's horror, a room full of women.
With the hostess was that younger lady they had seen on the quay,
Mrs. Cosgrove's unmarried sister; Miss Knott's health had demanded
this retreat from the London winter. The guests were four--a Mrs.
Bevis and her three daughters--all invalidish persons, the mother
somewhat lackadaisical, the girls with a look of unwilling
spinsterhood.
Monica, noteworthy among the gathering for her sweet, bright
prettiness, and the finish of her dress, soon made herself at home;
she chatted gaily with the girls--wondering indeed at her own air
of maturity, which came to her for the first time. Mrs. Cosgrove, an
easy woman of the world when circumstances required it, did her best
to get something out of Widdowson who presently thawed a little.
Then Miss Knott sat down to the piano, and played more than
tolerably well; and the youngest Miss Bevis sang a song of Schubert,
with passable voice but in very distressing German--the sole
person distressed by it being the hostess.
Meanwhile Monica had been captured by Mrs. Bevis, who discoursed to
her on a subject painfully familiar to all the old lady's friends.
'Do you know my son, Mrs. Widdowson? Oh, I thought you had perhaps
met him. You will do so this evening, I hope. He is over here on a
fortnight's holiday.'
'Do you live in Guernsey?' Monica inquired.
'_I_ practically live here, and one of my daughters is always with
me. The other two live with their brother in a flat in Bayswater. Do
you care for flats, Mrs. Widdowson?'
Monica could only say that she had no experience of that
institution.
'I do think them such a boon,' pursued Mrs. Bevis. 'They are
expensive but the advantages and comforts are so many. My son
wouldn't on any consideration give up his flat. As I was saying, he
always has two of his sisters to keep house for him. He is quite a
young man, not yet thirty, but--would you believe it?--we are
all dependent upon him! My son has supported the _whole_ of the
family for the last six or seven years, and that by his own work. It
sounds incredible, doesn't it? But for him we should be quite unable
to live. The dear girls have very delicate health; simply impossible
for them to exert themselves in any way. My son has made
extraordinary sacrifices on our account. His desire was to be a
professional musician, and every one thinks he would have become
eminent; myself, I am convinced of it--perhaps that is only
natural. But when our circumstances began to grow very doubtful, and
we really didn't know what was before us, my son consented to follow
a business career--that of wine merchant, with which his father
was connected. And he exerted himself so nobly, and gave proof of
such ability, that very soon all our fears were at an end; and now,
before he is thirty, his position is quite assured. We have no
longer a care. I live here very economically--really sweet
lodgings on the road to St. Martin's; I _do_ hope you will come and
see me. And the girls go backwards and forwards. You see we are
_all_ here at present. When my son returns to London he will take
the eldest and the youngest with him. The middle girl, dear Grace--
she is thought very clever in water-colours, and I am quite sure, if
it were necessary, she could pursue the arts in a professional
spirit.'
Mr. Bevis entered the room, and Monica recognized the sprightly
young man whom she had seen on the quay. The hostess presented him
to her new friends, and he got into talk with Widdowson. Requested
to make music for the company, he sang a gay little piece, which, to
Monica at all events, seemed one of the most delightful things she
had ever heard.
'His own composition,' whispered Miss Grace Bevis, then sitting by
Mrs. Widdowson.
That increased her delight. Foolish as Mrs. Bevis undoubtedly was,
she perchance had not praised her son beyond his merits. He looked
the best of good fellows; so kind and merry and spirited; such a
capable man, too. It struck Monica as a very hard fate that he
should have this family on his hands. What they must cost him!
Probably he could not think of marrying, just on their account.
Mr. Bevis came and took a place by her side.
'Thank you so very much,' she said, 'for that charming song. Is it
published?'
'Oh dear, no!' He laughed and shook his thick hair about. 'It's one
of two or three that I somehow struck out when I was studying in
Germany, ages ago. You play, I hope?'
Monica gave a sad negative.
'Oh, what does it matter? There are hosts of people who will always
be overjoyed to play when you ask them. It would be a capital thing
if only those children were allowed to learn an instrument who
showed genuine talent for music.'
'In that case,' said Monica, 'there certainly wouldn't be hosts of
people ready to play for me.'
'No.' His merry laugh was repeated. 'You mustn't mind when I
contradict myself; it's one of my habits. Are you here for the whole
winter?'
'Only a few weeks, unfortunately.'
'And do you dread the voyage back?'
'To tell the truth, I do. I had a very unpleasant time coming.'
'As for myself, how I ever undertake the thing I really don't know.
One of these times I shall die; there's not a shadow of doubt of
that. The girls always have to carry me ashore, one holding me by
the hair and one by the boots. Happily, I am so emancipated that my
weight doesn't distress them. I pick up flesh in a day or two, and
then my health is stupendous--as at present. You see how
marvellously _fit_ I look.'
'Yes, you look very well,' replied Monica, glancing at the fair,
comely face.
'It's deceptive. All our family have wretched constitutions. If I go
to work regularly for a couple of months without a holiday, I sink
into absolute decrepitude. An office-chair has been specially made
for me, to hold me up at the desk.--I beg your pardon for this
clowning, Mrs. Widdowson,' he suddenly added in another voice. 'The
air puts me in such spirits. What air it is! Speaking quite
seriously, my mother was saved by coming to live here. We believed
her to be dying, and now I have hopes that she will live ever so
many years longer.'
He spoke of his mother with evident affection, glancing kindly
towards her with his blue eyes.
Only once or twice had Monica ventured to exchange a glance with her
husband. It satisfied her that he managed to converse; what his mood
really was could not be determined until afterwards. When they were
about to leave she saw him, to her surprise, speaking quite
pleasantly with Mr. Bevis. A carriage was procured to convey them
home, and as soon as they had started, Monica asked her husband,
with a merry look, how he had enjoyed himself.
'There is not much harm in it,' he replied dryly.
'Harm? How like you, Edmund, to put it that way! Now confess you
will be glad to go again.'
'I shall go if you wish.'
'Unsatisfactory man! You can't bring yourself to admit that it was
pleasant to be among new people. I believe, in your heart, you think
all enjoyment is wrong. The music was nice, wasn't it?'
'I didn't think much of the girl's singing, but that fellow Bevis
wasn't bad.'
Monica examined him as he spoke, and seemed to suppress a laugh.
'No, he wasn't at all bad. I saw you talking with Mrs. Bevis. Did
she tell you anything about her wonderful son?'
'Nothing particular.'
'Oh, then I must tell you the whole story.'
And she did so, in a tone half of jest, half of serious approval.
'I don't see that he has done anything more than his duty,' remarked
Widdowson at the end. 'But he isn't a bad fellow.'
For private reasons, Monica contrasted this attitude towards Bevis
with the disfavour her husband had shown to Mr. Barfoot, and was
secretly much amused.
Two or three days after they went to spend the morning at Petit Bot
Bay, and there encountered with Bevis and his three sisters. The
result was an invitation to go back and have lunch at Mrs. Bevis's
lodgings; they accepted it, and remained with their acquaintances
till dusk. The young man's holiday was at an end; next morning he
would face the voyage which he had depicted so grotesquely.
'And alone!' he lamented to Monica. 'Only think of it. The girls are
all rather below par just now; they had better stay here for the
present.'
'And in London you will be alone too?'
'Yes. It's very sad. I must bear up under it. The worst of it is, I
am naturally subject to depression. In solitude I sink, sink. But
the subject is too painful. Don't let us darken the last hours with
such reflections.'
Widdowson retained his indulgent opinion of the facetious young wine
merchant. He even laughed now and then in recalling some phrase or
other that Bevis had used to him.
Subsequently, Monica had several long conversations with the old
lady. Impelled to gossipy frankness about all her affairs, Mrs.
Bevis allowed it to be understood that the chief reason for two of
the girls always being with their brother was the possibility thus
afforded of their 'meeting people'--that is to say, of their
having a chance of marriage. Mrs. Cosgrove and one or two other
ladies did them social service.
'They never _will_ marry!' said Monica to her husband, rather
thoughtfully than with commiseration.
'Why not? They are nice enough girls.'
'Yes, but they have no money; and'--she smiled--'people see that
they want to find husbands.'
'I don't see that the first matters; and the second is only
natural.'
Monica attempted no rejoinder, but said presently--
'Now they are just the kind of women who ought to find something to
do.'
'Something to do? Why, they attend to their mother and their
brother. What could be more proper?'
'Very proper, perhaps. But they are miserable, and always will be.'
'Then they have no _right_ to be miserable. They are doing their
duty, and that ought to keep them cheerful.'
Monica could have said many things, but she overcame the desire, and
laughed the subject aside.
CHAPTER XVII
THE TRIUMPH
Nor till mid-winter did Barfoot again see his friends the
Micklethwaites. By invitation he went to South Tottenham on New
Year's Eve, and dined with them at seven o'clock. He was the first
guest that had entered the house since their marriage.
From the very doorstep Everard became conscious of a domestic
atmosphere that told soothingly upon his nerves. The little servant
who opened to him exhibited a gentle, noiseless demeanour which was
no doubt the result of careful discipline. Micklethwaite himself,
who at once came out into the passage, gave proof of a like
influence; his hearty greeting was spoken in soft tones; a placid
happiness beamed from his face. In the sitting-room (Micklethwaite's
study, used for reception because the other had to serve as
dining-room) tempered lamplight and the glow of a hospitable fire
showed the hostess and her blind sister standing in expectation; to
Everard's eyes both of them looked far better in health than a few
months ago. Mrs. Micklethwaite was no longer so distressingly old;
an expression that resembled girlish pleasure lit up her countenance
as she stepped forward; nay, if he mistook not, there came a gentle
warmth to her cheek, and the momentary downward glance was as
graceful and modest as in a youthful bride. Never had Barfoot
approached a woman with more finished courtesy, the sincere
expression of his feeling. The blind sister he regarded in like
spirit; his voice touched its softest note as he held her hand for a
moment and replied to her pleasant words.
No undue indication of poverty disturbed him. He saw that the house
had been improved in many ways since Mrs. Micklethwaite had taken
possession of it; pictures, ornaments, pieces of furniture were
added, all in simple taste, but serving to heighten the effect of
refined comfort. Where the average woman would have displayed
pretentious emptiness, Mrs. Micklethwaite had made a home which in
its way was beautiful. The dinner, which she herself had cooked, and
which she assisted in serving, aimed at being no more than a simple;
decorous meal, but the guest unfeignedly enjoyed it; even the
vegetables and the bread seemed to him to have a daintier flavour
than at many a rich table. He could not help noticing and admiring
the skill with which Miss Wheatley ate without seeing what was
before her; had he not known her misfortune, he would hardly have
become aware of it by any peculiarity as she sat opposite to him.
The mathematician had learnt to sit upon a chair like ordinary
mortals. For the first week or two it must have cost him severe
restraint; now he betrayed no temptation to roll and jerk and twist
himself. When the ladies retired, he reached from the sideboard a
box which Barfoot viewed with uneasiness.
'Do you smoke here--in this room?'
'Oh, why not?'
Everard glanced at the pretty curtains before the windows.
'No, my boy, you do _not_ smoke here. And, in fact, I like your
claret; I won't spoil the flavour of it.'
'As you please; but I think Fanny will be distressed.'
'You shall say that I have abandoned the weed.'
Emotions were at conflict in Micklethwaite's mind, but finally he
beamed with gratitude.
'Barfoot'--he bent forward and touched his friend's arm'there are
angels walking the earth in this our day. Science hasn't abolished
them, my dear fellow, and I don't think it ever will.'
'It falls to the lot of but few men to encounter them, and of fewer
still to entertain them permanently in a cottage at South
Tottenham.'
'You are right.' Micklethwaite laughed in a new way, with scarcely
any sound; a change Everard had already noticed. 'These two sisters--but
I had better not speak about them. In my old age I have
become a worshipper, a mystic, a man of dream and vision.'
'How about worship in a parochial sense?' inquired Barfoot, smiling.
'Any difficulty of that point?'
'I conform, in moderation. Nothing would be asked of me. There is no
fanaticism, no intolerance. It would be brutal if I declined to go
to church on a Sunday morning. You see, my strictly scientific
attitude helps in avoiding offence. Fanny can't understand it, but
my lack of dogmatism vastly relieves her. I have been trying to
explain to her that the scientific mind can have nothing to do with
materialism. The new order of ideas is of course very difficult for
her to grasp; but in time, in time.'
'For heaven's sake, don't attempt conversion!'
'On no account whatever. But I _should_ like her to see what is
meant by perception and conception, by the relativity of time and
space--and a few simple things of that kind!'
Barfoot laughed heartily.
'By-the-bye,' he said, shifting to safer ground, 'my brother Tom is
in London, and in wretched health. _His_ angel is from the wrong
quarter, from the nethermost pit. I seriously believe that she has a
plan for killing her husband. You remember my mentioning in a letter
his horse-accident? He has never recovered from that, and as likely
as not never will. His wife brought him away from Madeira just when
he ought to have stopped there to get well. He settled himself at
Torquay, whilst that woman ran about to pay visits. It was
understood that she should go back to him at Torquay, but this she
at length refused to do. The place was too dull; it didn't suit her
extremely delicate health; she must live in London, her pure native
air. If Tom had taken any advice, he would have let her live just
where she pleased, thanking Heaven that she was at a distance from
him. But the poor fellow can't be away from her. He has come up, and
here I feel convinced he will die. It's a very monstrous thing, but
uncommonly like women in general who have got a man into their
power.'
Micklethwaite shook his head.
'You are too hard upon them. You have been unlucky. You know my view
of your duty.'
'I begin to think that marriage isn't impossible for me,' said
Barfoot, with a grave smile.
'Ha! Capital!'
'But as likely as not it will be marriage without forms--imply a
free union.'
The mathematician was downcast.
'I'm sorry to hear that. It won't do. We must conform. Besides, in
that case the person decidedly isn't suitable to you. You of all men
must marry a lady.'
'I should never think of any one that wasn't a lady.'
'Is emancipation getting as far as that? Do ladies enter into that
kind of union?'
'I don't know of any example. That's just why the idea tempts me.'
Barfoot would go no further in explanation.
'How about your new algebra?'
'Alas! My dear boy, the temptation is so frightful--when I get
back home. Remember that I have never known what it was to sit and
talk through the evening with ordinary friends, let alone--It's
too much for me just yet. And, you know, I don't venture to work on
Sundays. That will come; all in good time. I must grant myself half
a year of luxury after such a life as mine has been.'
'Of course you must. Let algebra wait.'
'I think it over, of course, at odd moments. Church on Sunday
morning is a good opportunity.'
Barfoot could not stay to see the old year out, but good wishes were
none the less heartily exchanged before he went. Micklethwaite
walked with him to the railway station; at a few paces' distance
from his house he stood and pointed back to it.
'That little place, Barfoot, is one of the sacred spots of the
earth. Strange to think that the house has been waiting for me there
through all the years of my hopelessness. I feel that a mysterious
light ought to shine about it. It oughtn't to look just like common
houses.'
On his way home Everard thought over what he had seen and heard,
smiling good-naturedly. Well, that was one ideal of marriage. Not
_his_ ideal; but very beautiful amid the vulgarities and vileness of
ordinary experience. It was the old fashion in its purest
presentment; the consecrated form of domestic happiness, removed
beyond reach of satire, only to be touched, if touched at all, with
the very gentlest irony.
A life by no means for him. If he tried it, even with a woman so
perfect, he would perish of _ennui_. For him marriage must not mean
repose, inevitably tending to drowsiness, but the mutual incitement
of vigorous minds. Passion--yes, there must be passion, at all
events to begin with; passion not impossible of revival in days
subsequent to its first indulgence. Beauty in the academic sense he
no longer demanded; enough that the face spoke eloquently, that the
limbs were vigorous. Let beauty perish if it cannot ally itself with
mind; be a woman what else she may, let her have brains and the
power of using them! In that demand the maturity of his manhood
expressed itself. For casual amour the odalisque could still prevail
with him; but for the life of wedlock, the durable companionship of
man and woman, intellect was his first requirement.
A woman with man's capability of understanding and reasoning; free
from superstition, religious or social; far above the ignoble
weaknesses which men have been base enough to idealize in her sex. A
woman who would scorn the vulgarism of jealousy, and yet know what
it is to love. This was asking much of nature and civilization; did
he grossly deceive himself in thinking he had found the paragon?
For thus far had he advanced in his thoughts of Rhoda Nunn. If the
phrase had any meaning, he was in love with her; yet, strange
complex of emotions, he was still only half serious in his desire to
take her for a wife, wishing rather to amuse and flatter himself by
merely inspiring her with passion. Therefore he refused to entertain
a thought of formal marriage. To obtain her consent to marriage
would mean nothing at all; it would afford him no satisfaction. But
so to play upon her emotions that the proud, intellectual, earnest
woman was willing to defy society for his sake--ah! that would be
an end worth achieving.
Ever since the dialogue in which he frankly explained his position,
and all but declared love, he had not once seen Rhoda in private.
She shunned him purposely beyond a doubt, and did not that denote a
fear of him justified by her inclination? The postponement of what
must necessarily come to pass between them began to try his
patience, as assuredly it inflamed his ardour. If no other resource
offered, he would be obliged to make his cousin an accomplice by
requesting her beforehand to leave him alone with Rhoda some evening
when he had called upon them.
But it was time that chance favoured him, and his interview with
Miss Nunn came about in a way he could not have foreseen.
At the end of the first week of January he was invited to dine at
Miss Barfoot's. The afternoon had been foggy, and when he set forth
there seemed to be some likelihood of a plague of choking darkness
such as would obstruct traffic. As usual, he went by train to Sloane
Square, purposing (for it was dry under foot, and he could not
disregard small economies) to walk the short distance from there to
Queen's Road. On coming out from the station he found the fog so
dense that it was doubtful whether he could reach his journey's end.
Cabs were not to be had; he must either explore the gloom, with risk
of getting nowhere at all, or give it up and take a train back. But
he longed too ardently for the sight of Rhoda to abandon his evening
without an effort. Having with difficulty made his way into King's
Road, he found progress easier on account of the shop illuminations;
the fog, however, was growing every moment more fearsome, and when
he had to turn out of the highway his case appeared desperate.
Literally he groped along, feeling the fronts of the houses. As
under ordinary circumstances he would have had only just time enough
to reach his cousin's punctually, he must be very late: perhaps they
would conclude that he had not ventured out on such a night, and
were already dining without him. No matter; as well go one way as
another now. After abandoning hope several times, and all but
asphyxiated, he found by inquiry of a man with whom he collided that
he was actually within a few doors of his destination. Another
effort and he rang a joyous peal at the bell.
A mistake. It was the wrong house, and he had to go two doors
farther on.
This time he procured admittance to the familiar little hall. The
servant smiled at him, but said nothing. He was led to the
drawing-room, and there found Rhoda Nunn alone. This fact did not so
much surprise him as Rhoda's appearance. For the first time since he
had known her, her dress was not uniform black; she wore a red silk
blouse with a black skirt, and so admirable was the effect of this
costume that he scarcely refrained from a delighted exclamation.
Some concern was visible in her face.
'I am sorry to say,' were her first words, 'that Miss Barfoot will
not be here in time for dinner. She went to Faversham this morning,
and ought to have been back about half-past seven. But a telegram
came some time ago. A thick fog caused her to miss the train, and
the next doesn't reach Victoria till ten minutes past ten.'
It was now half-past eight; dinner had been appointed for the hour.
Barfoot explained his lateness in arriving.
'Is it so bad as that? I didn't know.'
The situation embarrassed both of them. Barfoot suspected a hope on
Miss Nunn's part that he would relieve her of his company, but, even
had there been no external hindrance, he could not have relinquished
the happy occasion. To use frankness was best.
'Out of the question for me to leave the house,' he said, meeting
her eyes and smiling. 'You won't be hard upon a starving man?'
At once Rhoda made a pretence of having felt no hesitation.
'Oh, of course we will dine immediately.' She rang the bell. 'Miss
Barfoot took it for granted that I would represent her. Look, the
fog is penetrating even to our fireside.'
'Cheerful, very. What is Mary doing at Faversham?'
'Some one she has been corresponding with for some time begged her
to go down and give an address to a number of ladies on--a certain
subject.'
'Ah! Mary is on the way to become a celebrity.'
'Quite against her will, as you know.'
They went to dinner, and Barfoot, thoroughly enjoying the abnormal
state of things, continued to talk of his cousin.
'It seems to me that she can't logically refuse to put herself
forward. Work of her kind can't be done in a corner. It isn't a case
of "Oh teach the orphan girl to sew."'
'I have used the same argument to her,' said Rhoda.
Her place at the head of the table had its full effect upon
Everard's imagination. Why should he hold by a resolve of which he
did not absolutely approve the motive? Why not ask her simply to be
his wife, and so remove one element of difficulty from his pursuit?
True, he was wretchedly poor. Marrying on such an income, he would
at once find his freedom restricted in every direction. But then,
more likely than not, Rhoda had determined against marriage, and of
him, especially, never thought for a moment as a possible husband.
Well, that was what he wanted to ascertain.
They conversed naturally enough till the meal was over. Then their
embarrassment revived, but this time it was Rhoda who took the
initiative.
'Shall I leave you to your meditations?' she asked, moving a few
inches from the table.
'I should much prefer your society, if you will grant it me for a
little longer.'
Without speaking, she rose and led the way to the drawingroom.
There, sitting at a formal distance from each other, they talked--
of the fog. Would Miss Barfoot be able to get back at all?
'_A propos_,' said Everard, 'did you ever read "The City of Dreadful
Night"?'
'Yes, I have read it.'
'Without sympathy, of course?'
'Why "of course"? Do I seem to you a shallow optimist?'
'No. A vigorous and rational optimist--such as I myself aim at
being.'
'Do you? But optimism of that kind must be proved by some effort on
behalf of society.'
'Precisely the effort I am making. If a man works at developing and
fortifying the best things in his own character, he is surely doing
society a service.'
She smiled sceptically.
'Yes, no doubt. But how do you develop and fortify yourself?'
She was meeting him half-way, thought Everard. Foreseeing the
inevitable, she wished to have it over and done with. Or else--
'I live very quietly,' was his reply, 'thinking of grave problems
most of my time. You know I am a great deal alone.'
'Naturally.'
'No; anything but naturally.'
Rhoda said nothing. He waited a moment, then moved to a seat much
nearer hers. Her face hardened, and he saw her fingers lock
together.
'Where a man is in love, solitude seems to him the most unnatural of
conditions.'
'Please don't make me your confidante, Mr. Barfoot,' Rhoda with
well-assumed pleasantry. 'I have no taste for that kind of thing.'
'But I can't help doing so. It is you that I am in love with.'
'I am very sorry to hear it. Happily, the sentiment will not long
trouble you.'
He read in her eyes and on her lips a profound agitation. She
glanced about the room, and, before he could again speak, had risen
to ring the bell.
'You always take coffee, I think?'
Without troubling to give any assent, he moved apart and turned over
some books on the table. For full five minutes there was silence.
The coffee was brought; he tasted it and put his cup down. Seeing
that Rhoda had, as it were, entrenched herself behind the beverage,
and would continue to sip at is as long as might be necessary, he
went and stood in front of her.
'Miss Nunn, I am more serious than you will give me credit for
being. The sentiment, as you call it, has troubled me for some time,
and will last.'
Her refuge failed her. The cup she was holding began to shake a
little.
'Please let me put it aside for you.'
Rhoda allowed him to do so, and then locked her fingers.
'I am so much in love with you that I can't keep away from this
house more than a few days at a time. Of course you have known it; I
haven't tried to disguise why I came here so often. It's so seldom
that I see you alone; and now that fortune is kind to me I must
speak as best I can. I won't make myself ridiculous in your eyes--
if I can help it. You despise the love-making of ballrooms and
garden parties; so do I, most heartily. Let me speak like a man who
has few illusions to overcome. I want you for the companion of my
life; I don't see very well how I am to do without you. You know, I
think, that I have only a moderate competence; it's enough to live
upon without miseries, that's all one can say. Probably I shall
never be richer, for I can't promise to exert myself to earn money;
I wish to live for other things. You can picture the kind of life I
want you to share. You know me well enough to understand that my
wife--if we use the old word--would be as free to live in her
own way as I to live in mine. All the same, it is love that I am
asking for. Think how you may about man and woman, you know that
there is such a thing as love between them, and that the love of a
man and a woman who can think intelligently may be the best thing
life has to offer them.'
He could not see her eyes, but she was smiling in a forced way, with
her lips close set.
'As you insisted on speaking,' she said at length, 'I had no choice
but to listen. It is usual, I think--if one may trust the novels--for
a woman to return thanks when an offer of this kind has been
made to her. So--thank you very much, Mr. Barfoot.'
Everard seized a little chair that was close by, planted it beside
Rhoda's, there seated himself and took possession of one of her
hands. It was done so rapidly and vehemently that Rhoda started
back, her expression changing from sportive mockery to all but
alarm.
'I will have no such thanks,' he uttered in a low voice, much moved,
a smile making him look strangely stern. 'You shall understand what
it means when a man says that he loves you. I have come to think
your face so beautiful that I am in torment with the desire to press
my lips upon yours. Don't be afraid that I shall be brutal enough to
do it without your consent; my respect for you is stronger even than
my passion. When I first saw you, I thought you interesting because
of your evident intelligence--nothing more; indeed you were not a
woman to me. Now you are the one woman in the world; no other can
draw my eyes from you. Touch me with your fingers and I shall
tremble--that is what my love means.'
She was colourless; her lips, just parted, quivered as the breath
panted between them. She did not try to withdraw her hand.
'Can you love me in return?' Everard went on, his face still nearer.
'Am I anything like this to _you_? Have the courage you boast of.
Speak to me as one human being to another, plain, honest words.'
'I don't love you in the least. And if I did I would never share
your life.'
The voice was very unlike her familiar tones. It seemed to hurt her
to speak.
'The reason.--Because you have no faith in me?'
'I can't say whether I have or not. I know absolutely nothing of
your life. But I have my work, and no one shall ever persuade me to
abandon it.'
'Your work? How do you understand it? What is its importance to
you?'
'Oh, and you pretend to know me so well that you wish me to be your
companion at every moment!'
She laughed mockingly, and tried to draw away her hand, for it was
burnt by the heat of his. Barfoot held her firmly.
'What _is_ your work? Copying with a type-machine, and teaching
others to do the same--isn't that it?'
'The work by which I earn money, yes. But if it were no more than
that--'
'Explain, then.'
Passion was overmastering him as he watched the fine scorn in her
eyes. He raised her hand to his lips.
'No!' Rhoda exclaimed with sudden wrath. 'Your respect--oh, I
appreciate your respect!'
She wrenched herself from his grasp, and went apart. Barfoot rose,
gazing at her with admiration.
'It is better I should be at a distance from you,' he said. 'I want
to know your mind, and not to be made insensate.'
'Wouldn't it be better still if you left me?' Rhoda suggested,
mistress of herself again.
'If you really wish it.' He remembered the circumstances and spoke
submissively. 'Yet the fog gives me such a good excuse for begging
your indulgence. The chances are I should only lose myself in an
inferno.'
'Doesn't it strike you that you take an advantage of me, as you did
once before? I make no pretence of equalling you in muscular
strength, yet you try to hold me by force.'
He divined in her pleasure akin to his own, the delight of conflict.
Otherwise, she would never have spoken thus.
'Yes, it is true. Love revives the barbarian; it wouldn't mean much
if it didn't. In this one respect I suppose no man, however
civilized, would wish the woman he loves to be his equal. Marriage
by capture can't quite be done away with. You say you have not the
least love for me; if you had, should I like you to confess it
instantly? A man must plead and woo; but there are different ways. I
can't kneel before you and exclaim about my miserable unworthines--
for I am not unworthy of you. I shall never call you queen and
goddes--unless in delirium, and I think I should soon weary of the
woman who put her head under my foot. Just because I am stronger
than you, and have stronger passions, I take that advantage--try
to overcome, as I may, the womanly resistance which is one of your
charms.
'How useless, then, for us to talk. If you are determined to remind
me again and again that your strength puts me at your mercy--'
'Oh, not that! I will come no nearer to you. Sit down, and tell me
what I asked.'
Rhoda hesitated, but at length took the chair by which she was
standing.
'You are resolved never to marry?'
'I never shall,' Rhoda replied firmly.
'But suppose marriage in no way interfered with your work?'
'It would interfere hopelessly with the best part of my life. I
thought you understood this. What would become of the encouragement
I am able to offer our girls?'
'Encouragement to refuse marriage?'
'To scorn the old idea that a woman's life is wasted if she does not
marry. My work is to help those women who, by sheer necessity, must
live alone--woman whom vulgar opinion ridicules. How can I help
them so effectually as by living among them, one of them, and
showing that my life is anything but weariness and lamentation? I am
fitted for this. It gives me a sense of power and usefulness which I
enjoy. Your cousin is doing the same work admirably. If I deserted I
should despise myself.'
'Magnificent! If I could bear the thought of living without you, I
should bid you persevere and be great.'
'I need no such bidding to persevere.'
'And for that very reason, because you are capable of such things, I
love you only the more.'
There was triumph in her look, though she endeavoured to disguise
it.
'Then, for your own peace,' she said, 'I must hope that you will
avoid me. It is so easily done. We have nothing in common, Mr.
Barfoot.'
'I can't agree with that. For one thing, there are perhaps not half
a dozen women living with whom I could talk as I have talked with
you. It isn't likely that I shall ever meet one. Am I to make my
bow, and abandon in resignation the one chance of perfecting my
life?'
'You don't know me. We differ profoundly on a thousand essential
points.'
'You think so because you have a very wrong idea of me.'
Rhoda glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
'Mr. Barfoot,' she said in a changed voice, 'you will forgive me if
I remind you that it is past ten o'clock.'
He sighed and rose.
'The fog certainly cannot be so thick now. Shall I ask them to try
and get you a cab?'
'I shall walk to the station.'
'Only one more word.' She assumed a quiet dignity which he could not
disregard. 'We have spoken in this way for the last time. You will
not oblige me to take all sorts of trouble merely to avoid useless
and painful conversations?'
'I love you, and I can't abandon hope.'
'Then I _must_ take that trouble.' Her face darkened, and she stood
in expectation of his departure.
'I mustn't offer to shake hands,' said Everard, drawing a step
nearer.
'I hope you can remember that I had no choice but to be your
hostess.'
The face and tone affected him with a brief shame. Bending his head,
he approached her, and held her offered hand, without pressure, only
for an instant.
Then he left the room.
There was a little improvement in the night; he could make his way
along the pavement without actual groping, and no unpleasant
adventure checked him before he reached the station. Rhoda's face
and figure went before him. He was not downcast; for all that she
had said, this woman, soon or late, would yield herself; he had a
strange, unreasoning assurance of it. Perhaps the obstinacy of his
temper supplied him with that confident expectation. He no longer
cared on what terms he obtained her--legal marriage or free union--it
was indifferent to him. But her life should be linked with his
if fierce energy of will meant anything.
Miss Barfoot arrived at half-past eleven, after many delays on her
journey. She was pierced with cold, choked with the poisonous air,
and had derived very little satisfaction from her visit to
Faversham.
'What happened?' was her first question, as Rhoda came out into the
hall with sympathy and solicitude. 'Did the fog keep our guest
away?'
'No; he dined here.'
'It was just as well. You haven't been lonely.'
They spoke no more on the subject until Miss Barfoot recovered from
her discomfort, and was enjoying a much needed supper.
'Did he offer to go away?'
'It was really impossible. It took him more than half an hour to get
here from Sloane Square.'
'Foolish fellow! Why didn't he take a train back at once?'
There was a peculiar brightness in Rhoda's countenance, and Miss
Barfoot had observed it from the first.
'Did you quarrel much?'
'Not more than was to be expected.'
'He didn't think of staying for my return?'
'He left about ten o'clock.'
'Of course. Quite late enough, under the circumstances. It was very
unfortunate, but I don't suppose Everard cared much. He would enjoy
the opportunity of teasing you.'
A glance told her that Everard was not alone in his enjoyment of the
evening. Rhoda led the talk into other channels, but Miss Barfoot
continued to reflect on what she had perceived.
A few evenings after, when Miss Barfoot had been sitting alone for
an hour or two, Rhoda came to the library and took a place near her.
The elder woman glanced up from her book, and saw that her friend
had something special to say.
'What is it, dear?'
'I am going to tax your good-nature, to ask you about unpleasant
things.'
Miss Barfoot knew immediately what this meant. She professed
readiness to answer, but had an uneasy look.
'Will you tell me in plain terms what it was that your cousin did
when he disgraced himself?'
'Must you really know?'
'I wish to know.'
There was a pause. Miss Barfoot kept her eyes on the page open
before her.
'Then I shall take the liberty of an old friend, Rhoda. Why do you
wish to know?'
'Mr. Barfoot,' answered the other dryly, 'has been good enough to
say that he is in love with me.'
Their eyes met.
'I suspected it. I felt sure it was coming. He asked you to marry
him?'
'No, he didn't,' replied Rhoda in purposely ambiguous phrase.
'You wouldn't allow him to?'
'At all events, it didn't come to that. I should be glad if you
would let me know what I asked.'
Miss Barfoot deliberated, but finally told the story of Amy Drake.
Her hands supporting one knee, her head bent, Rhoda listened without
comment, and, to judge from her features, without any emotion of any
kind.
'That,' said her friend at the close, 'is the story as it was
understood at the time--disgraceful to him in every particular. He
knew what was said of him, and offered not a word of contradiction.
But not very long ago he asked me one evening if you had been
informed of this scandal. I told him that you knew he had done
something which I thought very base. Everard was hurt, and thereupon
he declared that neither I nor any other of his acquaintances knew
the truth--that he had been maligned. He refused to say more, and
what am I to believe?'
Rhoda was listening with livelier attention.
'He declared that he wasn't to blame?'
'I suppose he meant that. But it is difficult to see--'
'Of course the truth can never be known,' said Rhoda, with sudden
indifference. 'And it doesn't matter. Thank you for satisfying my
curiosity.'
Miss Barfoot waited a moment, then laughed.
'Some day, Rhoda, you shall satisfy mine.'
'Yes--if we live long enough.'
What degree of blame might have attached to Barfoot, Rhoda did not
care to ask herself; she thought no more of the story. Of course
there must have been other such incidents in his career; morally he
was neither better nor worse than men in general. She viewed with
contempt the women who furnished such opportunities; in her judgment
of the male offenders she was more lenient, more philosophical, than
formerly.
She had gained her wish, had enjoyed her triumph. A raising of the
finger and Everard Barfoot would marry her. Assured of that, she
felt a new contentment in life; at times when she was occupied with
things as far as possible from this experience, a rush of joy would
suddenly fill her heart, and make her cheek glow. She moved among
people with a conscious dignity quite unlike that which had only
satisfied her need of distinction. She spoke more softly, exercised
more patience, smiled where she had been wont to scoff. Miss Nunn
was altogether a more amiable person.
Yet, she convinced herself, essentially quite unchanged. She pursued
the aim of her life with less bitterness, in a larger spirit, that
was all. But pursued it, and without fear of being diverted from the
generous path.
CHAPTER XVIII
A REINFORCEMENT
Throughout January, Barfoot was endeavouring to persuade his brother
Tom to leave London, where the invalid's health perceptibly grew
worse. Doctors were urgent to the same end, but ineffectually; for
Mrs. Thomas, though she professed to be amazed at her husband's
folly in remaining where he could not hope for recovery, herself
refused to accompany him any whither. This pair had no children. The
lady always spoke of herself as a sad sufferer from mysterious
infirmities, and had, in fact, a tendency to hysteria, which
confused itself inextricably with the results of evil nurture and
the impulses of a disposition originally base; nevertheless she made
a figure in a certain sphere of vulgar wealth, and even gave
opportunity to scandalous tongues. Her husband, whatever his secret
thought, would hear nothing against her; his temper, like Everard's,
was marked with stubbornness, and after a good deal of wrangling he
forbade his brother to address him again on the subject of their
disagreement.
'Tom is dying,' wrote Everard, early in February, to his cousin in
Queen's Road. 'Dr. Swain assures me that unless he be removed he
cannot last more than a month or two. This morning I saw the
woman'--it was thus he always referred to his sister-in-law--'and
talked to her in what was probably the plainest language she ever
had the privilege of hearing. It was a tremendous scene, brought to
a close only by her flinging herself on the sofa with shrieks which
terrified the whole household. My idea is that we must carry the
poor fellow away by force. His infatuation makes me rage and curse,
but I am bent on trying to save his life. Will you come and give
your help?'
A week later they succeeded in carrying the invalid back to Torquay.
Mrs. Barfoot had abandoned him to his doctors, nurses, and angry
relatives; she declared herself driven out of the house, and went to
live at a fashionable hotel. Everard remained in Devon for more than
a month, devoting himself with affection, which the trial of his
temper seemed only to increase, to his brother's welfare. Thomas
improved a little; once more there was hope. Then on a sudden
frantic impulse, after writing fifty letters which elicited no
reply, he travelled in pursuit of his wife; and three days after his
arrival in London he was dead.
By a will, executed at Torquay, he bequeathed to Everard about a
quarter of his wealth. All the rest went to Mrs. Barfoot, who had
declared herself too ill to attend the funeral, but in a fortnight
was sufficiently recovered to visit one of her friends in the
country.
Everard could now count upon an income of not much less than fifteen
hundred a year. That his brother's death would enrich him he had
always foreseen, but no man could have exerted himself with more
ardent energy to postpone that advantage. The widow charged him,
wherever she happened to be, with deliberate fratricide; she
vilified his reputation, by word of mouth or by letter, to all who
knew him, and protested that his furious wrath at not having
profited more largely by the will put her in fear of her life. This
last remarkable statement was made in a long and violent epistle to
Miss Barfoot, which the recipient showed to her cousin on the first
opportunity. Everard had called one Sunday morning--it was the end
of March--to say good-bye on his departure for a few weeks'
travel. Having read the letter, he laughed with a peculiar
fierceness.
'This kind of thing,' said Miss Barfoot, 'may necessitate your
prosecuting her. There is a limit, you know, even to a woman's
licence.'
'I am far more likely,' he replied, 'to purchase a very nice little
cane, and give her an exemplary thrashing.'
'Oh! Oh!'
'Upon my word, I see no reason against it! That's how I should deal
with a man who talked about me in this way, and none the less if he
were a puny creature quite unable to protect himself. In that
furious scene before we got Tom away I felt most terribly tempted to
beat her. There's a great deal to be said for woman-beating. I am
quite sure that many a labouring man who pommels his wife is doing
exactly the right thing; no other measure would have the least
result. You see what comes of impunity. If this woman saw the
possibility that I should give her a public caning she would be far
more careful how she behaved herself. Let us ask Miss Nunn's
opinion.'
Rhoda had that moment entered the room. She offered her hand
frankly, and asked what the subject was.
'Glance over this letter,' said Barfoot. 'Oh, you have seen it. I
propose to get a light, supple, dandyish cane, and to give Mrs.
Thomas Barfoot half a dozen smart cuts across the back in her own
drawing-room, some afternoon when people were present. What have you
to say to it?'
He spoke with such show of angry seriousness that Rhoda paused
before replying.
'I sympathized with you,' she said at length, 'but I don't think I
would go to that extremity.'
Everard repeated the argument he had used to his cousin.
'You are quite right,' Rhoda assented. 'I think many women deserve
to be beaten, and ought to be beaten. But public Opinion would be so
much against _you_.'
'What do I care? So is public opinion against you.'
'Very well. Do as you like. Miss Barfoot and I will come to the
police court and give strong evidence in your favour.'
'Now there's a woman!' exclaimed Everard, not all in jest, for
Rhoda's appearance had made his nerves thrill and his pulse beat.
'Look at her, Mary. Do you wonder that I would walk the diameter of
the globe to win her love?'
Rhoda flushed scarlet, and Miss Barfoot was much embarrassed.
Neither could have anticipated such an utterance as this. 'That's
the simple truth,' went on Everard recklessly, 'and she knows it,
and yet won't listen to me. Well, good-bye to you both! Now that I
have so grossly misbehaved myself, she has a good excuse for
refusing even to enter the room when I am here. But do speak a word
for me whilst I am away, Mary.'
He shook hands with them, scarcely looking at their faces, and
abruptly departed.
The women stood for a moments at a distance from each other. Then
Miss Barfoot glanced at her friend and laughed.
'Really my poor cousin is not very discreet.'
'Anything but,' Rhoda answered, resting on the back of a chair, her
eyes cast down. 'Do you think he will really cane his
sister-in-law?'
'How can you ask such a question?'
'It would be amusing. I should think better of him for it.'
'Well, make it a condition. We know the story of the lady and her
glove. I can see you sympathize with her.'
Rhoda laughed and went away, leaving Miss Barfoot with the
impression that she had revealed a genuine impulse. It seemed not
impossible that Rhoda might wish to say to her lover: 'Face this
monstrous scandal and I am yours.
A week passed and there arrived a letter, with a foreign stamp,
addressed to Miss Nunn. Happening to receive it before Miss Barfoot
had come down to breakfast, she put in away in a drawer till evening
leisure, and made no mention of its arrival. Exhilaration appeared
in her behaviour through the day. After dinner she disappeared,
shutting herself up to read the letter.
'DEAR MISS NUNN,--I am sitting at a little marble table outside a
cafe on the Cannibiere. Does that name convey anything to you? The
Cannibiere is the principal street of Marseilles, street of gorgeous
cafe's and restaurants, just now blazing with electric light. You,
no doubt, are shivering by the fireside; here it is like an evening
of summer. I have dined luxuriously, and I am taking my coffee
whilst I write. At a table near to me sit two girls, engaged in the
liveliest possible conversation, of which I catch a few words now
and then, pretty French phrases that caress the ear. One of them is
so strikingly beautiful that I cannot take my eyes from her when
they have been tempted to that quarter. She speaks with
indescribable grace and animation, has the sweetest eyes and lips--
'And all the time I am thinking of some one else. Ah, if _you_ were
here! How we would enjoy ourselves among these southern scenes!
Alone, it is delightful; but with you for a companion, with you to
talk about everything in your splendidly frank way! This French
girl's talk is of course only silly chatter; it makes me long to
hear a few words from your lips--strong, brave, intelligent.
'I dream of the ideal possibility. Suppose I were to look up and see
you standing just in front of me, there on the pavement. You have
come in a few hours straight from London. Your eyes glow with
delight. To-morrow we shall travel on to Genoa, you and I, more than
friends, and infinitely more than the common husband and wife! We
have bidden the world go round for _our_ amusement; henceforth it is
our occupation to observe and discuss and make merry.
'Is it all in vain? Rhoda, if you never love me, my life will be
poor to what it might have been; and you, you also, will lose
something. In imagination I kiss your hands and your lips.
EVERARD BARFOOT.'
There was an address at the head of this letter, but certainly
Barfoot expected no reply, and Rhoda had no thought of sending one.
Every night, however, she unfolded the sheet of thin foreign paper,
and read, more than once, what was written upon it. Read it with
external calm, with a brow of meditation, and afterwards sat for
some time in absent mood.
Would he write again? Her daily question was answered in rather more
than a fortnight. This time the letter came from Italy; it was lying
on the hall table when Rhoda returned from Great Portland Street,
and Miss Barfoot was the first to read the address. They exchanged
no remark. On breaking the envelope--she did so at once--Rhoda
found a little bunch of violets crushed but fragrant.
'These in return for your Cheddar pinks,' began the informal note
accompanying the flowers. 'I had them an hour ago from a pretty girl
in the streets of Parma. I didn't care to buy, and walked on, but
the pretty girl ran by me, and with gentle force fixed the flowers
in my button-hole, so that I had no choice but to stroke her velvety
cheek and give her a lira. How hungry I am for the sight of your
face! Think of me sometimes, dear friend.'
She laughed, and laid the letter and its violets away with the
other.
'I must depend on you, it seems, for news of Everard,' said Miss
Barfoot after dinner.
'I can only tell you,' Rhoda answered lightly, 'that he has
travelled from the south of France to the north of Italy, with much
observation of female countenances.'
'He informs you of that?'
'Very naturally. It is his chief interest. One likes people to tell
the truth.'
* * * * * * * * * *
Barfoot was away until the end of April, but after that note from
Parma he did not write. One bright afternoon in May, a Saturday, he
presented himself at his cousin's house, and found two or three
callers in the drawing-room, ladies as usual; one of them was Miss
Winifred Haven, another was Mrs. Widdowson. Mary received him
without effusiveness, and after a few minutes' talk with her he took
a place by Mrs. Widdowson, who, it struck him, looked by no means in
such good spirits as during the early days of her marriage. As soon
as she began to converse, his impression of a change in her was
confirmed; the girlishness so pleasantly noticeable when first he
knew her had disappeared, and the gravity substituted for it was
suggestive of disillusion, of trouble.
She asked him if he knew some people named Bevis, who occupied a
flat just above his own.
'Bevis? I have seen the name on the index at the foot of the stairs;
but I don't know them personally.'
'That was how I came to know that _you_ live there,' said Monica.
'My husband took me to call upon the Bevises, and there we saw your
name. At least, we supposed it was you, and Miss Barfoot tells me we
were right.'
'Oh yes; I live there all alone, a gloomy bachelor. How delightful
if you knocked at my door some day, when you and Mr. Widdowson are
again calling on your friends.'
Monica smiled, and her eyes wandered restlessly.
'You have been away--out of England?' she next said.
'Yes; in Italy.'
'I envy you.'
'You have never been there?'
'No--not yet.'
He talked a little of the agreeables and disagreeables of life in
that country. But Mrs. Widdowson had become irresponsive; he doubted
at length whether she was listening to him, so, as Miss Haven
stepped this way, he took an opportunity of a word aside with his
cousin.
'Miss Nunn not at home?'
'No. Won't be till dinner-time.'
'Quite well?'
'Never was better. Would you care to come back and dine with us at
half-past seven?'
'Of course I should.'
With this pleasant prospect he took his leave. The afternoon being
sunny, instead of walking straight to the station, to return home,
he went out on to the Embankment, and sauntered round by Chelsea
Bridge Road. As he entered Sloane Square he saw Mrs. Widdowson, who
was coming towards the railway; she walked rather wearily, with her
eyes on the ground, and did not become aware of him until he
addressed her.
'Are we travelling the same way?' he asked. 'Westward?'
'Yes. I am going all the way round to Portland Road.'
They entered the station, Barfoot chatting humorously. And, so
intent was he on the expression of his companion's downcast face,
that he allowed an acquaintance to pass close by him unobserved. It
was Rhoda Nunn, returning sooner than Miss Barfoot had expected. She
saw the pair, regarded them with a moment's keen attentiveness, and
went on, out into the street.
In the first-class carriage which they entered there was no other
passenger as far as Barfoot's station. He could not resist the
temptation to use rather an intimate tone, though one that was quite
conventional, in the hope that he might discover something of Mrs.
Widdowson's mind. He began by asking whether she thought it a good
Academy this year. She had not yet visited it, but hoped to do so on
Monday. Did she herself do any kind of artistic work? Oh, nothing
whatever; she was a very useless and idle person. He believed she
had been a pupil of Miss Barfoot's at one time? Yes, for a very
short time indeed, just before her marriage. Was she not an intimate
friend of Miss Nunn? Hardly intimate. They knew each other a few
years ago, but Miss Nunn did not care much about her now.
'Probably because I married,' she added with a smile.
'Is Miss Nunn really such a determined enemy of marriage?'
'She thinks it pardonable in very weak people. In my case she was
indulgent enough to come to the wedding.'
This piece of news surprised Barfoot.
'She came to your wedding? And wore a wedding garment?'
'Oh yes. And looked very nice.'
'Do describe it to me. Can you remember?'
Seeing that no woman ever forgot the details of another's dress, on
however trivial an occasion, and at whatever distance of time,
Monica was of course able to satisfy the inquirer. Her curiosity
excited, she ventured in turn upon one or two insidious questions.
'You couldn't imagine Miss Nunn in such a costume?'
'I should very much like to have seen her.'
'She has a very striking face--don't you think so?'
'Indeed I do. A wonderful face.'
Their eyes met. Barfoot bent forward from his place opposite Monica.
'To me the most interesting of all faces,' he said softly.
His companion blushed with surprise and pleasure.
'Does it seem strange to you, Mrs. Widdowson?'
'Oh--why? Not at all.'
All at once she had brightened astonishingly. This subject was not
pursued, but for the rest of the time they talked with a new
appearance of mutual confidence and interest, Monica retaining her
pretty, half-bashful smile. And when Barfoot alighted at Bayswater
they shook hands with an especial friendliness, both seeming to
suggest a wish that they might soon meet again.
They did so not later than the following Monday. Remembering what
Mrs. Widdowson had said of her intention to visit Burlington House,
Barfoot went there in the afternoon. If he chanced to encounter the
pretty little woman it would not be disagreeable. Perhaps her
husband might be with her, and in that case he could judge of the
terms on which they stood. A surly fellow, Widdowson; very likely to
play the tyrant, he thought. If he were not mistaken, she had
wearied of him and regretted her bondage--the old story. Thinking
thus, and strolling through the rooms with casual glances at a
picture, he discovered his acquaintance, catalogue in hand, alone
for the present. Her pensive face again answered to his smile. They
drew back from the pictures and sat down.
'I dined with our friends at Chelsea on Saturday evening,' said
Barfoot.
'On Saturday? You didn't tell me you were going back again.'
'I wasn't thinking of it just at the time.'
Monica hinted an amused surprise.
'You see,' he went on, 'I expected nothing, and happy for me that it
was so. Miss Nunn was in her severest mood; I think she didn't smile
once through the evening. I will confess to you I wrote her a letter
whilst I was abroad, and it offended her, I suppose.'
'I don't think you can always judge of her thoughts by her face.'
'Perhaps not. But I have studied her face so often and so closely.
For all that, she is more a mystery to me than any woman I have ever
known. That, of course, is partly the reason of her power over me. I
feel that if ever--if ever she should disclose herself to me, it
would be the strangest revelation. Every woman wears a mask, except
to one man; but Rhoda's--Miss Nunn's--is, I fancy, a far
completer disguise than I ever tried to pierce.'
Monica had a sense of something perilous in this conversation. It
arose from a secret trouble in her own heart, which she might,
involuntarily, be led to betray. She had never talked thus
confidentially with any man; not, in truth, with her husband. There
was no fear whatever of her conceiving an undue interest in Barfoot;
certain reasons assured her of that; but talk that was at all
sentimental gravely threatened her peace--what little remained to
her. It would have been better to discourage this man's confidences;
yet they flattered her so pleasantly, and afforded such a fruitful
subject for speculation, that she could not obey the prompting of
prudence.
'Do you mean,' she said, 'that Miss Nunn seems to disguise her
feelings?'
'It is supposed to be wrong--isn't it?--for a man to ask one
woman her opinion of another.'
'I can't be treacherous if I wished,' Monica replied. 'I don't feel
that I understand her.'
Barfoot wondered how much intelligence he might attribute to Mrs.
Widdowson. Obviously her level was much below that of Rhoda. Yet she
seemed to possess delicate sensibilities, and a refinement of
thought not often met with in women of her position. Seriously
desiring her aid, he looked at her with a grave smile, and asked,--
'Do you believe her capable of falling in love?'
Monica showed a painful confusion. She overcame it, however, and
soon answered.
'She would perhaps try not--not to acknowledge it to herself.'
'When, in fact, it had happened?'
'She thinks it so much nobler to disregard such feelings.'
'I know. She is to be an inspiring example to the women who cannot
hope to marry.' He laughed silently. 'And I suppose it is quite
possible that mere shame would withhold her from taking the opposite
course.'
'I think she is very strong. But--'
'But?'
He looked eagerly into her face.
'I can't tell. I don't really know her. A woman may be as much a
mystery to another woman as she is to a man.'
'On the whole, I am glad to hear you say that. I believe it. It is
only the vulgar that hold a different opinion.'
'Shall we look at the pictures, Mr. Barfoot?'
'Oh, I am so sorry. I have been wasting your time--'
Nervously disclaiming any such thought, Monica, rose and drew near
to the canvases. They walked on together for some ten minutes, until
Barfoot, who had turned to look at a passing figure, said in his
ordinary voice--
'I think that is Mr. Widdowson on the other side of the room.'
Monica looked quickly round, and saw her husband, as if occupied
with the pictures, glancing in her direction.
CHAPTER XIX
THE CLANK OF THE CHAINS
Since Saturday evening Monica and her husband had not been on
speaking terms. A visit she paid to Mildred Vesper, after her call
at Miss Barfoot's, prolonged itself so that she did not reach home
until the dinner-hour was long past. On arriving, she was met with
an outburst of tremendous wrath, to which she opposed a resolute and
haughty silence; and since then the two had kept as much apart as
possible.
Widdowson knew that Monica was going to the Academy. He allowed her
to set forth alone, and even tried to persuade himself that he was
indifferent as to the hour of her return; but she had not long been
gone before he followed. Insufferable misery possessed him. His
married life threatened to terminate in utter wreck, and he had the
anguish of recognizing that to a great extent this catastrophe would
be his own fault. Resolve as he might, he found it impossible to
repress the impulses of jealousy which, as soon as peace had been
declared between them, brought about a new misunderstanding.
Terrible thoughts smouldered in his mind; he felt himself to be one
of those men who are driven by passion into crime. Deliberately he
had brooded over a tragic close to the wretchedness of his
existence; he would kill himself, and Monica should perish with him.
But an hour of contentment sufficed to banish such visions as sheer
frenzy. He saw once more how harmless, how natural, were Monica's
demands, and how peacefully he might live with her but for the curse
of suspicion from which he could not free himself. Any other man
would deem her a model wifely virtue. Her care of the house was all
that reason could desire. In her behaviour he had never detected the
slightest impropriety. He believed her chaste as any woman living
She asked only to be trusted, and that, in spite of all, was beyond
his power.
In no woman on earth could he have put perfect confidence. He
regarded them as born to perpetual pupilage. Not that their
inclinations were necessarily wanton; they were simply incapable of
attaining maturity, remained throughout their life imperfect beings,
at the mercy of craft, ever liable to be misled by childish
misconceptions. Of course he was right; he himself represented the
guardian male, the wife-proprietor, who from the dawn of
civilization has taken abundant care that woman shall not outgrow
her nonage. The bitterness of his situation lay in the fact that he
had wedded a woman who irresistibly proved to him her claims as a
human being. Reason and tradition contended in him, to his ceaseless
torment.
And again, he feared that Monica did not love him. Had she ever
loved him? There was too much ground for suspecting that she had
only yielded to the persistence of his entreaties, with just liking
enough to permit a semblance of tenderness, and glad to exchange her
prospect of distasteful work for a comfortable married life. Her
liking he might have fostered; during those first happy weeks,
assuredly he had done so, for no woman could be insensible to the
passionate worship manifest in his every look, his every word.
Later, he took the wrong path, seeking to oppose her instincts, to
reform her mind, eventually to become her lord and master. Could he
not even now retrace his steps? Supposing her incapable of bowing
before him, of kissing his feet, could he not be content to make of
her a loyal friend, a delightful companion?
In that mood he hastened towards Burlington House. Seeking Monica
through the galleries, he saw her at length--sitting side by side
with that man Barfoot. They were in closest colloquy. Barfoot bent
towards her as if speaking in an undertone, a smile on his face.
Monica looked at once pleased and troubled.
The blood boiled in his veins. His first impulse was to walk
straight up to Monica and bid her follow him. But the ecstasy of
jealous suffering kept him an observer. He watched the pair until he
was descried.
There was no help for it. Though his brain whirled, and his flesh
was stabbed, he had no choice but to take the hand Barfoot offered
him. Smile he could not, nor speak a word.
'So you have come after all?' Monica was saying to him.
He nodded. On her countenance there was obvious embarrassment, but
this needed no explanation save the history of the last day or two.
Looking into her eyes, he knew not whether consciousness of wrong
might be read there. How to get at the secrets of this woman's
heart?
Barfoot was talking, pointing at this picture and that, doing his
best to smooth what he saw was an awkward situation. The gloomy
husband, more like a tyrant than ever, muttered incoherent phrases.
In a minute or two Everard freed himself and moved out of sight.
Monica turned from her husband and affected interest in the
pictures. They reached the end of the room before Widdowson spoke.
'How long do you want to stay here?'
'I will go whenever you like,' she answered, without looking at him.
'I have no wish to spoil your pleasure.'
'Really, I have very little pleasure in anything. Did you come to
keep me in sight?'
'I think we will go home now, and you can come another day.'
Monica assented by closing her catalogue and walking on.
Without a word, they made the journey back to Herne Hill. Widdowson
shut himself in the library, and did not appear till dinner-time.
The meal was a pretence for both of them, and as soon as they could
rise from the table they again parted.
About ten o'clock Monica was joined by her husband in the
drawing-room.
'I have almost made up my mind,' he said, standing near her, 'to
take a serious step. As you have always spoken with pleasure of your
old home, Clevedon, suppose we give up this house and go and live
there?'
'It is for you to decide.'
'I want to know whether you would have any objection.'
'I shall do as you wish.'
'No, that isn't enough. The plan I have in mind is this. I should
take a good large house--no doubt rents are low in the
neighbourhood--and ask your sisters to come and live with us. I
think it would be a good thing both for them and for you.'
'You can't be sure that they would agree to it. You see that
Virginia prefers her lodgings to living here.'
Oddly enough, this was the case. On their return from Guernsey they
had invited Virginia to make a permanent home with them, and she
refused. Her reasons Monica could not understand; those which she
alleged--vague arguments as to its being better for a wife's
relatives not to burden the husband--hardly seemed genuine. It was
possible that Virginia had a distaste for Widdowson's society.
'I think they both would be glad to live at Clevedon,' he urged,
'judging from your sisters' talk. It's plain that they have quite
given up the idea of the school, and Alice, you tell me, is getting
dissatisfied with her work at Yatton. But I must know whether you
will enter seriously into this scheme.'
Monica kept silence.
'Please answer me.'
'Why have you thought of it?'
'I don't think I need explain. We have had too many unpleasant
conversations, and I wish to act for the best without saying things
you would misunderstand.'
'There is no fear of my misunderstanding. You have no confidence in
me, and you want to get me away into a quiet country place where I
shall be under your eyes every moment. It's much better to say that
plainly.'
'That means you would consider it going to prison.'
'How could I help? What other motive have you?'
He was prompted to make brutal declaration of authority, and so cut
the knot. Monica's unanswerable argument merely angered him. But he
made an effort over himself.
'Don't you think it best that we should take some step before our
happiness is irretrievably ruined?'
'I see no need for its ruin. As I have told you before, in talking
like that you degrade yourself and insult me.'
'I have my faults; I know them only too well. One of them is that I
cannot bear you to make friends with people who are not of my kind.
I shall never be able to endure that.'
'Of course you are speaking of Mr. Barfoot.'
'Yes,' he avowed sullenly. 'It was a very unfortunate thing that I
happened to come up just as he was in your company.'
'You are so very unreasonable,' exclaimed Monica tartly. 'What
possible. harm is there in Mr. Barfoot, when he meets me by chance
in a public place, having a conversation with me? I wish I knew
twenty such men. Such conversation gives me a new interest in life.
I have every reason to think well of Mr. Barfoot.'
Widdowson was in anguish.
'And I,' he replied, in a voice shaken with angry feeling, 'feel
that I have every reason to dislike and suspect him. He is not an
honest man; his face tells me that. I know his life wouldn't bear
inspection. You can't possibly be as good a judge as I am in such a
case. Contrast him with Bevis. No, Bevis is a man one can trust; one
talk with him produces a lasting favourable impression.'
Monica, silent for a brief space, looked fixedly before her, her
features all but expressionless.
'Yet even with Mr. Bevis,' she said at length, 'you don't make
friends. That is the fault in you which causes all this trouble. You
haven't a sociable spirit. Your dislike of Mr. Barfoot only means
that you don't know him, and don't wish to. And you are completely
wrong in your judgment of him. I have every reason for being sure
that you are wrong.'
'Of course you think so. In your ignorance of the world--'
'Which you think very proper in a woman,' she interposed
caustically.
'Yes, I do! That kind of knowledge is harmful to a woman.'
'Then, please, how is she to judge her acquaintances?'
'A married woman must accept her husband's opinion, at all events
about men.' He plunged on into the ancient quagmire. 'A man may know
with impunity what is injurious if it enters a woman's mind.'
'I don't believe that. I can't and won't believe it.'
He made a gesture of despair.
'We differ hopelessly. It was all very well to discuss these things
when you could do so in a friendly spirit. Now you say whatever you
know will irritate me, and you say it on purpose to irritate me.'
'No; indeed I do not. But you are quite right that I find it hard to
be friendly with you. Most earnestly I wish to be your friend--
your true and faithful friend. But you won't let me.'
'Friend!' he cried scornfully. 'The woman who has become my wife
ought to be something more than a friend, I should think. You have
lost all love for me--there's the misery.'
Monica could not reply. That word 'love' had grown a weariness to
her upon his lips. She did not love him; could not pretend to love
him. Every day the distance between them widened, and when he took
her in his arms she had to struggle with a sense of shrinking, of
disgust. The union was unnatural; she felt herself constrained by a
hateful force when he called upon her for the show of wifely
tenderness. Yet how was she to utter this? The moment such a truth
had passed her lips she must leave him. To declare that no trace of
love remained in her heart, and still to live with him--that was
impossible! The dark foresight of a necessity of parting from him
corresponded in her to those lurid visions which at times shook
Widdowson with a horrible temptation.
'You don't love me,' he continued in harsh, choking tones. 'You wish
to be my _friend_. That's how you try to compensate me for the loss
of your love.'
He laughed with bitterness.
'When you say that,' Monica answered, 'do you ever ask yourself
whether you try to make me love you? Scenes like this are ruining my
health. I have come to dread your talk. I have almost forgotten the
sound of your voice when it isn't either angry or complaining.'
Widdowson walked about the room, and a deep moan escaped him.
'That is why I have asked you to go away from here, Monica. We must
have a new home if our life is to begin anew.'
'I have no faith in mere change of place. You would be the same man.
If you cannot command your senseless jealousy here, you never would
anywhere else.'
He made an effort to say something; seemed to abandon it; again
tried, and spoke in a thick, unnatural voice.
'Can you honestly repeat to me what Barfoot was saying to-day, when
you were on the seat together?'
Monica's eyes flashed.
'I could; every word. But I shall not try to do so.'
'Not if I beseech you to, Monica? To put my mind at rest--'
'No. When I tell you that you might have heard every syllable, I
have said all that I shall.'
It mortified him profoundly that he should have been driven to make
so humiliating a request. He threw himself into a chair and hid his
face, sitting thus for a long time in the hope that Monica would be
moved to compassion. But when she rose it was only to retire for the
night. And with wretchedness in her heart, because she must needs go
to the same chamber in which her husband would sleep. She wished so
to be alone. The poorest bed in a servant's garret would have been
thrice welcome to her; liberty to lie awake, to think without a
disturbing presence, to shed tears of need be--that seemed to her
a precious boon. She thought with envy of the shop-girls in Walworth
Road; wished herself back there. What unspeakable folly she had
committed! And how true was everything she had heard from Rhoda Nunn
on the subject of marriage! The next day Widdowson resorted to an
expedient which he had once before tried in like circumstances. He
wrote his wife a long letter, eight close pages, reviewing the cause
of their troubles, confessing his own errors, insisting gently on
those chargeable to her, and finally imploring her to cooperate with
him in a sincere endeavour to restore their happiness. This he laid
on the table after lunch, and then left Monica alone that she might
read it. Knowing beforehand all that the letter contained, Monica
glanced over it carelessly. An answer was expected, and she wrote
one as briefly as possible.
'Your behaviour seems to me very weak, very unmanly. You make us
both miserable, and quite without cause. I can only say as I have
said before, that things will never be better until you come to
think of me as your free companion, not as your bond-woman. If you
can't do this, you will make me wish that I had never met you, and
in the end I am sure it won't be possible for us to go on living
together.'
She left this note, in a blank envelope, on the hall table, and went
out to walk for an hour.
It was the end of one more acute stage in their progressive discord.
By keeping at home for a fortnight. Monica soothed her husband and
obtained some repose for her own nerves. But she could no longer
affect a cordial reconciliation; caresses left her cold, and
Widdowson saw that his company was never so agreeable to her as
solitude. When they sat together, both were reading. Monica found
more attraction in books as her life grew more unhappy. Though with
reluctance Widdowson had consented to a subscription at Mudie's, and
from the new catalogues she either chose for herself, necessarily at
random, or by the advice of better-read people, such as she met at
Mrs. Cosgrove's. What modern teaching was to be got from these
volumes her mind readily absorbed. She sought for opinions and
arguments which were congenial to her mood of discontent, all but of
revolt.
Sometimes the perusal of a love-story embittered her lot to the last
point of endurance. Before marriage, her love-ideal had been very
vague, elusive; it found scarcely more than negative expression, as
a shrinking from the vulgar or gross desires of her companions in
the shop. Now that she had a clearer understanding of her own
nature, the type of man correspondent to her natural sympathies also
became clear. In every particular he was unlike her husband. She
found a suggestion of him in books; and in actual life, already,
perhaps something more than a suggestion. Widdowson's jealousy, in
so far as it directed itself against her longing for freedom, was
fully justified; this consciousness often made her sullen when she
desired to express a nobler indignation; but his special prejudice
led him altogether astray, and in free resistance on this point she
found the relief which enabled her to bear a secret self-reproach.
Her refusal to repeat the substance of Barfoot's conversation was,
in some degree, prompted by a wish for the continuance of his
groundless fears. By persevering in suspicion of Barfoot, he
afforded her a firm foothold in their ever-renewed quarrels.
A husband's misdirected jealousy excites in the wife derision and a
sense of superiority; more often than not, it fosters an unsuspected
attachment, prompts to a perverse pleasure in misleading. Monica
became aware of this; in her hours of misery she now and then gave a
harsh laugh, the result of thoughts not seriously entertained, but
tempting the fancy to recklessness. What, she asked herself again,
would be the end of it all? Ten years hence, would she have subdued
her soul to a life of weary insignificance, if not of dishonour? For
it was dishonour to live with a man she could not love, whether her
heart cherished another image or was merely vacant. A dishonour to
which innumerable women submitted, a dishonour glorified by social
precept, enforced under dread penalties.
But she was so young, and life abounds in unexpected changes.
CHAPTER XX
THE FIRST LIE
Mrs. Cosgrove was a childless widow, with sufficient means and a
very mixed multitude of acquaintances. In the general belief her
marriage had been a happy one; when she spoke of her deceased
husband it was with respect, and not seldom with affection. Yet her
views on the matrimonial relation were known to be of singular
audacity. She revealed them only to a small circle of intimates;
most of the people who frequented her house had no startling
theories to maintain, and regarded their hostess as a good-natured,
rather eccentric woman, who loved society and understood how to
amuse her guests.
Wealth and position were rarely represented in her drawing-room;
nor, on the other hand, was Bohemianism. Mrs. Cosgrove belonged by
birth and marriage to the staid middle class, and it seemed as if
she made it her object to provide with social entertainment the kind
of persons who, in an ordinary way, would enjoy very little of it.
Lonely and impecunious girls or women were frequently about her; she
tried to keep them in good spirits, tried to marry them if marriage
seemed possible, and, it was whispered, used a good deal of her
income for the practical benefit of those who needed assistance. A
sprinkling of maidens who were neither lonely nor impecunious served
to attract young men, generally strugglers in some profession or
other, on the lookout for a wife. Intercourse went on with a minimum
of formalities. Chaperonage--save for that represented by the
hostess herself--was as often as not dispensed with.
'We want to get rid of a lot of sham propriety'--so she urged to
her closer friends. 'Girls must learn to trust themselves, and look
out for dangers. If a girl can only be kept straight by incessant
watchfulness, why, let her go where she will, and learn by
experience. In fact, I want to see experience substituted for
precept.'
Between this lady and Miss Barfoot there were considerable
divergences of opinion, yet they agreed on a sufficient number of
points to like each other very well. Occasionally one of Mrs.
Cosgrove's _protegees_ passed into Miss Barfoot's hands, abandoning
the thought of matrimony for study in Great Portland Street. Rhoda
Nunn, also, had a liking for Mrs. Cosgrove, though she made no
secret of her opinion that Mrs. Cosgrove's influence was on the
whole decidedly harmful.
'That house,' she once said to Miss Barfoot, 'is nothing more than a
matrimonial agency.'
'But so is every house where many people are entertained.'
'Not in the same way. Mrs. Cosgrove was speaking to me of some girl
who has just accepted an offer of marriage. "I don't think they'll
suit each other," she said, "but there's no harm in trying."'
Miss Barfoot could not restrain a laugh.
'Who knows? Perhaps she is right in that view of things. After all,
you know, it's only putting into plain words what everybody thinks
on all but every such occasion.'
'The first part of her remark--yes,' said Rhoda caustically. 'But
as for the "no harm in trying," well, let us ask the wife's opinion
in a year's time.'
* * * * * * * * * *
Midway in the London season on Sunday afternoon, about a score of
visitors were assembled in Mrs. Cosgrove's drawing-rooms--there
were two of them, with a landing between. As usual, some one sat at
the piano, but a hum of talk went on as undercurrent to the music.
Downstairs, in the library, half a dozen people found the quietness
they preferred, and among these was Mrs. Widdowson. She had an album
of portraits on her lap; whilst turning them over, she listened to a
chat going on between the sprightly Mr. Bevis and a young married
woman who laughed ceaselessly at his jokes. It was only a few
minutes since she had come down from the drawing-room. Presently her
eyes encountered a glance from Bevis, and at once he stepped over to
a seat beside her.
'Your sisters are not here to-day?' she said.
'No. They have guests of their own. And when are you coming to see
them again?'
'Before long, I hope.'
Bevis looked away and seemed to reflect.
'Do come next Saturday--could you?'
'I had better not promise.'
'Do try, and'--he lowered his voice--'come alone. Forgive me for
saying that. The girls are rather afraid of Mr. Widdowson, that's
the truth. They would so like a free gossip with you. Let me tell
them to expect you about half-past three or four. They will rise up
and call me blessed.'
Laughing, Monica at length agreed to come if circumstances were
favourable. Her talk with Bevis continued for a long time, until
people had begun to leave. Some other acquaintance then claimed her,
but she was now dull and monosyllabic, as if conversation had
exhausted her energies. At six o'clock she stole away unobserved,
and went home.
Widdowson had resigned himself, in appearance at all events, to
these absences. It was several weeks since he had accompanied his
wife to call upon any one; a sluggishness was creeping over him,
strengthening his disinclination for society. The futile endeavour
to act with decision, to carry Monica away into Somerset, resulted,
as futile efforts of that kind are wont to do, in increased
feebleness of the will; he was less capable than ever of exerting
the authority which he still believed himself to keep for the last
resort. Occasionally some days went by without his leaving the
house. Instead of the one daily newspaper he had been used to take
he now received three; after breakfast he sometimes spent a couple
of hours over the _Times_, and the evening papers often occupied him
from dinner to bedtime. Monica noticed, with a painful conflict of
emotions, that his hair had begun to lose its uniform colour, and to
show streaks that matched with his grizzled beard. Was _she_
responsible for this?
On the Saturday when she was to visit the Bevises she feared lest he
should propose to go with her. She wished even to avoid the
necessity of telling him where she was going. As she rose from
luncheon Widdowson glanced at her.
'I've ordered the trap, Monica. Will you come for a drive?'
'I have promised to go into the town. I'm very sorry.'
'It doesn't matter.'
This was his latest mode of appealing to her--with an air of
pained resignation.
'For a day or two I haven't felt at all well,' he continued
gloomily. 'I thought a drive might do me good.'
'Certainly. I hope it will. When would you like to have dinner?'
'I never care to alter the hours. Of course I shall be back at the
usual time. Shall _you_ be?'
'Oh yes--long before dinner.'
So she got away without any explanation. At a quarter to four she
reached the block of flats in which the Bevises (and Everard
Barfoot) resided. With a fluttering of the heart, she went very
quietly upstairs, as if anxious that her footsteps should not be
heard; her knock at the door was timid.
Bevis in person opened to her.
'Delighted! I thought it _might_ be--'
She entered, and walked into the first room, where she had been once
before. But to her surprise it was vacant. She looked round and saw
Bevis's countenance gleaming with satisfaction.
'My sisters will be here in a few minutes,' he said. 'A few minutes
at most. Will you take this chair, Mrs. Widdowson? How delighted I
am that you were able to come!'
So perfectly natural was his manner, that Monica, after the first
moment of consternation, tried to forget that there was anything
irregular in her presence here under these circumstances. As regards
social propriety, a flat differs in many respects from a house. In
an ordinary drawing-room, it could scarcely have mattered if Bevis
entertained her for a short space until his sisters' arrival; but in
this little set of rooms it was doubtfully permissible for her to
sit _tete-a-tete_ with a young man, under any excuse. And the fact
of his opening the front door himself seemed to suggest that not
even a servant was in the flat. A tremor grew upon her as she
talked, due in part to the consciousness that she was glad to be
thus alone with Bevis.
'A place like this must seem to you to be very unhomelike,' he was
saying, as he lounged on a low chair not very far from her. 'The
girls didn't like it at all at first. I suppose it's a retrograde
step in civilization. Servants are decidedly of that opinion; we
have a great difficulty in getting them to stay here. The reason
seems to me that they miss the congenial gossip of the area door. At
this moment we are without a domestic. I found she compensated
herself for disadvantages by stealing my tobacco and cigars. She
went to work with such a lack of discretion--abstracting half a
pound of honeydew at a time--that I couldn't find any sympathy for
her. Moreover, when charged with the delinquency, she became
abusive, so very abusive that we were obliged to insist upon her
immediate departure.'
'Do you think she smoked?' asked Monica laughingly.
'We have debated that point with much interest. She was a person of
advanced ideas, as you see; practically a communist. But I doubt
whether honeydew had any charms for her personally. It seems more
probable that some milkman, or baker's assistant, or even
metropolitan policeman, benefited by her communism.'
Indifferent to the progress of time, Bevis talked on with his usual
jocoseness, now and then shaking his tawny hair in a fit of laughter
the most contagious.
'But I have something to tell you,' he said at length more
seriously. 'I am going to leave England. They want me to live at
Bordeaux for a tune, two or three years perhaps. It's a great bore,
but I shall have to go. I am not my own master.'
'Then your sisters will go to Guernsey?'
'Yes. I dare say I shall leave about the end of July.'
He became silent, looking at Monica with humorous sadness.
'Do you think your sisters will soon be here, Mr. Bevis?' Monica
asked, with a glance round the room.
'I think so. Do you know, I did a very silly thing. I wanted your
visit (if you came) to be a surprise for them, and so--in fact, I
said nothing about it. When I got here from business, a little
before three, they were just going out. I asked them if they were
sure they would be back in less than an hour. Oh, they were quite
sure--not a doubt about it. I do hope they haven't altered their
mind, and gone to call somewhere. But, Mrs. Widdowson, I am going to
make you a cup of tea--with my own fair hands, as the novelist
say.'
Monica begged that he would not trouble. Under the circumstances she
had better not stay. She would come again very soon.
'No, I can't, I can't let you go!' Bevis exclaimed, softening his
gay tone as he stood before her. 'How shall I entreat you? If you
knew what an unforgettable delight it will be to me to make you a
cup of tea! I shall think of it at Bordeaux every Saturday.'
She had risen, but exhibited no immutable resolve.
'I really must go, Mr. Bevis--!'
'Don't drive me to despair. I am capable of turning my poor sisters
out of house and home--flat and home, I mean--in anger at their
delay. On their account, in pity for their youth, do stay, Mrs.
Widdowson! Besides, I have a new song that I want you to bear--
words and music my own. One little quarter of an hour! And I know
the girls will be here directly.'
His will, and her inclination, prevailed. Monica sat down again, and
Bevis disappeared to make the tea. Water must have been already
boiling, for in less than five minutes the young man returned with a
tray, on which all the necessaries were neatly arranged. With merry
homage he waited upon his guest. Monica's cheeks were warm. After
the vain attempt to release herself from what was now distinctly a
compromising situation, she sat down in an easier attitude than
before, as though resolved to enjoy her liberty whilst she might.
There was a suspicion in her mind that Bevis had arranged this
interview; she doubted the truth of his explanation. And indeed she
hoped that his sisters would not return until after her departure;
it would be very embarrassing to meet them.
Whilst talking and listening, she silently defended herself against
the charge of impropriety. What wrong was she committing? What
matter that they were alone? Their talk was precisely what it might
have been in other people's presence. And Bevis, such a frank,
good-hearted fellow, could not by any possibility fail in respect to
her. The objections were all cant, and cant of the worst kind. She
would not be a slave of such ignoble prejudices.
'You haven't made Mr. Barfoot's acquaintance yet?' she asked.
'No, I haven't. There seems to have been no opportunity. Did you
seriously wish me to know him?'
'Oh, I had no wish in the matter at all.'
'You like Mr. Barfoot?'
'I think him very pleasant.'
'How delightful to be praised by you, Mrs. Widdowson! Now if any one
speaks to you about _me_, when I have left England, will you find
some nice word? Don't think me foolish. I do so desire the good
opinion of my friends. To know that you spoke of me as you did for
Mr. Barfoot would give me a whole day of happiness.'
'How enviable! To be so easily made happy.'
'Now let me sing you this song of mine. It isn't very good; I
haven't composed for years. But--'
He sat down and rattled over the keys. Monica was expecting a lively
air and spirited words, as in the songs she had heard at Guernsey;
but this composition told of sadness and longing and the burden of a
lonely heart. She thought it very beautiful, very touching. Bevis
looked round to see the effect it produced upon her, and she could
not meet his eyes.
'Quite a new sort of thing for me, Mrs. Widdowson. Does it strike
you as so very bad?'
'No--not at all.'
'But you can't honestly praise it?' He sighed, in dejection. 'I
meant to give you a copy. I made this one specially for you, and--
if you will forgive me--I have taken the liberty of dedicating it
to you. Songwriters do that, you know. Of course it is altogether
unworthy of your acceptance--'
'No--no--indeed I am very grateful to you, Mr. Bevis. Do give it
to me--as you meant to.'
'You will have it?' he cried delightedly. 'Now for a triumphal
march!'
Whilst he played, with look corresponding to the exultant strain,
Monica rose from her chair. She stood with eyes downcast and lips
pressed together. When the last chord had sounded,--
'Now I must say good-bye, Mr. Bevis. I am so sorry your sisters
haven't come.'
'So am I--and yet I am not. I have enjoyed the happiest half-hour
of my life.'
'Will you give me the piece of music?'
'Let me roll it up. There; it won't be very awkward to carry. But of
course I shall see you again before the end of July? You will come
some other afternoon?'
'If Miss Bevis will let me know when she is quite sure--'
'Yes, she shall. Do you know, I don't think I shall say a word about
what has happened this afternoon. Will you allow me to keep silence
about your call, Mrs. Widdowson? They would be so annoyed--and
really it was a silly thing not to tell them--'
Monica gave no verbal reply. She looked towards the door. Bevis
stepped forward, and held it open.
'Good-bye, then. You know what I told you about my tendency to low
spirits. I'm going to have a terrible turn--down, down, down!'
She laughed, and offered her hand. He held it very lightly, looking
at her with his blue eyes, which indeed expressed a profound
melancholy.
'Thank you,' he murmured. 'Thank you for your great kindness.'
And thereupon he opened the front door for her. Without another look
Monica went quickly down the stairs; she appreciated his motive for
not accompanying her to the exit.
* * * * * * * * * *
Before entering the house she had managed to conceal the sheet of
music which she was carrying. But, happily, Widdowson was still
absent. Half an hour passed--half an hour of brooding and
reverie--before she heard his footstep ascending the stairs. On the
landing she met him with a pleasant smile.
'Have you enjoyed your drive?'
'Pretty well.'
'And do you feel better?'
'Not much, dear. But it isn't worth talking about.'
Later, he inquired where she had been.
'I had an appointment with Milly Vesper.'
The first falsehood she had ever told him, and yet uttered with such
perfect assumption of sincerity as would have deceived the acutest
observer. He nodded, discontented as usual, but entertaining no
doubt.
And from that moment she hated him. If he had plied her with
interrogations, if he had seemed to suspect anything, the burden of
untruth would have been more endurable. His simple acceptance of her
word was the sternest rebuke she could have received. She despised
herself, and hated him for the degradation which resulted from his
lordship over her.
CHAPTER XXI
TOWARDS THE DECISIVE
Mary Barfoot had never suffered from lack of interest in life. Many
a vivid moment dwelt in her memory; joys and sorrows, personal or of
larger scope, affected her the more deeply because of that ruling
intelligence which enabled her to transmute them into principles. No
longer anticipating or desiring any great change in her own
environment, in the modes and motives of her activity, she found it
a sufficient happiness to watch, and when possible to direct, the
tendency of younger lives. So kindly had nature tempered her
disposition, that already she had been able to outlive those
fervours of instinct which often make the middle life of an unwedded
woman one long repining; but her womanly sympathies remained. And at
present there was going forward under her own roof, within her daily
observation, a comedy, a drama, which had power to excite all her
disinterested emotions. It had been in progress for twelve months,
and now, unless she was strangely mistaken, the _denouement_ drew
very near.
For all her self-study, her unflinching recognition of physical and
psychical facts which the average woman blinks over, Mary deceived
herself as to the date of that final triumph which permitted her to
observe Rhoda Nunn with perfect equanimity. Her outbreak of angry
feeling on the occasion of Bella Royston's death meant something
more than she would acknowledge before the inquisition of her own
mind. It was just then that she had become aware of Rhoda's changing
attitude towards Everard Barfoot; trifles such as only a woman would
detect had convinced her that Everard's interest in Rhoda was
awakening a serious response; and this discovery, though it could
not surprise her, caused an obscure pang which she attributed to
impersonal regret, to mere natural misgiving. For some days she
thought of Rhoda in an ironic, half-mocking spirit. Then came
Bella's suicide, and the conversation in which Rhoda exhibited a
seeming heartlessness, the result, undoubtedly, of grave emotional
disturbance. To her own astonishment, Mary was overcome with an
impulse of wrathful hostility, and spoke words which she regretted
as soon as they had passed her lips.
Poor Bella had very little to do with this moment of discord between
two women who sincerely liked and admired each other. She only
offered the occasion for an outburst of secret feeling which
probably could not have been avoided. Mary Barfoot had loved her
cousin Everard; it began when he was one-and-twenty; she, so much
older, had never allowed Everard or any one else to suspect her
passion, which made her for two or three years more unhappy than she
had ever been, or was ever to be when once her strong reason had
prevailed. The scandal of Amy Drake, happening long after, revived
her misery, which now took the form of truly feminine intolerance;
she tried to believe that Everard was henceforth of less than no
account to her, that she detested him for his vices. Amy Drake,
however, she detested much more.
When her friendship with Rhoda Nunn had progressed to intimacy, she
could not refrain from speaking of her cousin Everard, absent at the
ends of the earth, and perchance lost to her sight for ever. Her
mention of him was severe, yet of a severity so obviously blended
with other feeling, that Rhoda could not but surmise the truth.
Sentimental confession never entered Miss Barfoot's mind; she had
conquered her desires, and was by no means inclined to make herself
ridiculous; Rhoda Nunn, of all women, seemed the least likely to
make remarks, or put questions, such as would endanger a betrayal of
the buried past. Yet, at a later time, when pressing the inquiry
whether Rhoda had ever been in love, Mary did not scruple to suggest
that her own knowledge in that direction was complete. She did it in
lightness of heart, secure under the protection of her forty years.
Rhoda, of course, understood her as referring to Everard.
So the quarrel was one of jealousy. But no sooner had it taken place
when Mary Barfoot experienced a shame, a distress, which in truth
signified the completion of self-conquest. She thought herself
ashamed of being angry where anger was uncalled for; in reality, she
chastised herself for the last revival of a conflict practically
over and done with so many years ago. And on this very account,
precisely because she was deceiving herself as to her state of mind,
she prolonged the painful situation. She said to herself that Rhoda
had behaved so wrongly that displeasure was justified, that to make
up the quarrel at once would be unwise, for Miss Nunn needed a
little discipline. This insistence upon the side issue helped her to
disregard the main one, and when at length she offered Rhoda the
kiss of reconcilement, that also signified something other than was
professed. It meant a hope that Rhoda might know the happiness which
to her friend had been denied.
Everard's announcement of his passion for Miss Nunn seemed to Mary a
well-calculated piece of boldness. If he seriously sought Rhoda for
his wife, this frank avowal of the desire before a third person
might remove some of the peculiar difficulties of the case. Whether
willing or not to be wooed, Rhoda, in mere consistency with her
pronounced opinions, must needs maintain a scornful silence on the
subject of Everard's love-making; by assailing this proud reserve,
this dignity which perchance had begun to burden its supporter,
Everard made possible, if not inevitable, a discussion of his suit
between the two women. She who talks of her lover will be led to
think of him.
Miss Barfoot knew not whether to hope for the marriage of this
strange pair. She was distrustful of her cousin, found it hard to
imagine him a loyal husband, and could not be sure whether Rhoda's
qualities were such as would ultimately retain or repel him. She
inclined to think this wooing a mere caprice. But Rhoda gave ear to
him, of that there could be little doubt; and since his inheritance
of ample means the affair began to have a new aspect. That Everard
persevered, though the world of women was now open to him--for, on
a moderate computation, any man with Barfoot's personal advantages,
and armed with fifteen hundred a year, may choose among fifty
possible maidens--seemed to argue that he was really in love. But
what it would cost Rhoda to appear before her friends in the
character of a bride! What a humbling of her glory!
Was she capable of the love which defies all humiliation? Or, loving
ardently, would she renounce a desired happiness from dread of
female smiles and whispers? Or would it be her sufficient
satisfaction to reject a wealthy suitor, and thus pose more grandly
than ever before the circle who saw in her an example of woman's
independence? Powerful was the incitement to curiosity in a
situation which, however it ended, would afford such matter for
emotional hypothesis.
They did not talk of Everard. Whether Rhoda replied to his letters
from abroad Miss Barfoot had no means of ascertaining. But after his
return he had a very cold reception--due, perhaps, to some
audacity he had allowed himself in his correspondence. Rhoda again
avoided meeting with him, and, as Miss Barfoot noticed, threw
herself with increased energy into all her old pursuits.
'What about your holiday this year?' Mary asked one evening in June.
'Shall you go first, or shall I?'
'Please make whatever arrangements you like.'
Miss Barfoot had a reason for wishing to postpone her holiday until
late in August. She said so, and proposed that Rhoda should take any
three weeks she liked prior to that.
'Miss Vesper,' she added, 'can manage your room very well. We shall
be much more at ease in that respect than last year.'
'Yes. Miss Vesper is getting to be very useful and trustworthy.'
Rhoda mused when she had made this remark.
'Do you know,' she asked presently, 'whether she sees much of Mrs.
Widdowson?'
'I have no idea.'
They decided that Rhoda should go away at the close of July. Where
was her holiday to be spent? Miss Barfoot suggested the lake
country.
'I was thinking of it myself,' said Rhoda. 'I should like to have
some sea-bathing, though. A week by the shore, and then the rest of
the time spent in vagabondage among the mountains, would suit me
very well. Mrs. Cosgrove is at home in Cumberland; I must ask her
advice.'
This was done, and there resulted a scheme which seemed to excite
Rhoda with joyous anticipation. On the coast of Cumberland, a few
miles south of St. Bees, is a little place called Seascale, unknown
to the ordinary tourist, but with a good hotel and a few scattered
houses where lodgings can be obtained. Not far away rise the
mountain barriers of lake-land, Wastdale clearly discernible. At
Seascale, then, Rhoda would spend her first week, the quiet shore
with its fine stretch of sand affording her just the retreat that
she desired.
'There are one or two bathing-machines, Mrs. Cosgrove says, but I
hope to avoid such abominations. How delicious it was in one's
childhood, when one ran into the sea naked! I will enjoy that
sensation once more, if I have to get up at three in the morning.'
About this time Barfoot made one of his evening calls. He had no
hope of seeing Rhoda, and was agreeably surprised by her presence in
the drawing-room. Just as happened a year ago, the subject of Miss
Barfoot making a direct inquiry. With lively interest, Mary waited
for the reply, and was careful not to smile when Rhoda made known
her intentions.
'Have you planned a route after your stay at Seascale?' Barfoot
asked.
'No. I shall do that when I am there.'
Whether or not he intended a contrast to these homely projects,
Barfoot presently began to talk of travel on a grander scale. When
he next left England, he should go by the Orient Express right away
to Constantinople. His cousin asked questions about the Orient
Express, and he supplied her with details very exciting to the
imagination of any one who longs to see the kingdoms of the earth--
as undoubtedly Rhoda did. The very name, Orient Express, has a
certain sublimity, such as attaches, more or less, to all the
familiar nomenclature of world-transits. He talked himself into
fervour, and kept a watch on Rhoda's countenance. As also did Miss
Barfoot. Rhoda tried to appear unaffected, but her coldness betrayed
its insincerity.
The next day, when work at Great Portland Street was just finished,
she fell into conversation with Mildred Vesper. Miss Barfoot had an
engagement to dine out that evening, and Rhoda ended by inviting
Milly to come home with her to Chelsea. To Milly this was a great
honour; she hesitated because of her very plain dress, but easily
allowed herself to be persuaded when she saw that Miss Nunn really
desired her company.
Before dinner they had a walk in Battersea Park. Rhoda had never
been so frank and friendly; she induced the quiet, unpretending girl
to talk of her early days, her schools, her family. Remarkable was
Milly's quiet contentedness; not long ago she had received an
increase of payment from Miss Barfoot, and one would have judged
that scarcely a wish now troubled her, unless it were that she might
see her scattered brothers and sisters, all of whom, happily, were
doing pretty well in the struggle for existence.
'You must feel rather lonely in your lodgings sometimes?' said
Rhoda.
'Very rarely. In future I shall have music in the evening. Our best
room has been let to a young man who has a violin, and he plays "The
Blue Bells of Scotland"--not badly.'
Rhoda did not miss the humorous intention, veiled, as usual, under a
manner of extreme sedateness.
'Does Mrs. Widdowson come to see you?'
'Not often. She came a few days ago.'
'You go to her house sometimes?'
'I haven't been there for several months. At first I used to go
rather frequently, but--it's a long way.'
To this subject Rhoda returned after dinner, when they were cosily
settled in the drawing-room.
'Mrs. Widdowson comes here now and then, and we are always very glad
to see her. But I can't help thinking she looks rather unhappy.'
'I'm afraid she does,' assented the other gravely.
'You and I were both at her wedding. It wasn't very cheerful, was
it? I had a disagreeable sense of bad omens all the time. Do you
think she is sorry?'
'I'm really afraid she is.'
Rhoda observed the look that accompanied this admission.
'Foolish girl! Why couldn't she stay with us, and keep her liberty?
She doesn't seem to have made any new friends. Has she spoken to you
of any?'
'Only of people she has met here.'
Rhoda yielded--or seemed to yield--to an impulse of frankness.
Bending slightly forward, with an anxious expression, she said in
confidential tones--
'Can you help to put my mind at rest about Monica? You saw her a
week ago. Did she say anything, or give any sign, that might make
one really uneasy on her account?'
There was a struggle in Milly before she answered. Rhoda added--
'Perhaps you had rather not--'
'Yes, I had rather tell you. She said a good many strange things,
and I _have_ been uneasy about her. I wished I could speak to some
one--'
'How strange that I should feel urged to ask you about this,' said
Rhoda, her eyes, peculiarly bright and keen, fixed on the girl's
face. 'The poor thing is very miserable, I am sure. Her husband
seems to leave her entirely to herself.'
Milly looked surprised.
'Monica made quite the opposite complaint to me. She said that was a
prisoner.'
'That's very odd. She certainly goes about a good deal and alone.'
'I didn't know that,' said Milly. 'She has very often talked to me
about a woman's right to the same freedom as a man, and I always
understood that Mr. Widdowson objected to her going anywhere without
him, except just to call here, or at my lodgings.'
'Do you think she has any acquaintance that he dislikes?'
The direct answer was delayed, but it came at length.
'There is some one. She hasn't told me who it is.'
'In plain words, Mr. Widdowson thinks he has cause for jealousy?'
'Yes, I understand Monica to mean that.'
Rhoda's face had grown very dark. She moved her hands nervously.
'But--you don't think she could deceive him?'
'Oh, I can't think that!' replied Miss Vesper, with much
earnestness. 'But what I couldn't help fearing, after I saw her
last, was that she might almost be tempted to leave her husband. She
spoke so much of freedom--and of a woman's right to release
herself if she found her marriage was a mistake.'
'I am so grateful to you for telling me all this. We must try to
help her. Of course I will make no mention of you, Miss Vesper. Then
you are really under the impression that there's some one she--
prefers to her husband?'
'I can't help thinking there is,' admitted the other very solemnly.
'I was so sorry for her, and felt so powerless. She cried a little.
All I could do was to entreat her not to behave rashly. I thought
her sister ought to know--'
'Oh, Miss Madden is useless. Monica cannot look to her for advice or
support.'
After this conversation Rhoda passed a very unquiet night, and gloom
appeared in her countenance for the next few days.
She wished to have a private interview with Monica, but doubted
whether it would in any degree serve her purpose--that of
discovering whether certain suspicions she entertained had actual
ground. Confidence between her and Mrs. Widdowson had never existed,
and in the present state of things she could not hope to probe
Monica's secret feelings. Whilst she still brooded over the
difficulty there came a letter for her from Everard Barfoot. He
wrote formally; it had occurred to him that he might be of some
slight service, in view of her approaching holiday, if he looked
through the guide-books, and jotted down the outline of such a
walking-tour as she had in mind. This he had done, and the results
were written out on an enclosed sheet of paper. Rhoda allowed a day
to intervene, then sent a reply. She thanked Mr. Barfoot sincerely
for the trouble he had so kindly taken. 'I see you limit me to ten
miles a day. In such scenery of course one doesn't hurry on, but I
can't help informing you that twenty miles wouldn't alarm me. I
think it very likely that I shall follow your itinerary, after my
week of bathing and idling. I leave on Monday week.'
Barfoot did not call again. Every evening she sat in expectation of
his coming. Twice Miss Barfoot was away until a late hour, and on
those occasions, after dinner, Rhoda sat in complete idleness, her
face declaring the troubled nature of 'her thoughts. On the Sunday
before her departure she took a sudden resolve and went to call upon
Monica at Herne Hill.
Mrs. Widdowson, she learnt from the servant, had left home about an
hour since.
'Is Mr. Widdowson at home?'
Yes, he was. And Rhoda waited for some time in the drawing-room
until he made his appearance. Of late Widdowson had grown so
careless in the matter of toilet, that an unexpected visit obliged
him to hurry through a change of apparel before he could present
himself. Looking upon him for the first time for several months,
Rhoda saw the misery was undermining the man's health. Words could
not have declared his trouble more plainly than the haggard features
and stiff, depressed, self-conscious manner. He fixed his sunken
eyes upon the visitor, and smiled, as was plain, only for civility's
sake. Rhoda did her best to seem at ease; she explained (standing,
for he forgot to ask her to be seated) that she was going away on
the morrow, and had hoped to see Mrs. Widdowson, who, she was told,
had not been very well of late.
'No, she is not in very good health,' said Widdowson vaguely. 'She
has gone this afternoon to Mrs. Cosgrove's--I think you know her.'
Less encouragement to remain could not have been offered, but Rhoda
conceived a hope of hearing something significant if she persevered
in conversation. The awkwardness of doing so was indifferent to her.
'Shall you be leaving town shortly, Mr. Widdowson?'
'We are not quite sure--But pray sit down, Miss Nunn. You
haven't seen my wife lately?'
He took a chair, and rested his hands upon his knees, gazing at the
visitor's skirt.
'Mrs. Widdowson hasn't been to see us for more than a month--if I
remember rightly.'
His look expressed both surprise and doubt.
'A month? But I thought--I had an idea--that she went only a few
days ago.'
'In the day time?'
'To Great Portland Street, I mean--to hear a lecture, or something
of that kind, by Miss Barfoot.'
Rhoda kept silence for a moment. Then she replied hastily--
'Oh yes--very likely--I wasn't there that afternoon.'
'I see. That would explain--'
He seemed relieved, but only for the instant; then his eyes glanced
hither and thither, with painful restlessness. Rhoda observed him
closely. After fidgeting with his feet, he suddenly took a stiff
position, and said in a louder voice--
'We are going to leave London altogether. I have decided to take a
house at my wife's native place, Clevedon. Her sisters will come and
live with us.'
'That is a recent decision, Mr. Widdowson?'
'I have thought about it for some time. London doesn't suit Monica's
health; I'm sure it doesn't. She will be much better in the
country.'
'Yes, I think that very likely.'
'As you say that you have noticed her changed looks, I shall lose no
time in getting away.' He made a great show of determined energy. 'A
few weeks--. We will go down to Clevedon at once and find a
house. Yes, we will go to-morrow, or the day after. Miss Madden,
also, is very far from well. I wish I hadn't delayed so long.'
'You are doing very wisely, I think. I had meant to suggest
something of this kind to Mrs. Widdowson. Perhaps, if I went at once
to Mrs. Cosgrove's, I might be fortunate enough to find her still
there?'
'You might. Did I understand you to say that you go away tomorrow?
For three weeks. Ah, then we may be getting ready to remove when you
come back.'
The change that had come over him was remarkable. He could not keep
his seat, and began to pace the end of the room. Seeing no
possibility of prolonging the talk for her own purposes, Rhoda
accepted this dismissal, and with the briefest leave-taking went her
way to Mrs. Cosgrove's.
She was deeply agitated. Monica had not attended that lecture of
Miss Barfoot's, and so, it was evident, had purposely deceived her
husband. To what end? Where were those hours spent? Mildred Vesper's
report supplied grounds for sombre conjecture, and the incident at
Sloane Square Station, the recollection of Monica and Barfoot
absorbed in talk, seemed to have a possible significance which fired
Rhoda with resentment.
Her arrival at Mrs. Cosgrove's was too late. Monica had been there
said the hostess, but had left nearly half an hour ago.
Rhoda's instant desire was to go on to Bayswater, and somehow keep
watch near the flats where Barfoot lived. Monica might he there. Her
coming forth from the building might be detected.
But the difficulty of the understanding, and, still more, a dread of
being seen hovering about that quarter, checked her purpose as soon
as it was formed. She returned home, and for an hour or two kept in
solitude.
'What has happened?' asked Miss Barfoot, when they at length met.
'Happened? Nothing that I know of.'
'You look very strange.'
'Your imagination. I have been packing; perhaps it's from stooping
over the trunk.'
This by no means satisfied Mary, who felt that things mysterious
were going on about her. But she could only wait, repeating to
herself that the grand _denouement_ decidedly was not far off.
At nine o'clock sounded the visitor's bell. If, as she thought
likely, the caller was Everard, Miss Barfoot decided that she would
disregard everything but the dramatic pressure of the moment, and
leave those two alone together for half an hour. Everard it was; he
entered the drawing-room with an unusual air of gaiety.
'I have been in the country all day,' were his first words; and he
went on to talk of trivial things--the doings of a Cockney
excursion party that had come under his notice.
In a few minutes Mary made an excuse for absenting herself. When she
was gone, Rhoda looked steadily at Barfoot, and asked--
'Have you really been out of town?'
'Why should you doubt it?'
'As I told you.
She averted her look. After examining her curiously, Everard came
and stood before her.
'I want to ask your leave to meet you somewhere during these next
three weeks. At any point on your route. We could have a day's
ramble together, and then--say good-bye.'
'The lake country is free to you, Mr. Barfoot.'
'But I mustn't miss you. You will leave Seascale to-morrow week?'
'At present I think so. But I can't restrict myself by any
agreement. Holiday must be a time of liberty.'
They looked at each other--she with a carelessness which was all
but defiance, he with a significant smile.
'To-morrow week, then, perhaps we may meet again.'
Rhoda made no reply, beyond a movement of her eyebrows, as if to
express indifference.
'I won't stay longer this evening. A pleasant journey to you!'
He shook hands, and left the room. In the hall Miss Barfoot came to
meet him; they exchanged a few words, unimportant and without
reference to what had passed between him and Rhoda. Nor did Rhoda
speak of the matter when joined by her friend. She retired early,
having settled all the arrangements for her departure by the ten
o'clock express from Euston next morning.
Her luggage was to consist of one trunk and a wallet with a strap,
which would serve the purposes of a man's knapsack. Save the
indispensable umbrella, she carried no impeding trifles. A new
costume, suitable for shore and mountain, was packed away in the
trunk; Miss Barfoot had judged of its effect, and was of opinion
that it became the wearer admirably.
But Rhoda, having adjusted everything that she was going to take
with her, still had an occupation which kept her up for several
hours. From a locked drawer she brought forth packets of letters,
the storage of many years, and out of these selected carefully
perhaps a tithe, which she bound together and deposited in a box;
the remainder she burnt in the empty fireplace. Moreover, she
collected from about the room a number of little objects, ornaments
and things of use, which also found a place in the same big box. All
her personal property which had any value for her, except books, was
finally under lock and key, and in portable repositories. But still
she kept moving, as if in search of trifles that might have escaped
her notice; silently, in her soft slippers, she strayed hither and
thither, till the short summer night had all but given place to
dawn; and when at length weariness compelled her to go to bed, she
was not able to sleep.
Nor did Mary Barfoot enjoy much sleep that night. She lay thinking,
and forecasting strange possibilities.
On Monday evening, returned from Great Portland Street, the first
thing she did was to visit Rhoda's chamber. The ashes of burnt paper
had been cleared away, but a glance informed her of the needless and
unprecedented care with which Miss Nunn had collected and packed
most of the things that belonged to her. Again Mary had a troubled
night.
CHAPTER XXII
HONOUR IN DIFFICULTIES
At Mrs. Cosgrove's, this Sunday afternoon, Monica had eyes and
thoughts for one person only. Her coming at all was practically an
appointment to meet Bevis, whom she had seen twice since her visit
to the flat. A day or two after that occasion, she received a call
from the Bevis girls, who told her of their brother's approaching
departure for Bordeaux, and thereupon she invited the trio to dine
with her. A fortnight subsequently to the dinner she had a chance
encounter with Bevis in Oxford Street; constraint of business did
not allow him to walk beside her for more than a minute or two, but
they spoke of Mrs. Cosgrove's on the following Sunday, and there,
accordingly, found each other.
Tremor of self-consciousness kept Monica in dread of being watched
and suspected. Few people were present to-day, and after exchanging
formal words with Bevis, she moved away to talk with the hostess.
Not till half an hour had passed did she venture to obey the glances
which her all but avowed lover cast towards her in conversation. He
was so much at ease, so like what she had always known him, that
Monica asked herself whether she had not mistaken the meaning of his
homage. One moment she hoped it might be so; the next, she longed
for some sign of passionate devotion, and thought with anguish of
the day, now so near, when he would be gone for ever. This, she
ardently believed, was the man who should have been her husband. Him
she could love with heart and soul, could make his will her absolute
law, could live on his smiles, could devote herself to his
interests. The independence she had been struggling to assert ever
since her marriage meant only freedom to love. If she had understood
herself as she now did, her life would never have been thus cast
into bondage.
'The girls,' Bevis was saying, 'leave on Thursday. The rest of the
week I shall be alone. On Monday the furniture will be stowed away
at the Pantechnicon, and on Tuesday--off I go.'
A casual listener could have supposed that the prospect pleased him.
Monica, with a fixed smile, looked at the other groups conversing in
the room; no one was paying any attention to her. In the same moment
she heard a murmur from her companion's lips; he was speaking still,
but in a voice only just audible.
'Come on Friday afternoon about four o'clock.'
Her heart began to throb painfully, and she knew that a treacherous
colour had risen to her checks.
'Do come--once more--for the last time. It shall be just as
before--just as before. An hour's talk, and we will say good-bye
to each other.'
She was powerless to breathe a word. Bevis, noticing that Mrs.
Cosgrove had thrown a look in their direction, suddenly laughed as
if at some jest between them, and resumed his lively strain of talk.
Monica also laughed. An interval of make-believe, and again the soft
murmur fell upon her ear.
'I shall expect you. I know you won't refuse me this one last
kindness. Some day,' his voice was all but extinguished, 'some
day--who knows?'
Dreadful hope struck through her. A stranger's eyes turned their
way, and again she laughed.
'On Friday, at four. I shall expect you.'
She rose, looked for an instant about the room, then offered him her
hand, uttering some commonplace word of leave-taking. Their eyes did
not meet. She went up to Mrs. Cosgrove, and as soon as possible left
the house.
Widdowson met her as she crossed the threshold of home. His face
told her that something extraordinary had happened, and she trembled
before him.
'Back already?' he exclaimed, with a grim smile. 'Be quick, and take
your things off, and come to the library.'
If he had discovered anything (the lie, for instance, that she told
him a month ago, or that more recent falsehood when she pretended,
without serious reason, to have been at Miss Barfoot's lecture), he
would not look and speak thus. Hurrying, panting, she made a change
of dress, and obeyed his summons.
'Miss Nunn has been here,' were his first words.
She turned pale as death. Of course he observed it; she was now
preparing for anything.
'She wanted to see you because she is going away on Monday. What's
the matter?'
'Nothing. You spoke so strangely--'
'Did I? And you _look_ very strangely. I don't understand you. Miss
Nunn says that everybody has noticed how ill you seem. It's time we
did something. To-morrow morning we are going down into Somerset, to
Clevedon, to find a house.'
'I thought you had given up that idea.'
'Whether I had or not doesn't matter.'
In the determination to appear, and be, energetic, he spoke with a
rough obstinacy, a doggedness that now and then became violence. 'I
am decided on it now. There's a train to Bristol at ten-twenty. You
will pack just a few things; we shan't be away for more than a day
or two.'
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday--By Friday they might be back. Till
now, in an anguish of uncertainty, Monica had made up her mind. She
would keep the appointment on Friday, come of it what might. If she
could not be back in time, she would write a letter.
'Why are you talking in this tone?' she said coldly.
'What tone? I am telling you what I have decided to do, that's all.
I shall easily find a house down there, no doubt. Knowing the place,
you will be able to suggest the likely localities.'
She sat down, for strength was failing her.
'It's quite true,' Widdowson went on, staring at her with inflamed
eyes. 'You are beginning to look like a ghost. Oh, we'll have an end
of this!' He cackled in angry laughter. 'Not a day's unnecessary
delay! Write to both your sisters this evening and tell them. I wish
them both to come and live with us.'
'Very well.'
'Now, won't you be glad? Won't it be better in every way?'
He came so near that she felt his feverish breath.
'I told you before,' she answered, 'to do just as you liked.'
'And you won't talk about being kept a prisoner?'
Monica laughed.
'Oh no, I won't say anything at all.'
She scarcely knew what words fell from her lips. Let him propose,
let him do what he liked; to her it was indifferent. She saw
something before her--something she durst not, even an hour ago,
have steadily contemplated; it drew her with the force of fate.
'You know we couldn't go on living like this--don't you, Monica?'
'No, we couldn't.'
'You see!' He almost shouted in triumph, misled by the smile on her
face. 'All that was needed was resolution on my part. I have been
absurdly weak, and weakness in the husband means unhappiness in the
wife. From today you look to me for guidance. I am no tyrant, but I
shall rule you for your own good.'
Still she smiled.
'So there's an end of our misery--isn't it, darling? What misery!
Good God, how I have suffered! Haven't you known it?'
'I have known it too well.'
'And now you will make up to me for it, Monica?'
Again prompted by the irresistible force, she answered mechanically,--
'I will do the best for both.'
He threw himself on the ground beside her and clasped her in his
arms.
'No, that is my own dear wife once more! Your face has altogether
changed. See how right it is that a husband should take the law into
his own hands! Our second year of marriage shall be very different
from the first. And yet we _were_ happy, weren't we, my beautiful?
It's only this cursed London that has come between us. At Clevedon
we shall begin our life over again--like we did at Guernsey. All
our trouble, I am convinced, has come of your ill-health. This air
has never suited you; you have felt miserable, and couldn't be at
peace in your home. Poor little girl! My poor darling!'
Through the evening he was in a state of transport, due partly to
the belief that Monica really welcomed his decision, partly to the
sense of having behaved at length like a resolute man. His eyes were
severely bloodshot, and before bedtime headache racked him
intolerably.
Everything was carried out as he had planned it. They journeyed down
into Somerset, put up at a Clevedon hotel, and began house-hunting.
On Wednesday the suitable abode was discovered--a house of modest
pretensions, but roomy and well situated. It could be made ready for
occupation in a fortnight. Bent on continuing his exhibition of
vigorous promptitude, Widdowson signed a lease that same evening.
'To-morrow we will go straight home and make our preparations for
removal. When all is ready, you shall come down here and live at the
hotel until the house is furnished. Go to your sister Virginia and
simply bid her do as you wish. Imitate me!' He laughed fatuously.
'Don't listen to any objection. When you have once got her away she
will thank you.'
By Thursday afternoon they were back at Herne Hill. Widdowson still
kept up the show of extravagant spirits, but he was worn out. He
spoke so hoarsely that one would have thought he had contracted a
severe sore throat; it resulted merely from nervous strain. After a
pretence of dinner, he seated himself as if to read; glancing at him
a few minutes later, Monica found that he was fast asleep.
She could not bear to gaze at him, yet her eyes turned thither again
and again. His face was repulsive to her; the deep furrows, the red
eyelids, the mottled skin moved her to loathing. And yet she pitied
him. His frantic exultation was the cruelest irony. What would he
do? What would become of him? She turned away, and presently left
the room, for the sound of his uneasy breathing made her suffer too
much.
When he woke up, he came in search of her, and laughed over his
involuntary nap.
'Well, now, you will go and see your sister to-morrow morning.'
'In the afternoon, I think.'
'Why? Don't let us have any procrastination. The morning, the
morning!'
'Please do let me have my way in such a trifle as that,' Monica
exclaimed nervously. 'I have all sorts of things to see to here
before I can go out.'
He caressed her.
'You shan't say that I am unreasonable. In the afternoon, then. And
don't listen to any objections.'
'No, no.'
* * * * * * * * * *
It was Friday. All the morning Widdowson had business with house
agents and furniture removers, for he would not let a day go by
without some practical step towards release from the life he
detested. Monica seemed to be equally active in her own department;
she was turning out drawers and wardrobes, and making selection of
things--on some principle understood by herself. A flush remained
upon her cheeks, in marked contrast to the pallor which for a long
time had given her an appearance of wasting away. That and her
singularly bright eyes endowed her with beauty suggestive of what
she might have gained in happy marriage.
The had luncheon at one o'clock, and at a quarter to two Monica
started by train for Clapham Junction. It was her purpose to have a
short conversation with Virginia, who knew of the trip to Clevedon,
and to speak as though she were quite reconciled to the thought of
removal; after that, she would pursue her journey so as to reach
Bayswater by four o'clock. But Virginia was not at home. Mrs.
Conisbee said she had gone out at eleven in the morning, and with
the intention of returning by teatime. After a brief hesitation
Monica requested the landlady to deliver a message.
'Please ask her not to come to Herne Hill until she hears from me,
as I am not likely to be at home for a day or two.'
This left more time at her disposal than she knew how to employ. She
returned to the railway station, and travelled on to Victoria;
there, in the corner of a waiting-room, she sat, feverishly
impatient, until her watch told her that she might take the next
train westward.
A possible danger was before her--though perhaps she need not
trouble herself with the thought of such dangers. What if Mr.
Barfoot happened to encounter her as she ascended the stairs? But
most likely he had no idea that her female friends, who dwelt on the
floor above him, were gone away. Did it matter what he might think?
In a day or two--
She came to the street, approached the block of flats, involuntarily
casting anxious glances about her. And when she was within twenty
yards of the door, it opened, and forth came Barfoot. Her first
sensation was unreasoning terror; her next, thankfulness that she
had not been a few minutes sooner, when the very meeting she had
feared, within the building itself, would have come to pass. He
walked this way; he saw her; and the pleasantest smile of
recognition lit up his face.
'Mrs. Widdowson! Not a minute ago you were in my thoughts. I wished
I could see you.'
'I am going--to make a call in this neighbourhood--'
She could not command herself. The shock had left her trembling, and
the necessity of feigning calmness was a new trial of her nerves.
Barfoot, she felt certain, was reading her face like a printed page;
he saw guilt there; his quickly-averted eyes, his peculiar smile,
seemed to express the facile tolerance of a man of the world.
'Allow me to accompany you to the end of the street.'
His words buzzed in her ears. She walked on without conscious
effort, like an automaton obedient to a touch.
'You know that Miss Nunn has gone down into Cumberland?' Barfoot was
saying, his look bent upon her.
'Yes. I know.'
She tried to glance at him with a smile.
'To-morrow,' he pursued, 'I am going there myself.'
'To Cumberland?'
'I shall see her, I hope. Perhaps she will only be angry with me.'
'Perhaps. But perhaps not.'
Her confusion would not be overcome. She felt a burning in her ears,
on her neck. It was an agony of shame. The words she spoke sounded
imbecile mutterings, which must confirm Barfoot in his worst opinion
of her.
'If it is all in vain,' he continued, 'then I shall say good-bye,
and there's an end.'
'I hope not--I should think--'
Useless. She set her lips and became mute. If only he would leave
her! And almost immediately he did so, with a few words of kind
tone. She felt the pressure of his hand, and saw him walk rapidly
away; doubtless he knew this was what she desired.
Until he had passed out of sight, Monica kept the same direction.
Then she turned round and hurried back, fearful lest the detention
might make her late, and Bevis might lose hope of her coming. There
could be no one in the building now whom she need fear to meet. She
opened the big entrance door and went up.
Bevis must have been waiting for the sound of her light footstep;
his door flew open before she could knock. Without speaking, a
silent laugh of joy upon his lips, he drew back to make room for her
entrance, and then pressed both her hands.
In the sitting-room were beginnings of disorder. Pictures had been
taken down from the walls and light ornaments removed.
'I shan't sleep here after to-night,' Bevis began, his agitation
scarcely less obvious than Monica's. 'To-morrow I shall be packing
what is to go with me. How I hate it all!'
Monica dropped into a chair near the door.
'Oh, not there!' he exclaimed. 'Here, where you sat before. We are
going to have tea together again.'
His utterances were forced, and the laugh that came between them
betrayed the quivering of his nerves.
'Tell me what you have been doing. I have thought of you day and
night.'
He brought a chair close to her, and when he had seated himself he
took one of her hands. Monica, scarcely repressing a sob, the result
of reaction from her fears and miseries, drew the hand away. But
again he took it.
'There's the glove on it,' he said in a shaking voice. 'What harm in
my holding your glove? Don't think of it, and talk to me. I love
music, but no music is like your voice.'
'You go on Monday?'
It was her lips spoke the sentence, not she.
'No, on Tuesday--I think.'
'My--Mr. Widdowson is going to take me away from London.'
'Away?'
She told him the circumstances. Bevis kept his eyes upon her face,
with a look of rapt adoration which turned at length to pain and
woeful perplexity.
'You have been married a year,' he murmured. 'Oh, if I had met you
before that! What a cruel fate that we should know each other only
when there was no hope!'
The man revealed himself in this dolorous sentimentality. His wonted
blitheness and facetiousness, his healthy features, his supple,
well-built frame, suggested that when love awoke within him he would
express it with virile force. But he trembled and blushed like a
young girl, and his accents fell at last into a melodious whining.
He raised the gloved fingers to his lips. Monica bent her face away,
deadly pale, with closed eyes.
'Are we to part to-day, and never again see each other?' he went on.
'Say that you love me! Only say that you love me!'
'You despise me for coming to you like this.'
'Despise you?'
In a sudden rapture he folded his arms about her.
'Say that you love me!'
He kissed away the last syllable of her whispered reply.
'Monica!--what is there before us? How can I leave you?'
Yielding herself for the moment in a faintness that threatened to
subdue her, she was yet able, when his caresses grew wild with
passion, to put back his arms and move suddenly away. He sprang up,
and they stood speechless. Again he drew near.
'Take me away with you!' Monica then cried, clasping her hands
together. 'I can't live with _him_. Let me go with you to France.'
Bevis's blue eyes widened with consternation.
'Dare you--dare you do that?' he stammered.
'Dare I? What courage is needed? How _dare_ I remain with a man I
hate?'
'You must leave him. Of course you must leave him.'
'Oh, before another day has passed!' sobbed Monica. 'It is wrong
even to go back to-day. I love you, and in that there is nothing to
be ashamed of; but what bitter shame to be living with _him_,
practising hypocrisy. He makes me hate myself as much as I hate
_him_.'
'Has he behaved brutally to you, dearest?'
'I have nothing to accuse him of, except that he persuaded me to
marry him--made me think that I could love him when I didn't know
what love meant. And now he wishes to get me away from all the
people I know because he is jealous of every one. And how can I
blame him? Hasn't he cause for jealousy? I am deceiving him--I
have deceived him for a long time, pretending to be a faithful wife
when I have often wished that he might die and release me. It is I
who am to blame. I ought to have left him. Every woman who thinks of
her husband as I do ought to go away from him. It is base and wicked
to stay there--pretending--deceiving--'
Bevis came towards her and took her in his arms.
'You love me?' she panted under his hot kisses. 'You will take me
away with you?'
'Yes, you shall come. We mustn't travel together, but you shall
come--when I am settled there--'
'Why can't I go with you?'
'My own darling, think what it would mean if our secret were
discovered--'
'Discovered? But how can we think of that? How can I go back there,
with your kisses on my lips? Oh, I must live somewhere in secret
until you go, and then--I have put aside the few things that I
want to take. I could never have continued to live with him even if
you hadn't said you love me. I was obliged to pretend that I agreed
to everything, but I will beg and starve rather than bear that
misery any longer. Don't you love me enough to face whatever may
happen?'
'I love you with all my soul, Monica! Sit down again, dearest; let
us talk about it, and see what we can do.'
He half led, half carried, her to a couch, and there, holding her
embraced, gave way to such amorous frenzy that again Monica broke
from him.
'If you love me,' she said in tones of bitter distress, 'you will
respect me as much as before I came to you. Help me--I am
suffering so dreadfully. Say at once that I shall go away with you,
even if we travel as strangers. If you are afraid of it becoming
known I will do everything to prevent it. I will go back and live
there until Tuesday, and come away only at the last hour, so that no
one will ever suspect where--I don't care how humbly I live when
we are abroad. I can have lodgings somewhere in the same town, or
near, and you will come--'
His hair disordered, his eyes wild, quivering throughout with
excitement, he stood as if pondering possibilities.
'Shall I be a burden to you?' she asked in a faint voice. 'Is the
expense more than you--'
'No, no, no! How can you think of such a thing? But it would be so
much better if you could wait here until I--Oh, what a wretched
thing to have to seem so cowardly to you! But the difficulties are
so great, darling. I shall be a perfect stranger in Bordeaux. I
don't even speak the language at all well. When I reach there I
shall be met at the station by one of our people, and--just think,
how could we manage? You know, if it were discovered that I had run
away with you, it would damage my position terribly. I can't say
what might happen. My darling, we shall have to be very careful. In
a few weeks it might all be managed very easily. I would write to
you to some address, and as soon as ever I had made arrangements--'
Monica broke down. The unmanliness of his tone was so dreadful a
disillusion. She had expected something so entirely different--
swift, virile passion, eagerness even to anticipate her desire of
flight, a strength, a courage to which she could abandon herself,
body and soul. She broke down utterly, and wept with her hands upon
her face.
Bevis, in sympathetic distraction, threw himself on his knees
before, clutching at her waist.
'Don't, don't!' he wailed. 'I can't bear that! I will do as you
wish, Monica. Tell me some place where I can write to you. Don't
cry, darling--don't--'
She went to the couch again, and rested her face against the back,
sobbing. For a time they exchanged mere incoherences. Then passion
seized upon both, and they clung together, mute, motionless.
'To-morrow I shall leave him,' whispered Monica, when at length
their eyes met. 'He will be away in the morning, and I can take what
I need. Tell me where I shall go to, dear--to wait until you are
ready. No one will ever suspect that we have gone together. He knows
I am miserable with him; he will believe that I have found some way
of supporting myself in London. Where shall I live till Tuesday?'
Bevis scarcely listened to her words. The temptation of the natural
man, basely selfish, was strengthening its hold upon him.
'Do you love me? Do you really love me?' he replied to her, with
thick, agitated utterance.
'Why should you ask that? How can you doubt it?'
'If you really love me---'
His face and tones frightened her.
'Don't make me doubt _your_ love! If I have not perfect trust in you
what will become of me?'
Yet once more she drew resolutely away from him. He pursued, and
held her arms with violence.
'Oh, I am mistaken in you!' Monica cried in fear and bitterness.
'You don't know what love means, as _I_ feel it. You won't speak,
you won't think, of our future life together--'
'I have promised--'
'Leave loose of me! It's because I have come here. You think me a
worthless woman, without sense of honour, with no self-respect--'
He protested vehemently. The anguished look in her eyes had its
effect upon his senses; by degrees it subjugated him, and made him
ashamed of his ignoble impulse.
'Shall I find a lodging for you till Tuesday?' he asked, after
moving away arid returning.
'Will you?'
'You are sure you can leave home to-morrow--without being
suspected?'
'Yes, I am sure I can. He is going to the City in the morning.
Appoint some place where I can meet you. I will come in a cab, and
then you can take me on to the--'
'But you are forgetting the risks. If you take a cab from Herne
Hill, with your luggage, he will be able to find out the driver
afterwards, and learn where you went.'
'Then I will drive only as far as the station, and come to Victoria,
and you shall meet me there.'
The necessity of these paltry arrangements filled her soul with
shame. On the details of her escape she had hardly reflected. All
such considerations were, she deemed, naturally the care of her
lover, who would act with promptitude, and so as to spare her a
moment's perplexity. She had imagined everything in readiness within
a few hours; on _her_ no responsibility save that of breaking the
hated bond. Inevitably she turned to the wretched thought that Bevis
regarded her as a burden. Yes, he had already his mother and his
sisters to support; she ought to have remembered that.
'What time would it be?' he was asking.
Unable to reply, she pursued her reflections. She had money, but how
to obtain possession of it? Afterwards, when her flight was
accomplished, secrecy, it appeared, would be no less needful than
now. That necessity had never occurred to her; declaration of the
love that had freed her seemed inevitable--nay, desirable. Her
self-respect demanded it; only thus could she justify herself before
his sisters and other people who knew her. _They_, perhaps, would
not see it in the light of justification, but that mattered little;
her own conscience would approve what she had done. But to steal
away, and live henceforth in hiding, like a woman dishonoured even
in her own eyes--from that she shrank with repugnance. Rather than
that, would it not be preferable to break with her husband, and
openly live apart from him, alone?
'Be honest with me,' she suddenly exclaimed. 'Had you rather I
didn't come?'
'No, no! I can't live without you--'
'But, if that is true, why haven't you the courage to let every one
know it? In your heart you must think that we are acting wrongly.'
'I don't! I believe, as you do, that love is the only true marriage.
Very well!' He made a desperate gesture. 'Let us defy all
consequences. For your sake--'
His exaggerated vehemence could not deceive Monica.
'What is it,' she asked, 'that you most fear?'
He began to babble protestations, but she would not listen to them.
'Tell me--I have every right to ask--what you most fear?'
'I fear nothing if _you_ are with me. Let my relatives say and think
what they like. I have made great sacrifices for them; to give up
_you_ would be too much.'
Yet his distress was evident. It strained the corners of his mouth,
wrinkled his forehead.
'The disgrace would be more than you could bear. You would never see
your mother and your sisters again.'
'If they are so prejudiced, so unreasonable, I can't help it. They
must--'
He was interrupted by a loud rat-tat at the outer door. Blanched
herself, Monica saw that her lover's face turned to ghastly pallor.
'Who can that be?' he whispered hoarsely. 'I expect no one.'
'Need you answer?'
'Can it be--? Have you been followed? Does any one suspect--?'
They stared at each other, still half-paralysed, and stood waiting
thus until the knock was repeated impatiently.
'I daren't open,' Bevis whispered, coming close to her, as if on the
impulse of seeking protection--for to offer it was assuredly not
in his mind. 'It might be--'
'No! That's impossible.'
'I daren't go to the door. The risk is too frightful. He will go
away, whoever it is, if no one answers.'
Both were shaking in the second stage of terror. Bevis put his arm
about Monica, and felt her heart give great throbs against his own.
Their passion for the moment was effectually quenched.
'Listen! That's the clink of the letter-box. A card or something has
been put in. Then it's all right. I'll wait a moment.'
He stepped to the door of the room, opened it without sound, and at
once heard footsteps descending the stairs. In the look which he
cast back at her, a grin rather than a smile, Monica saw something
that gave her a pang of shame on his behalf. On going to the
letter-box he found a card, with a few words scribbled upon it.
'Only one of our partners!' he exclaimed gleefully. 'Wants to see me
to-night. Of course he took it for granted I was out.'
Monica was looking at her watch. Past five o'clock.
'I think I must go,' she said timidly.
'But what are our arrangements? Do you still intend--'
'Intend? Isn't it for you to decide?'
There was a coldness in the words of both, partly the result of the
great shock they had undergone, in part due to their impatience with
each other.
'Darling--do what I proposed at first. Stay for a few days, until
I am settled at Bordeaux.'
'Stay with my--my husband?'
She used the word purposely, significantly, to see how it would
affect him. The bitterness of her growing disillusion allowed her to
think and speak as if no ardent feeling were concerned.
'For both our sakes, dearest, dearest love! A few days longer, until
I have written to you, and told you exactly what to do. The journey
won't be very difficult for you; and think how much better, dear
Monica, if we can escape discovery, and live for each other without
any shame or fear to disturb us. You will be my own dear true wife.
I will love and guard you as long as I live.'
He embraced her with placid tenderness, laying his cheek against
hers, kissing her hands.
'We must see each other again,' he continued. 'Come on Sunday, will
you? And in the meantime find out some place where I could address
letters to you. You can always find a stationer's shop where they
will receive letters. Be guided by me, dear little girl. Only a week
or two--to save the happiness of our whole lives.'
Monica listened, but with half-attention, her look fixed on the
floor. Encouraged by her silence, the lover went on in a strain of
heightening enthusiasm, depicting the raptures of their retirement
from the world in some suburb of Bordeaux. How this retreat was to
escape the notice of his business companions, through whom the
scandal might get wind, he did not suggest. The truth was, Bevis
found himself in an extremely awkward position, with issues he had
not contemplated, and all he cared for was to avert the immediate
peril of public discovery. The easy-going, kindly fellow had never
considered all the responsibility involved in making mild love--
timorously selfish from the first--to a married woman who took his
advances with desperate seriousness. He had not in him the stuff of
vigorous rascality, still less the only other quality which can
support a man in such a situation as this--heroism of moral
revolt. So he cut a very poor figure, and was dolefully aware of it.
He talked, talked; trying to disguise his feebleness in tinsel
phrases; and Monica still kept her eyes cast down.
When another half-hour had passed, she sighed deeply and rose from
her seat. She would write to him, she said, and let him know where a
reply would reach her. No, she must not come here again; all he had
to tell her would be communicated by letter. The subdued tone, the
simple sadness of her words, distressed Bevis, and yet he secretly
congratulated himself. He had done nothing for which this woman
could justly reproach him; marvellous--so he considered--had
been his self-restraint; absolutely, he had behaved 'like a
gentleman.' To be sure, he was miserably in love, and, if
circumstances by any means allowed of it, would send for Monica to
join him in France. Should the thing prove impossible, he had
nothing whatever on his conscience.
He held out his arms to her. Monica shook her head and looked away.
'Say once more that you love me, darling,' he pleaded. 'I shall not
rest for an hour until I am able to write and say, "Come to me."'
She permitted him to hold her once more in his soft embrace.
'Kiss me, Monica!'
She put her lips to his cheek, and withdrew them, still shunning his
look.
'Oh, not that kind of kiss. Like you kissed me before.'
'I can't,' she replied, with choking voice, the tears again starting
forth.
'But what have I done that you should love me less, dearest?'
He kissed the falling drops, murmuring assurances, encouragements.
'You shan't leave me until I have heard you say that your love is
unchanged. Whisper it to me, sweetest!'
'When we meet again--not now.'
'You frighten me. Monica, we are not saying good-bye for ever?'
'If you send for me I _will_ come.'
'You promise faithfully? You will come?'
'If you send for me I will come.'
That was her last word. He opened the door for her, and listened as
she departed.
CHAPTER XXIII
IN AMBUSH
Hitherto, Widdowson had entertained no grave mistrust of his wife.
The principles she had avowed, directly traceable as it seemed to
her friendship with the militant women in Chelsea, he disliked and
feared; but her conduct he fully believed to be above reproach. His
jealously of Barfoot did not glance at Monica's attitude towards the
man; merely at the man himself, whom he credited with native
scoundreldom. Barfoot represented to his mind a type of licentious
bachelor; why, he could not have made perfectly clear to his own
understanding. Possibly the ease of Everard's bearing, the something
aristocratic in his countenance and his speech, the polish of his
manner, especially in formal converse with women, from the first
grave offence to Widdowson's essentially middle-class sensibilities.
If Monica were in danger at all, it was, he felt convinced, from
that quarter. The subject of his wife's intimate dialogue with
Barfoot at the Academy still remained a mystery to him. He put faith
in her rebellious declaration that every word might have been safely
repeated in his hearing, but, be the matter what it might, the
manner of Barfoot's talk meant evil. Of that conviction he could not
get rid.
He had read somewhere that a persistently jealous husband may not
improbably end by irritating an innocent wife into affording real
ground for jealousy. A man with small knowledge of the world is much
impressed by dicta such as there; they get into the crannies of his
mind, and thence direct the course of his thinking. Widdowson,
before his marriage, had never suspected the difficulty of
understanding a woman; had he spoken his serious belief on that
subject, it would have been found to represent the most primitive
male conception of the feminine being. Women were very like
children; it was rather a task to amuse them and to keep them out of
mischief. Therefore the blessedness of household toil, in especial
the blessedness of child-bearing and all that followed. Intimacy
with Monica had greatly affected his views, yet chiefly by
disturbing them; no firmer ground offered itself to his threading
when he perforce admitted that his former standpoint was every day
assailed by some incontestable piece of evidence. Woman had
individual characters; that discovery, though not a very profound
one, impressed him with the force of something arrived at by
independent observation. Monica often puzzled him gravely; he could
not find the key to her satisfactions and discontents. To regard her
simply as a human being was beyond the reach of his intelligence. He
cast the blame of his difficulties upon sex, and paid more attention
to the hints on such afforded him by his reading. He would endeavour
to keep his jealousy out of sight, lest the mysterious tendency of
the female nature might prompt Monica to deliberate wrongdoing.
To-day for the first time there flashed across him the thought that
already he might have been deceived. It originated in a peculiarity
of Monica's behaviour at luncheon. She ate scarcely anything; she
seemed hurried, frequently glancing at the clock; and she lost
herself in reverie. Discovering that his eye was upon her, she
betrayed uneasiness, and began to talk without considering what she
meant to say. All this might mean nothing more than her
barely-concealed regret at being obliged to leave London; but
Widdowson remarked it with a vivacity of feeling perhaps due to the
excitement in which he had lived for the past week. Perhaps the
activity, the resolution to which he had urged himself, caused a
sharpening of his perceptions. And the very thought, never out of
his mind, that only a few days had to elapse before he carried off
his wife from the scene of peril, tended to make him more vividly
conscious of that peril. Certain it was that a moment's clairvoyance
assailed his peace, and left behind it all manner of ugly
conjectures. Woman--so said the books--are adepts at
dissimulation. Was it conceivable that Monica had taken advantage of
the liberty he had of late allowed her? If a woman could not endure
a direct, searching gaze, must it not imply some enormous
wickedness?--seeing that nature has armed them for this very
trial.
In her setting forth for the railway station hurry was again
evident, and disinclination to exchange parting words. If the
eagerness were simple and honest, would she not have accepted his
suggestion and have gone in the morning?
For five minutes after her departure he stood in the hall, staring
before him. A new jealousy, a horrible constriction of the heart,
had begun to torture him. He went and walked about in the library,
but could not dispel his suffering. Vain to keep repeating that
Monica was incapable of baseness. Of that he was persuaded, but none
the less a hideous image returned upon his mental vision--a horror--a
pollution of thought.
One thing he could do to restore his sanity. He would walk over to
Lavender Hill, and accompany his wife on her return home. Indeed,
the mere difficulty of getting through the afternoon advised this
project. He could not employ himself, and knew that his imagination,
once inflamed, would leave him not a moment's rest. Yes, he would
walk to Lavender Hill, and ramble about that region until Monica had
had reasonable time for talk with her sister.
About three o'clock there fell a heavy shower of rain. Strangely
against his habits, Widdowson turned into a quiet public-house, and
sat for a quarter of an hour at the bar, drinking a glass of whisky.
During the past week he had taken considerably more wine than usual
at meals; he seemed to need the support. Whilst sipping at his glass
of spirits, he oddly enough fell into talk with the barmaid, a young
woman of some charms, and what appeared to be unaffected modesty.
Not for twenty years had Widdowson conversed with a member of this
sisterhood. Their dialogue was made up of the most trifling of
trivialities--weather, a railway accident, the desirability of
holidays at this season. And when at length he rose and put an end
to the chat it was with appreciable reluctance.
'A good, nice sort of girl,' he went away saying to himself. 'Pity
she should be serving at a bar--hearing doubtful talk, and seeing
very often vile sights. A nice, soft-spoken little girl.'
And he mused upon her remembered face with a complacency which
soothed his feelings.
Of a sudden he was checked by the conversion of his sentiment into
thought. Would he not have been a much happier man if he had married
a girl distinctly his inferior in mind and station? Provided she
were sweet, lovable, docile--such a wife would have spared him all
the misery he had known with Monica. From the first he had
understood that Monica was no representative shopgirl, and on that
very account he had striven so eagerly to win her. But it was a
mistake. He had loved her, still loved her, with all the emotion of
which he was capable. How many hours' genuine happiness of soul had
that love afforded him? The minutest fraction of the twelve months
for which she had been his wife. And of suffering, often amounting
to frantic misery, he could count many weeks. Could such a marriage
as this be judged a marriage at all, in any true sense of the word?
'Let me ask myself a question. If Monica were absolutely free to
choose between continuing to live with me and resuming her perfect
liberty, can I persuade myself that she would remain my wife? She
would not. Not for a day, not for an hour. Of that I am morally
convinced. And I acknowledge the grounds of her dissatisfaction. We
are unsuited to each other. We do not understand each other. Our
marriage is physical and nothing more. My love--what is my love? I
do not love her mind, her intellectual part. If I did, this
frightful jealousy from which I suffer would be impossible. My ideal
of the wife perfectly suited to me is far liker that girl at the
public-house bar than Monica. Monica's independence of thought is a
perpetual irritation to me. I don't know what her thoughts really
are, what her intellectual life signifies. And yet I hold her to me
with the sternest grasp. If she endeavoured to release herself I
should feel capable of killing her. Is not this a strange, a brutal
thing?'
Widdowson had never before reached this height of speculation. In
the moment, by the very fact, of admitting that Monica and he ought
not to be living together, he became more worthy of his wife's
companionship than ever hitherto.
Well, he would exercise greater forebearance. He would endeavour to
win her respect by respecting the freedom she claimed. His recent
suspicions of her were monstrous. If she knew them, how her soul
would revolt from him! What if she took an interest in other men,
perchance more her equals than he? Why, had he not just been
thinking of another woman, reflecting that she, or one like her,
would have made him a more suitable wife than Monica? Yet this could
not reasonably be called unfaithfulness.
They were bound together for life, and their wisdom lay in mutual
toleration, the constant endeavour to understand each other aright--not
in fierce restraint of each other's mental liberty. How many
marriages were anything more than mutual forbearance? Perhaps there
ought not to be such a thing as enforced permanence of marriage.
This was daring speculation; he could not have endured to hear it
from Monica's lips. But--perhaps, some day, marriage would be
dissoluble at the will of either party to it. Perhaps the man who
sought to hold a woman when she no longer loved him would be
regarded with contempt and condemnation.
What a simple thing marriage had always seemed to him, and how far
from simple he had found it! Why, it led him to musings which
overset the order of the world, and flung all ideas of religion and
morality into wildest confusion. It would not do to think like this.
He was a man wedded to a woman very difficult to manage--there was
the practical upshot of the matter. His duty was to manage her. He
was responsible for her right conduct. With intentions perfectly
harmless, she might run into unknown jeopardy--above all, just at
this time when she was taking reluctant leave of her friends. The
danger justified him in exceptional vigilance.
So, from his excursion into the realms of reason did he return to
the safe sphere of the commonplace. And now he might venture to
press on towards Mrs. Conisbee's house, for it was half-past four,
and already Monica must have been talking with her sister for a
couple of hours.
His knock at the door was answered by the landlady herself. She told
of Mrs. Widdowson's arrival and departure. Ah, then Monica had no
doubt gone straight home again. But, as Miss Madden had returned, he
would speak with her.
'The poor lady isn't very well, sir,' said Mrs. Conisbee, fingering
the hem of her apron.
'Not very well? But couldn't I see her for a moment?'
Virginia answered this question by appearing on the staircase.
'Some one for me, Mrs. Conisbee?' she called from above. 'Oh, is it
_you_, Edmund? So very glad! I'm sure Mrs. Conisbee will have the
kindness to let you come into her sitting-room. What a pity I was
away when Monica called! I've had--business to see to in town; and
I've walked and walked, until I'm really--hardly able--'
She sank upon a chair in the room, and looked fixedly at the visitor
with a broad, benevolent smile, her head moving up and down.
Widdowson was for a moment in perplexity. If the evidence of his
eyes could be trusted, Miss Madden's indisposition pointed to a
cause so strange that it seemed incredible. He turned to look for
Mrs. Conisbee, but the landlady had hurriedly withdrawn, closing the
door behind her.
'It is so foolish of me, Edmund,' Virginia rambled on, addressing
him with a familiarity she had never yet used. 'When I am away from
home I forget all about my meals--really forget--and then all at
once I find that I am quite exhausted--quite exhausted--as you
see. And the worst of it is I have altogether lost my appetite by
the time I get back. I couldn't eat a mouthful of food--not a
mouthful--I assure you I couldn't. And it does so distress good
Mrs. Conisbee. She is exceedingly kind to me--exceedingly careful
about my health. Oh, and in Battersea Park Road I saw such a
shocking sight; a great cart ran over a poor little dog, and it was
killed on the spot. It unnerved me dreadfully. I do think, Edmund,
those drivers ought to be more careful. I was saying to Mrs.
Conisbee only the other day--and that reminds me, I do so want to
know all about your visit to Clevedon. Dear, dear Clevedon! And have
you really taken a house there, Edmund? Oh, if we could all end our
days at Clevedon! You know that our dear father and mother are
buried in the old churchyard. You remember Tennyson's lines about
the old church at Clevedon? Oh, and what did Monica decide about--
about--really, what _was_ I going to ask? It is so foolish of me
to forget that dinner-time has come and gone. I get so exhausted,
and even my memory fails me.'
He could doubt no longer. This poor woman had yielded to one of the
temptations that beset a life of idleness and solitude. His pity was
mingled with disgust.
'I only wished to tell you,' he said gravely, 'that we have taken a
house at Clevedon--'
'You really _have_!' She clasped her hands together. 'Whereabouts?'
'Near Dial Hill.'
Virginia began a rhapsody which her brother-in-law had no
inclination to hear. He rose abruptly.
'Perhaps you had better come and see us to-morrow.'
'But Monica left a message that she wouldn't be at home for the next
few days, and that I wasn't to come till I heard from her.'
'Not at home--? I think there's a mistake.'
'Oh, impossible! We'll ask Mrs. Conisbee.'
She went to the door and called. From the landlady Widdowson learnt
exactly what Monica had said. He reflected for a moment.
'She shall write to you then. Don't come just yet. I mustn't stay
any longer now.'
And with a mere pretence of shaking hands he abruptly left the
house.
Suspicions thickened about him. He would have thought it utterly
impossible for Miss Madden to disgrace herself in this vulgar way,
and the appalling discovery affected his view of Monica. They were
sisters; they had characteristics in common, family traits,
weaknesses. If the elder woman could fall into this degradation,
might there not be possibilities in Monica's character such as he
had refused to contemplate? Was there not terrible reason for
mistrusting her? What did she mean by her message to Virginia.
Black and haggard, he went home as fast as a hansom could take him.
It was half-past five when he reached the house. His wife was not
here, and had not been here.
At this Moment Monica was starting by train from Bayswater, after
her parting with Bevis. Arrived at Victoria, she crossed to the main
station, and went to the ladies' waiting-room for the purpose of
bathing her face. She had red, swollen eyes, and her hair was in
slight disorder. This done, she inquired as to the next train for
Herne Hill. One had just gone; another would leave in about a
quarter of an hour.
A dreadful indecision was harassing her. Ought she, did she dare, to
return home at all? Even if her strength sufficed for simulating a
natural manner, could she consent to play so base a part?
There was but one possible alternative. She might go to Virginia's
lodgings, and there remain, writing to her husband that she had left
him. The true cause need not be confessed. She would merely declare
that life with him had become intolerable to her, that she demanded
a release. Their approaching removal to Clevedon offered the
occasion. She would say that her endurance failed before that
prospect of solitude, and that, feeling as she did, it was
dishonourable to make longer pretence of doing her duty as a wife.
Then, if Bevis wrote to her in such a way as to revive her love, if
he seriously told her to come to him, all difficulties could be
solved by her disappearance.
Was such revival of disheartened love a likely or a possible thing?
At this moment she felt that to flee in secret, and live with Bevis
as he proposed, would be no less dishonour than abiding with the man
who had a legal claim upon her companionship. Her lover, as she had
thought of him for the past two or three months, was only a figment
of her imagination; Bevis had proved himself a complete stranger to
her mind; she must reshape her knowledge of him. His face was all
that she could still dwell upon with the old desire; nay, even that
had suffered a change.
Insensibly the minutes went by. Whilst she sat in the waiting-room
her train started; and when she had become aware of that, her
irresolution grew more tormenting.
Suddenly there came upon her a feeling of illness, of nausea.
Perspiration broke out on her forehead; her eyes dazzled; she had to
let her head fall back. It passed, but in a minute or two the fit
again seized her, and with a moan she lost consciousness.
Two or three women who were in the room rendered assistance. The
remarks they exchanged, though expressing uncertainty and discreetly
ambiguous, would have been significant to Monica. On her recovery,
which took place in a few moments, she at once started up, and with
hurried thanks to those about her, listening to nothing that was
said and answering no inquiry, went out on to the platform. There
was just time to catch the train now departing for Herne Hill.
She explained her fainting fit by the hours of agitation through
which she had passed. There was no room for surprise. She had
suffered indescribably, and still suffered. Her wish was to get back
into the quietness of home, to rest and to lose herself in sleep.
* * * * * * * * * *
On entering, she saw nothing of her husband. His hat hung on the
hall-tree, and he was perhaps sitting in the library; the more
genial temper would account for his not coming forth at once to meet
her, as had been his custom when she returned from an absence alone.
She changed her dress, and disguised as far as was possible the
traces of suffering on her features. Weakness and tremor urged her
to lie down, but she could not venture to do this until she had
spoken to her husband. Supporting herself by the banisters, she
slowly descended, and opened the library door. Widdowson was reading
a newspaper. He did not look round, but said carelessly,--
'So you are back?'
'Yes. I hope you didn't expect me sooner.'
'Oh, it's all right.' He threw a rapid glance at her over his
shoulder. 'Had a long talk with Virginia, I suppose?'
'Yes. I couldn't get away before.'
Widdowson seemed to be much interested in some paragraph. He put his
face closer to the paper, and was silent for two or three seconds.
Then he again looked round, this time observing his wife steadily,
but with a face that gave no intimation of unusual thoughts.
'Does she consent to go?'
Monica replied that it was still uncertain; she thought, however,
that Virginia's objections would be overcome.
'You look very tired,' remarked the other.
'I am, very.'
And thereupon she withdrew, unable to command her countenance,
scarce able to remain standing for another moment.
CHAPTER XXIV
TRACKED
When Widdowson went up to the bedroom that night, Monica was already
asleep. He discovered this on turning up the gas. The light fell
upon her face, and he was drawn to the bedside to look at her. The
features signified nothing but repose; her lips were just apart, her
eyelids lay softly with their black fringe of exquisite pencilling,
and her hair was arranged as she always prepared it for the pillow.
He watched her for full five minutes, and detected not the slightest
movement, so profound was her sleep. Then he turned away, muttering
savagely under his breath, 'Hypocrite! Liar!'
But for a purpose in his thoughts he would not have lain down beside
her. On getting into bed he kept as far away as possible, and all
through the wakeful night his limbs shrank from the touch of hers.
He rose an hour earlier than usual. Monica had long been awake, but
she moved so seldom that he could not be sure of this; her face was
turned from him. When he came back to the room after his bath.
Monica propped herself on her elbow and asked why he was moving so
early.
'I want to be in the City at nine,' he replied, with a show of
cheerfulness. 'There's a money affair I must see after.'
'Something that's going wrong?'
'I'm afraid so. I must lose no time in looking to it. What plans
have you for to-day?'
'None whatever.'
'It's Saturday, you know. I promised to see Newdick this afternoon.
Perhaps I may bring him to dinner.'
About twelve o'clock he returned from his business. At two he went
away again, saying that he should not be back before seven, it might
be a little later. In Monica these movements excited no special
remark; they were merely a continuance of his restlessness. But no
sooner had he departed, after luncheon, than she went to her
dressing-room, and began to make slow, uncertain preparations for
leaving home herself.
This morning she had tried to write a letter for Bevis, but vainly.
She knew not what to say to him, uncertain of her own desires and of
what lay before her. Yet, if she were to communicate with him
henceforth at all, it was necessary, this very afternoon, to find an
address where letters could be received for her, and to let him know
of it. To-morrow, Sunday, was useless for the purpose, and on Monday
it might be impossible for her to go out alone. Besides that, she
could not be sure of the safety of a letter delivered at the flat on
Monday night or Tuesday morning.
She dressed at length and went out. Her wisest course, probably, was
to seek for some obliging shopkeeper near Lavender Hill. Then she
could call on Virginia, transact the business she had pretended to
discharge yesterday, and there pen a note to Bevis.
Her moods alternated with distracting rapidity. A hundred times she
had resolved that Bevis could be nothing more to her, and again had
thought of him with impulses of yearning, trying to persuade herself
that he had acted well and wisely. A hundred times she determined to
carry out her idea of yesterday--to quit her husband and resist
all his efforts to recall her--and again had all but resigned
herself to live with him, accepting degradation as so many wives
perforce did. Her mind was in confusion, and physically she felt far
from well. A heaviness weighed upon her limbs, making it hardship to
walk however short a distance.
Arrived at Clapham Junction, she began to search wearily,
indifferently, for the kind of shop that might answer her purpose.
The receiving of letters which, for one reason or another, must be
dispatched to a secret address, is a very ordinary complaisance on
the part of small London stationers; hundreds of such letters are
sent and called for every week within the metropolitan postal area.
It did not take Monica long to find an obliging shopkeeper; the
first to whom she applied--a decent woman behind a counter which
displayed newspapers, tobacco, and fancy articles--willingly
accepted the commission.
She came out of the shop with flushed cheeks. Another step in
shameful descent--yet it had the result of strengthening once more
her emotions favourable to Bevis. On his account she had braved this
ignominy, and it drew her towards him, instead of producing the
effect which would have seemed more natural. Perhaps the reason was
that she felt herself more hopelessly an outcast from the world of
honourable women, and therefore longed in her desolation for the
support of a man's love. Did he not love her? It was _her_ fault if
she expected him to act with a boldness that did not lie in his
nature. Perhaps his discretion, which she had so bitterly condemned
as weakness, meant a wise regard for her interests as well as his
own. The public scandal of divorce was a hideous thing. If it
damaged his prospects and sundered him from his relatives, how could
she hope that his love of her, the cause of it all, would long
endure?
The need of love overcame her. She would submit to any conditions
rather than lose this lover whose kisses were upon her lips, and
whose arms had held her so passionately. She was too young to accept
a life of resignation, too ardent. Why had she left him in
despondency, in doubt whether he would ever again see her?
* * * * * * * * * *
She turned back on her way to Virginia's lodgings, re-entered the
station, and journeyed townwards. It was an odd incident, by Monica
unperceived, that when she was taking her ticket there stood close
by her a man, seemingly a mechanic, who had also stood within
hearing when she booked at Herne Hill. This same man, though he had
not travelled in the compartment with her, followed her when she
alighted at Bayswater. She did not once observe him.
Instead of writing, she had resolved to see Bevis again--if it
were possible. Perhaps he would not be at the flat; yet his wish
might suggest the bare hope of her coming to-day. The risk of
meeting Barfoot probably need not be considered, for he had told her
that he was travelling to-day into Cumberland, and for so long a
journey he would be sure to set forth in the morning. At worst she
would suffer a disappointment. Indulgence of her fervid feelings had
made her as eager to see Bevis as she was yesterday. Words of
tenderness rushed to her lips for utterance. When she reached the
building all but delirium possessed her.
She had hurried up to the first landing, when a footstep behind drew
her attention. It was a man in mechanic's dress, coming up with head
bent, doubtless for some task or other in one of the flats. Perhaps
he was going to Bevis's. She went forward more slowly, and on the
next landing allowed the man to pass her. Yes, more likely than not
he was engaged in packing her lover's furniture. She stood still. At
that moment a door closed above, and another step, lighter and
quicker, that of a woman, came downstairs. As far as her ear could
judge, this person might have left Bevis's flat. A conflict of
emotions excited her to panic. She was afraid either to advance or
to retreat, and in equal dread of standing without purpose. She
stepped up to the nearest door, and gave a summons with the knocker.
This door was Barfoot's. She knew that; in the first instant of fear
occasioned by the workman's approach, she had glanced at the door
and reminded herself that here Mr. Barfoot dwelt, immediately
beneath Bevis. But for the wild alarm due to her conscience-stricken
state she could not have risked the possibility of the tenant being
still at home; and yet it seemed to her that she was doing the only
thing possible under the circumstances. For this woman whom she
heard just above might perchance be one of Bevis's sisters, returned
to London for some purpose or other, and in that case she preferred
being seen at Barfoot's door to detection as she made for her
lover's.
Uncertainty on this point lasted but a few seconds. Dreading to look
at the woman, Monica yet did so, just as she passed, and beheld the
face of a perfect stranger. A young and good-looking face, however.
Her mind, sufficiently tumultuous, received a new impulse of
disturbance. Had this woman come forth from Bevis's fiat or from the
one opposite?--for on each floor there were two dwellings.
In the meantime no one answered her knock. Mr. Barfoot had gone; she
breathed thankfully. Now she might venture to ascend to the next
floor. But then sounded a knock from above. That, she felt
convinced, was at Bevis's door, and if so her conjecture about the
workman was correct. She stood waiting for certainty, as if still
expecting a reply to her own signal at Mr. Barfoot's door. The
mechanic looked down at her over the banisters, but of this she was
unaware.
The knock above was repeated. Yes, this time there could be no
mistake; it was on this side of the landing--that is to say, at
her lover's door. But the door did not open; thus, without going up
herself, she received assurance that Bevis was not at home. He might
come later. She still had an hour or two to spare. So, as if
disappointed in a call at Mr. Barfoot's, she descended the stairs
and issued into the street.
Agitation had exhausted her, and a dazzling of her eyes threatened a
recurrence of yesterday's faintness. She found a shop where
refreshments were sold, and sat for half an hour over a cup of tea,
trying to amuse herself with illustrated papers. The mechanic who
had knocked at Bevis's door passed once or twice along the pavement,
and, as long as she remained here, kept the shop within sight.
At length she asked for writing materials, and penned a few lines.
In on her second attempt she failed to see Bevis, she would drop
this note into his letter-box. It acquainted him with the address to
which he might direct letters, assured him passionately of her love,
and implored him to be true to her, to send for her as soon as
circumstances made it possible.
Self-torment of every kind was natural to her position. Though the
relief of escaping from several distinct dangers had put her mind
comparatively at ease for a short time, she had now begun to suffer
a fresh uneasiness with reference to the young and handsome woman
who came downstairs. The fact that no one answered the workman's
knock had seemed to her a sufficient proof that Bevis was not at
home, and that the stranger must have come forth from the flat
opposite his. But she recollected the incident which had so
alarmingly disturbed her and her lover yesterday. Bevis did not then
go to the door, and suppose--oh, it was folly! But suppose that
woman had been with him; suppose he did not care to open to a
visitor whose signal sounded only a minute or two after that
person's departure?
Had she not anguish enough to endure without the addition of frantic
jealousy? She would not give another thought to such absurd
suggestions. The woman had of course come from the dwelling
opposite. Yet why might she not have been in Bevis's flat when he
himself was absent? Suppose her an intimate to whom he had entrusted
a latch-key. If any such connection existed, might it not help to
explain Bevis's half-heartedness?
To think thus was courting madness. Unable to sit still any longer,
Monica left the shop, and strayed for some ten minutes about the
neighbouring streets, drawing nearer and nearer to her goal. Finally
she entered the building and went upstairs. On this occasion no one
met her, and no one entered in her rear. She knocked at her lover's
door, and stood longing, praying, that it might open. But it did
not. Tears started to her eyes; she uttered a moan of bitterest
disappointment, and slipped the envelope she was carrying into the
letter-box.
The mechanic had seen her go in, and he waited outside, a few yards
away. Either she would soon reappear, or her not doing so would show
that she had obtained admittance somewhere. In the latter case, this
workman of much curiosity and leisure had only to lurk about the
staircase until she came forth again. But this trial of patience was
spared him. He found that he had simply to follow the lady back to
Herne Hill. Acting on very suggestive instructions, it never
occurred to the worthy man that the lady's second visit was not to
the same flat as in the former instance.
Monica was home again long before dinner-time. When that hour
arrived her husband had not yet come; the delay, no doubt, was
somehow connected with his visit to Mr. Newdick. But this went on.
At nine o'clock Monica still sat alone, hungry, yet scarce conscious
of hunger owing to her miseries. Widdowson had never behaved thus.
Another quarter of an hour and she heard the front door open.
He came to the drawing-room, where she sat waiting.
'How late you are! Are you alone?'
'Yes, alone.'
'You haven't had dinner?'
'No.'
He seemed to be in rather a gloomy mood, but Monica noticed nothing
that alarmed her. He was drawing nearer, his eyes on the ground.
'Have you had bad news--in the City?'
'Yes, I have.'
Still he came nearer, and at length, when a yard or two away, raised
his look to her face.
'Have you been out this afternoon?'
She was prompted to a falsehood, but durst not utter it, so keenly
was he regarding her.
'Yes, I went to see Miss Barfoot.'
'Liar!'
As the word burst from his lips, he sprang at her, clutched her
dress at the throat, and flung her violently upon her knees. A short
cry of terror escaped her; then she was stricken dumb, with eyes
starting and mouth open. It was well that he held her by the garment
and not by the neck, for his hand closed with murderous convulsion,
and the desire of crushing out her life was for an instant all his
consciousness.
'Liar!' again burst from him. 'Day after day you have lied to me.
Liar! Adultress!'
'I am not! I am not that!'
She clung upon his arms and strove to raise herself. The bloodless
lips, the choked voice, meant dread of him, but the distortion of
her features was hatred and the will to resist.
'Not that? What is your word worth? The prostitute in the street is
sooner to be believed. She has the honesty to say what she is, but
you--Where were you yesterday when you were not at your
sister's? Where were you this afternoon?'
She had nearly struggled to her feet; he thrust her down again,
crushed her backwards until her head all but touched the floor.
'Where were you? Tell the truth, or you shall never speak again!'
'Oh--help! help! He will kill me!'
Her cry rang through the room.
'Call them up--let them come and look at you and hear what you
are. Soon enough every one will know. Where were you this afternoon?
You were watched every step of the way from here to that place where
you have made yourself a base, vile, unclean creature--.'
'I am not that! Your spies have misled you.'
'Misled? Didn't you go to that man Barfoot's door and knock there?
And because you were disappointed, didn't you wait about, and go
there a second time?'
'What if I did? It doesn't mean what you think.'
'What? You go time after time to the private chambers of an
unmarried man--a man such as that--and it means no harm?'
'I have never been there before.'
'You expect me to believe you?' Widdowson cried with savage
contumely. He had just loosed his hold of her, and she was upright
again before him, her eyes flashing defiance, though every muscle in
her frame quivered. 'When did your lies begin? Was it when you told
me you had been to hear Miss Barfoot's lecture, and never went there
at all?'
He aimed the charge at a venture, and her face told him that his
suspicion had been grounded.
'For how many weeks, for how many months, have you been dishonouring
me and yourself?'
'I am not guilty of what you believe, but I shan't try to defend
myself. Thank Heaven, this is the end of everything between us!
Charge me with what you like. I am going away from you, and I hope
we may never meet again.'
'Yes, you are going--no doubt of that. But not before you have
answered my questions. Whether with lies or not doesn't matter much.
You shall give your own account of what you have been doing.'
Both panting as if after some supreme effort of their physical
force, they stood and looked at each other. Each to the other's eyes
was incredibly transformed. Monica could not have imagined such
brutal ferocity in her husband's face, and she herself had a wild
recklessness in her eyes, a scorn and abhorrence in all the lines of
her countenance, which made Widdowson feel as if a stranger were
before him.
'I shall answer no question whatever,' Monica replied. 'All I want
is to leave your house, and never see you again.'
He regretted what he had done. The result of the first day's
espionage being a piece of evidence so incomplete, he had hoped to
command himself until more solid proof of his wife's guilt were
forthcoming. But jealousy was too strong for such prudence, and the
sight of Monica as she uttered her falsehood made a mere madman of
him. Predisposed to believe a story of this kind, he could not
reason as he might have done if fear of Barfoot had never entered
his thoughts. The whole course of dishonour seemed so clear; he
traced it from Monica's earliest meetings with Barfoot at Chelsea.
Wavering between the impulse to cast off his wife with every
circumstance of public shame, and the piteous desire to arrest her
on her path of destruction, he rushed into a middle course,
compatible with neither of these intentions. If at this stage he
chose to tell Monica what had come to his knowledge, it should have
been done with the sternest calm, with dignity capable of shaming
her guilt. As it was, he had spoilt his chances in every direction.
Perhaps Monica understood this; he had begun to esteem her a
mistress in craft and intrigue.
'You say you were never at that man's rooms before to-day?' he asked
in a lower voice.
'What I have said you must take the trouble to recollect. I shall
answer no question.'
Again the impulse assailed him to wring confession from her by
terror. He took a step forward, the demon in his face. Monica in
that moment leapt past him, and reached the door of the room before
he could stop her.
'Stay where you are!' she cried, 'If your hands touch me again I
shall call for help until someone comes up. I won't endure your
touch!'
'Do you pretend you are innocent of any crime against me?'
'I am not what you called me. Explain everything as you like. I will
explain nothing. I want only to be free from you.'
She opened the door, rapidly crossed the landing, and went upstairs.
Feeling it was useless to follow, Widdowson allowed the door to
remain wide, and waited. Five minutes passed and Monica came down
again, dressed for leaving the house.
'Where are you going?' he asked, stepping out of the room to
intercept her.
'It is nothing to you. I am going away.'
They subdued their voices, which might else have been audible the
servants below.
'No, that you shall not!'
He stepped forward to block the head of the stairs, but again Monica
was too quick for him. She fled down, and across the hall, and to
the house-door. Only there, as she was arrested by the difficulty of
drawing back the two latches, did Widdowson overtake her.
'Make what scandal you like, you don't leave this house.'
His tones were violent rather than resolute. What could he do? If
Monica persisted, what means had he of confining her to the house--
short of carrying her by main force to an upper room and there
locking her in? He knew that his courage would not sustain him
through such a task as this.
'For scandal I care nothing,' was her reply. 'One way or another I
will leave the house.'
'Where are you going?'
'To my sister's.'
His hand on the door, Widdowson stood as if determined in
opposition. But her will was stronger than his. Only by homicide can
a man maintain his dignity in a situation of this kind; Widdowson
could not kill his wife, and every moment that he stood there made
him more ridiculous, more contemptible.
He turned back into the hall and reached his hat. Whilst he was
doing so Monica opened the door. Heavy rain was falling, but she
paid no heed to it. In a moment Widdowson hastened after her,
careless, he too, of the descending floods. Her way was towards the
railway station, but the driver of a cab chancing to attract her
notice, she accepted the man's offer, and bade him drive to Lavender
Hill.
On the first opportunity Widdowson took like refuge from the rain,
and was driven in the same direction. He alighted not far from Mrs.
Conisbee's house. That Monica had come hither he felt no doubt, but
he would presently make sure of it. As it still rained he sought
shelter in a public-house, where he quenched a painful thirst, and
then satisfied his hunger with such primitive foods as a licensed
victualler is disposed to vend. It was nearing eleven o'clock, and
he had neither eaten nor drunk since luncheon.
After that he walked to Mrs. Conisbee's, and knocked at the door.
The landlady came.
'Will you please to tell me,' he asked 'whether Mrs. Widdowson is
here?'
The sly curiosity of the woman's face informed him at once that she
saw something unusual in these circumstances.
'Yes, sir. Mrs. Widdowson is with her sister,'
'Thank you.'
Without another word he departed. But went only a short distance,
and until midnight kept Mrs. Conisbee's door in view. The rain fell,
the air was raw; shelterless, and often shivering with fever,
Widdowson walked the pavement with a constable's regularity. He
could not but remember the many nights when he thus kept watch in
Walworth Road and in Rutland Street, with jealousy, then too,
burning in his heart, but also with amorous ardours, never again to
be revived. A little more than twelve months ago! And he had waited,
longed for marriage through half a lifetime.
CHAPTER XXV
THE FATE OF THE IDEAL
Rhoda's week at the seashore was spoilt by uncertain weather. Only
two days of abiding sunshine; for the rest, mere fitful gleams
across a sky heaped with stormclouds. Over Wastdale hung a black
canopy; from Scawfell came mutterings of thunder; and on the last
night of the week--when Monica fled from her home in pelting
rain--tempest broke upon the mountains and the sea. Wakeful until
early morning, and at times watching the sky from her inland-looking
window, Rhoda saw the rocky heights that frown upon Wastwater
illuminated by lightning-flare of such intensity and duration that
miles of distance were annihilated, and it seemed but a step to
these stern crags and precipices.
Sunday began with rain, but also with promise of better things; far
over the sea was a broad expanse of blue, and before long the foam
of the fallen tide glistened in strong, hopeful rays. Rhoda wandered
about the shore towards St. Bees Head. A broad stream flowing into
the sea stopped her progress before she had gone very far; the only
way of crossing it was to go up on to the line of railway, which
here runs along the edge of the sands. But she had little
inclination to walk farther. No house, no person within sight, she
sat down to gaze at the gulls fishing by the little river-mouth,
their screams the only sound that blended with that of the subdued
breakers.
On the horizon lay a long, low shape that might have been mistaken
for cloud, though it resembled land. It was the Isle of Man. In an
hour or two the outline had grown much clearer; the heights and
hollows were no longer doubtful. In the north became visible another
remote and hilly tract, it was the coast of Scotland beyond Solway
Firth.
These distant objects acted as incentives to Rhoda's imagination.
She heard Everard Barfoot's voice as he talked of travel--of the
Orient Express. That joy of freedom he had offered her. Perhaps he
was now very near her, anxious to repeat his offer. If he carried
out the project suggested at their last interview, she would see him
to-day or to-morrow morning--then she must make her choice. To
have a day's walk with him among the mountains would be practically
deciding. But for what? If she rejected his proposal of a free
union, was he prepared to marry her in legal form? Yes; she had
enough power over him for that. But how would it affect his thought
of her? Constraining him to legal marriage, would she not lower
herself in his estimation, and make the endurance of his love less
probable? Barfoot was not a man to accept with genuine satisfaction
even the appearance of bondage, and more likely than not his love of
her depended upon the belief that in her he had found a woman
capable of regarding life from his own point of view--a woman who,
when she once, loved, would be scornful of the formalities clung to
by feeble minds. He would yield to her if she demanded forms, but
afterwards--when passion had subsided--.
A week had been none too long to ponder these considerations by
themselves; but they were complicated with doubts of a more
disturbing nature. Her mind could not free itself from the thought
of Monica. That Mrs. Widdowson was not always truthful with her
husband she had absolute proof; whether that supported her fear of
an intimacy between Monica and Everard she was unable to determine.
The grounds of suspicion seemed to her very grave; so grave, that
during her first day or two in Cumberland she had all but renounced
the hopes long secretly fostered. She knew herself well enough to
understand how jealousy might wreck her life--even if it were only
retrospective. If she married Barfoot (forms or none--that
question in no way touched this other), she would demand of him a
flawless faith. Her pride revolted against the thought of possessing
only a share in his devotion; the moment that any faithlessness came
to her knowledge she would leave him, perforce, inevitably--and
what miseries were then before her!
Was flawless faith possible to Everard Barfoot? His cousin would
ridicule the hope of any such thing--or so Rhoda believed. A
conventional woman would of course see the completest evidence of
his untrustworthiness in his dislike of legal marriage; but Rhoda
knew the idleness of this argument. If love did not hold him,
assuredly the forms of marriage could be no restraint upon Everard;
married ten times over, he would still deem himself absolutely free
from any obligation save that of love. Yet how did he think of that
obligation? He might hold it perfectly compatible with the
indulgence of casual impulse. And this (which she suspected to be
the view of every man) Rhoda had no power of tolerating. It must be
all or nothing, whole faith or none whatever.
* * *
In the afternoon she suffered from impatient expectancy. If Barfoot
came to-day--she imagined him somewhere in the neighbour hood,
approaching Seascale as the time of his appointment drew near--
would he call at her lodgings? The address she had not given him,
but doubtless he had obtained it from his cousin. Perhaps he would
prefer to meet her unexpectedly--not a difficult thing in this
little place, with its handful of residents and visitors. Certain it
was she desired his arrival. Her heart leapt with joy in the thought
that this very evening might bring him. She wished to study him
under new conditions, and--possibly--to talk with him even more
frankly than ever yet, for there would be opportunity enough.
About six o'clock a train coming from the south stopped at the
station, which was visible from Rhoda's sitting-room window. She had
been waiting for this moment. She could not go to the station, and
did not venture even to wait anywhere in sight of the exit. Whether
any passenger had alighted must remain uncertain. If Everard had
arrived by this train, doubtless he would go to the hotel, which
stood only a few yards from the line. He would take a meal and
presently come forth.
Having allowed half an hour to elapse, she dressed and walked
shoreward. Seascale has no street, no shops; only two or three short
rows of houses irregularly placed on the rising ground above the
beach. To cross the intervening railway, Rhoda could either pass
through the little station, in which case she would also pass the
hotel and be observable from its chief windows, or descend by a
longer road which led under a bridge, and in this way avoid the
hotel altogether. She took the former route. On the sands were a few
scattered people, and some children subdued to Sunday decorum. The
tide was rising. She went down to the nearest tract of hard sand,
and stood there for a long time, a soft western breeze playing upon
her face.
If Barfoot were here he would now be coming out to look for her.
From a distance he might not recognize her figure, clad as she was
in a costume such as he had never seen her wearing. She might
venture now to walk up towards the dry, white sandheaps, where the
little convolvulus grew in abundance, and other flowers of which she
neither knew nor cared to learn the names. Scarcely had she turned
when she saw Everard approaching, still far off, but unmistakable.
He signalled by taking off his hat, and quickly was beside her.
'Did you know me before I happened to look round?' she asked
laughingly.
'Of course I did. Up there by the station I caught sight of you. Who
else bears herself as you do--with splendid disdain of common
mortals?'
'Please don't make me think that my movements are ridiculous.'
'They are superb. The sea has already touched your cheeks. But I am
afraid you have had abominable weather.'
'Yes, rather bad; but there's hope to-day. Where do you come from?'
'By train, only from Carnforth. I left London yesterday morning, and
stopped at Morecambe--some people I know are there. As trains were
awkward to-day, I drove from Morecambe to Carnforth. Did you expect
me?'
'I thought you might come, as you spoke of it.'
'How I have got through the week I couldn't tell you. I should have
been here days ago, but I was afraid. Let us go nearer to the sea. I
was afraid of making you angry.'
'It's better to keep one's word.'
'Of course it is. And I am all the more delighted to be with you for
the miserable week of waiting. Have you bathed?'
'Once or twice.'
'I had a swim this morning before breakfast, in pouring rain. Now
_you_ can't swim.'
'No. I can't. But why were you sure about it?'
'Only because it's so rare for any girl to learn swimming. A man who
can't swim is only half the man he might be, and to a woman I should
think it must be of even more benefit. As in everything else, women
are trammelled by their clothes; to be able to get rid of them, and
to move about with free and brave exertion of all the body, must
tend to every kind of health, physical, mental, and mortal.'
'Yes, I quite believe that,' said Rhoda, gazing at the sea.
'I spoke rather exultantly, didn't I? I like to feel myself superior
to you in some things. You have so often pointed out to me what a
paltry, ineffectual creature I am.'
'I don't remember ever using those words, or implying them.'
'How does the day stand with you?' asked Everard in the tone of
perfect comradeship. 'Have you still to dine?'
'My dining is a very simple matter; it happens at one o'clock. About
nine I shall have supper.'
'Let us walk a little then. And may I smoke?'
'Why not?'
Everard lit a cigar, and, as the tide drove them back, they moved
eventually to the higher ground, whence there was a fine view of the
mountains, rich in evening colours.
'To-morrow you leave here?'
'Yes,' Rhoda answered. 'I shall go by railway to Coniston, and walk
from there towards Helvellyn, as you suggested.'
'I have something else to propose. A man I talked to in the train
told me of a fine walk in this neighbourhood. From Ravenglass, just
below here, there's a little line runs up Eskdale to a terminus at
the foot of Scawfell, a place called Boot. From Boot one can walk
either over the top of Scawfell or by a lower track to Wastdale
Head. It's very grand, wild country, especially the last part, the
going down to Wastwater, and not many miles in all. Suppose we have
that walk to-morrow? From Wastdale we could drive back to Seascale
in the evening, and then the next day--just as you like.'
'Are you quite sure about the distances?'
'Quite. I have the Ordnance map in my pocket. Let me show you.'
He spread the map on the top of a wall, and they stood side by side
inspecting it.
'We must take something to eat; I'll provide for that. And at the
Wastdale Head hotel we can have dinner--about three or four,
probably. It would be enjoyable, wouldn't it?'
'If it doesn't rain.'
'We'll hope it won't. As we go back we can look out the trains at
the station. No doubt there's one soon after breakfast.'
Their rambling, with talk in a strain of easy friendliness, brought
them back to Seascale half an hour after sunset, which was of a kind
that seemed to promise well for the morrow.
'Won't you come out again after supper?' Barfoot asked.
'Not again to-night.'
'For a quarter of an hour,' he urged. 'Just down to the sea and
back.'
'I have been walking all day. I shall be glad to rest and read.'
'Very well. To-morrow morning.'
Having discovered the train which would take them to Ravenglass, and
connect with one on the Eskdale line, they agreed to meet at the
station. Barfoot was to bring with him such refreshment as would be
necessary.
Their hopes for the weather had complete fulfilment. The only fear
was lest the sun's heat might be oppressive, but this anxiety could
be cheerfully borne. Slung over his shoulders Barfoot had a small
forage-bag, which gave him matter for talk on the railway journey;
it had been his companion in many parts of the world, and had held
strange kinds of food.
The journey up Eskdale, from Ravenglass to Boot, is by a miniature
railway, with the oddest little engine and a carriage or two of
primitive simplicity. At each station on the upward winding track--
stations represented only by a wooden shed like a tool-house--the
guard jumps down and acts as booking-clerk, if passengers there be
desirous of booking. In a few miles the scenery changes from beauty
to grandeur, and at the terminus no further steaming would be
possible, for the great flank of Scawfell bars the way.
Everard and his companion began their climb through the pretty
straggling village of Boot. A mountain torrent roared by the
wayside, and the course they had marked upon the map showed that
they must follow this stream for some miles up to the tarn where it
originated. Houses, human beings, and even trodden paths they soon
left behind, coming out on to a vast moorland, with hill summits
near and far. Scawfell they could not hope to ascend; with the walk
that lay before them it was enough to make a way over one of his
huge shoulders.
'If your strength fails,' said Everard merrily, when for an hour
they had been plodding through grey solitudes, 'there is no human
help. I should have to choose between carrying you back to Boot or
on to Wastdale.'
'My strength is not likely to fail sooner than yours,' was the
laughing reply.
'I have chicken sandwiches, and wine that maketh glad the heart of
man. Tell me when hunger overcomes you. I should think we had better
make our halt at Burmoor Tarn.'
That, indeed, proved to be the convenient resting-place. A wild
spot, a hollow amid the rolling expanse of moorland, its little lake
of black water glistening under the midday sun. And here stood a
shepherd's cottage, the only habitation they had seen since leaving
Boot. Somewhat uncertain about the course to be henceforth followed,
they made inquiry at this cottage, and a woman who appeared to be
quite alone gave them the needful direction. Thus at ease in mind
they crossed the bridge at the foot of the tarn, and just beyond it
found a spot suitable for repose. Everard brought forth his
sandwiches and his flask of wine, moreover a wine-glass, which was
for Rhoda's use. They ate and drank festively.
'Now this is just what I have enjoyed in imagination for a year or
more,' said Barfoot, when the luncheon was over, and he lay propped
upon his elbow, gazing at Rhoda's fine eyes and her sun-warmed
cheeks. 'An ideal realized, for once in one's life. A perfect
moment.'
'Don't you like the scent of burning peat from that cottage?'
'Yes. I like everything about us, in heaven and earth, and most of
all I like your companionship, Rhoda.'
She could not resent this first use of her Christian name; it was so
natural, so inevitable; yet she moved her head as if with a slight
annoyance.
'Is mine as agreeable to you?' he added, stroking the back of her
hand with a spray of heather. 'Or do you just tolerate me out of
good-nature?'
'I have liked your companionship all the way from Seascale. Don't
disturb my enjoyment of it for the rest of the way.'
'That would be a misfortune indeed. The whole day shall be perfect.
Not a note of discord. But I must have liberty to say what comes
into my mind, and when you don't choose to answer I shall respect
your silence.'
'Wouldn't you like to smoke a cigar before we start again?'
'Yes. But I like still better not to. The scent of peat is
pleasanter to you than that of tobacco.'
'Oblige me by lighting the cigar.'
'If you command--' He did her bidding. 'The whole day shall be
perfect. A delightful dinner at the inn, a drive to Seascale, an
hour or two of rest, and then one more quiet talk by the sea at
nightfall.'
'All but the last. I shall be too tired.'
'No. I must have that hour of talk by the sea. You are free to
answer me or not, but your presence you must grant me. We are in an
ideal world remember. We care nothing for all the sons and daughters
of men. You and I will spend this one day together between cloudless
heaven and silent earth--a memory for lifetime. At nightfall you
will come out again, and meet me down by the sea, where you stood
when I first saw you yesterday.'
Rhoda made no reply. She looked away from him at the black, deep
water.
'What an opportunity,' he went on, raising his hand to point at the
cottage, 'for saying the silliest of conceivable things!'
'What _might_ that be, I wonder?'
'Why, that to dwell there together for the rest of our lives would
be supreme felicity. You know the kind of man that would say that.'
'Not personally, thank goodness!'
'A week--a month, even--with weather such as this. Nay, with a
storm for variety; clouds from the top of Scawfell falling thick
about us; a fierce wind shrieking across the tarn; sheets and
torrents and floods of rain beating upon our roof; and you and I by
the peat-fire. With a good supply of books, old and new, I can
picture it for three months, for half a year!'
'Be on your guard. Remember "that kind of man".'
'I am in no danger. There is a vast difference between six months
and all one's life. When the half-year was over we would leave
England.'
'By the Orient Express?'
They laughed together, Rhoda colouring, for the words that had
escaped her meant too much for mere jest.
'By the Orient Express. We would have a house by the Bosphorus for
the next half-year, and contrast our emotions with those we had
known by Burmoor Tarn. Think what a rich year of life that would
make! How much we should have learnt from nature and from each
other!'
'And how dreadfully tired of each other we should be!'
Barfoot looked keenly at her. He could not with certainty read her
countenance.
'You mean that?' he asked.
'You know it is true.'
'Hush! The day is to be perfect. I won't admit that we could ever
tire of each other with reasonable variety of circumstance. You to
me are infinitely interesting, and I believe that I might become so
to you.'
He did not allow himself to vary from this tone of fanciful
speculation, suited to the idle hour. Rhoda said very little; her
remarks were generally a purposed interruption of Everard's theme.
When the cigar was smoked Out they rose and set forward again. This
latter half of their walk proved the most interesting, for they were
expectant of the view down upon Wastdale. A bold summit came in
sight, dark, desolate, which they judged to be Great Gabel; and when
they had pressed on eagerly for another mile, the valley opened
beneath them with such striking suddenness that they stopped on the
instant and glanced at each other in silence. From a noble height
they looked down upon Wastwater, sternest and blackest of the lakes,
on the fields and copses of the valley head with its winding stream,
and the rugged gorges which lie beyond in mountain shadow.
The descent was by a path which in winter becomes the bed of a
torrent, steep and stony, zigzagging through a thick wood. Here, and
when they had reached the level road leading into the village, their
talk was in the same natural, light-hearted strain as before they
rested. So at the inn where they dined, and during their drive
homewards--by the dark lake with its woods and precipices, out
into the country of green hills, and thence through Gosforth on the
long road descending seaward. Since their early departure scarcely a
cloud had passed over the sun--a perfect day.
They alighted before reaching Seascale. Barfoot discharged his debt
to the driver--who went on to bait at the hotel--and walked with
Rhoda for the last quarter of a mile. This was his own idea; Rhoda
made no remark, but approved his discretion.
'It is six o'clock,' said Everard, after a short silence. 'You
remember your arrangement. At eight, down on the shore.'
'I should be much more comfortable in the armchair with a book.'
'Oh, you have had enough of books. It's time to live.'
'It's time to rest.'
'Are you so very tired? Poor girl! The day has been rather too much
for you.'
Rhoda laughed.
'I could walk back again to Wastwater if it were necessary.'
'Of course; I knew that. You are magnificent. At eight o'clock then--'
Nothing more was said on the subject. When in sight of Rhoda's
lodgings they parted without hand-shaking.
Before eight Everard was straying about the beach, watching the sun
go down in splendour. He smiled to himself frequently. The hour had
come for his last trial of Rhoda, and he felt some confidence as to
the result. If her mettle endured his test, if she declared herself
willing not only to abandon her avowed ideal of life, but to defy
the world's opinion by becoming his wife without forms of mutual
bondage--she was the woman he had imagined, and by her side he
would go cheerfully on his way as a married man. Legally married;
the proposal of free union was to be a test only. Loving her as he
had never thought to love, there still remained with him so much of
the temper in which he first wooed her that he could be satisfied
with nothing short of unconditional surrender. Delighting in her
independence of mind, he still desired to see her in complete
subjugation to him, to inspire her with unreflecting passion. Tame
consent to matrimony was an everyday experience. Agnes Brissenden,
he felt sure, would marry him whenever he chose to ask her--and
would make one of the best wives conceivable. But of Rhoda Nunn he
expected and demanded more than this. She must rise far above the
level of ordinary intelligent women. She must manifest an absolute
confidence in him--that was the true significance of his present
motives. The censures and suspicions which she had not scrupled to
confess in plain words must linger in no corner of her mind.
His heart throbbed with impatience for her coming. Come she would;
it was not in Rhoda's nature to play tricks; if she had not meant to
meet him she would have said so resolutely, as last night.
At a few minutes past the hour he looked landward, and saw her
figure against the golden sky. She came down from the sandbank very
slowly, with careless, loitering steps. He moved but a little way to
meet her, and then stood still. He had done his part; it was now
hers to forego female privileges, to obey the constraint of love.
The western afterglow touched her features, heightening the beauty
Everard had learnt to see in them. Still she loitered, stooping to
pick up a piece of seaweed; but still he kept his place, motionless,
and she came nearer.
'Did you see the light of sunset on the mountains?'
'Yes,' he replied.
'There has been no such evening since I came.'
'And you wanted to sit at home with a book. That was no close for a
perfect day.'
'I found a letter from your cousin. She was with her friends the
Goodalls yesterday.'
'The Goodalls--I used to know them.'
'Yes.'
The word was uttered with significance. Everard understood the
allusion, but did not care to show that he did.
'How does Mary get on without you?'
'There's no difficulty.'
'Has she any one capable of taking your place?'
'Yes. Miss Vesper can do all that's necessary.'
'Even to inspiring the girls with zeal for an independent life?'
'Perhaps even that.'
They went along by the waves, in the warm-coloured twilight, until
the houses of Seascale were hidden. Then Everard stopped.
'To-morrow we go to Coniston?' he said, smiling as he stood before
her.
'You are going?'
'Do you think I can leave you?'
Rhoda's eyes fell. She held the long strip of seaweed with bothhands
and tightened it.
'Do you _wish_ me to leave you?' he added.
'You mean that we are to go through the lakes together--as we have
been to-day?'
'No. I don't mean that.'
Rhoda took a few steps onward, so that he remained standing behind.
Another moment and his arms had folded about her, his lips were on
hers. She did not resist. His embrace grew stronger, and he pressed
kiss after kiss upon her mouth. With exquisitedelight he saw the
deep crimson flush that transfigured hercountenance; saw her look
for one instant into his eyes, and wasconscious of the triumphant
gleam she met there.
'Do you remember my saying in the letter how I hungered to taste
your lips? I don't know how I have refrained so long--'
'What is your love worth?' asked Rhoda, speaking with a great
effort. She had dropped the seaweed, and one of her hands rested
upon his shoulder, with a slight repelling pressure.
'Worth your whole life!' he answered, with a low, glad laugh.
'That is what I doubt. Convince me of that.'
'Convince you? With more kisses? But what is _your_ love worth?'
'Perhaps more than you yet understand. Perhaps more than you _can_
understand.'
'I will believe that, Rhoda. I know, at all events, that it is
something of inestimable price. The knowledge has grown in me for a
year and more.'
'Let me stand away from you again. There is something more to be
said before--No, let me be quite apart from you.'
He released her after one more kiss.
'Will you answer me a question with perfect truthfulness?'
Her voice was not quite steady, but she succeeded in looking at him
with unflinching eyes.
'Yes. I will answer you _any_ question.'
'That is spoken like a man. Tell me then--is there at this moment
any woman living who has a claim upon you--a moral claim?'
'No such woman exists.'
'But--do we speak the same language?'
'Surely,' he answered with great earnestness. 'There is no woman to
whom I am bound by any kind of obligation.'
A long wave rolled up, broke, and retreated, whilst Rhoda stood in
silent uncertainty.
'I must put the question in another way. During the past month--
the past three months--have you made profession of love--have
you even pretended love--to any woman?'
'To no woman whatever,' he answered firmly.
'That satisfies me.'
'If I knew what is in your mind!' exclaimed Everard, laughing. 'What
sort of life have you imagined for me? Is this the result of Mary's
talk?'
'Not immediately.'
'Still, she planted the suspicion. Believe me, you have been
altogether mistaken. I never was the kind of man Mary thought me.
Some day you shall understand more about it--in the meantime my
word must be enough. I have no thought of love for any woman but
you. Did I frighten you with those joking confessions in my letters?
I wrote them purposely--as you must have seen. The mean, paltry
jealousies of women such as one meets every day are so hateful to
me. They argue such a lack of brains. If I were so unfortunate as to
love a woman who looked sour when I praised a beautiful face. I
would snap the bond between us like a bit of thread. But you are not
one of those poor creatures.'
He looked at her with some gravity.
'Should you think me a poor creature if I resented any kind of
unfaithfulness?--whether love, in any noble sense, had part in it
or not?'
'No. That is the reasonable understanding between man and wife. If I
exact fidelity from you, and certainly I should, I must consider
myself under the same obligation.'
'You say "man or wife." Do you say it with the ordinary meaning?'
'Not as it applies to us. You know what I mean when I ask you to be
my wife. If we cannot trust each other without legal bonds, any
union between us would be unjustified.'
Suppressing the agitation which he felt, he awaited her answer. They
could still read each other's faces perfectly in a pale yellow to
light from across the sea. Rhoda's manifested an intense conflict.
'After all, you doubt of your love for me?' said Barfoot quietly.
That was not her doubt. She loved with passion, allowing herself to
indulge the luxurious emotion as never yet. She longed once more to
feel his arms about her. But even thus she could consider the vast
issues of the step to which she was urged. The temptation to yield
was very strong, for it seemed to her an easier and a nobler thing
to proclaim her emancipation from social statutes than to announce
before her friends the simple news that she was about to marry. That
announcement would excite something more than surprise. Mary Barfoot
could not but smile with gentle irony; other women would laugh among
themselves; the girls would feel a shock, as at the fall of one who
had made heroic pretences. A sure way of averting this ridicule was
by furnishing occasion for much graver astonishment. If it became
known that she had taken a step such as few women would have dared
to take--deliberately setting an example of new liberty--her
position in the eyes of all who knew her remained one of proud
independence. Rhoda's character was specially exposed to the
temptation of such a motive. For months this argument had been in
her mind, again and again she decided that the sensational step was
preferable to a commonplace renunciation of all she had so
vehemently preached. And now that the moment of actual choice had
come she felt able to dare everything--as far as the danger
concerned herself; but she perceived more strongly than hitherto
that not only her own future was involved. How would such practical
heresy affect Everard's position?
She uttered this thought.
'Are you willing, for the sake of this idea, to abandon all society
but that of the very few people who would approve or tolerate what
you have done?'
'I look upon the thing in this way. We are not called upon to
declare our principles wherever we go. If we regard each other as
married, why, we _are_ married. I am no Quixote, hoping to convert
the world. It is between you and me--our own sense of what is
reasonable and dignified.'
'But you would not make it a mere deception?'
'Mary would of course be told, and any one else you like.'
She believed him entirely serious. Another woman might have
suspected that he was merely trying her courage, either to assure
himself of her love or to gratify his vanity. But Rhoda's idealism
enabled her to take him literally. She herself had for years
maintained an exaggerated standard of duty and merit; desirous of
seeing Everard in a nobler light than hitherto, she endeavoured to
regard his scruple against formal wedlock as worthy of all respect.
'I can't answer you at once,' she said, half turning away.
'You must. Here and at once.'
The one word of assent would have satisfied him. This he obstinately
required. He believed that it would confirm his love beyond any
other satisfaction she could render him. He must be able to regard
her as magnanimous, a woman who had proved herself worth living or
dying for. And he must have the joy of subduing her to his will.
'No,' said Rhoda firmly. 'I can't answer you tonight. I can't decide
so suddenly.'
This was disingenuous, and she felt humiliated by her subterfuge.
Anything but a sudden decision was asked of her. Before leaving
Chelsea she had 'foreseen this moment, and had made preparations for
the possibility of never returning to Miss Barfoot's house--
knowing the nature of the proposal that would be offered to her. But
the practical resolve needed a greater effort than she had imagined.
Above all, she feared an ignominious failure of purpose after her
word was given; _that_ would belittle her in Everard's eyes, and so
shame her in her own that all hope of happiness in marriage must be
at an end.
'You are still doubtful of me, Rhoda?'
He took her hand, and again drew her close. But she refused her
lips.
'Or are you doubtful of your own love?'
'No. If I understand what love means, I love you.'
'Then give me the kiss I am waiting for. You have not kissed me
yet.'
'I can't--until I am sure of myself--of my readiness--'
Her broken words betrayed the passion with which she was struggling.
Everard felt her tremble against his side.
'Give me your hand,' he whispered. 'The left hand.'
Before she could guess his purpose he had slipped a ring upon her
finger, a marriage ring. Rhoda started away from him, and at once
drew off the perilous symbol.
'No--that proves to me I can't! What should we gain? You see, you
dare not be quite consistent. It's only deceiving the people who
don't know us.'
'But I have explained to you. The consistency is in ourselves, our
own minds--'
'Take it back. Custom is too strong for us. We should only play at
defying it. Take it back--or I shall drop it on the sand.'
Profoundly mortified, Everard restored the gold circlet to its
hiding-place and stood gazing at the dim horizon. Some moments
passed, then he heard his name murmured. He did not look round.
'Everard, dearest--'
Was that Rhoda's voice, so low, tender, caressing? It thrilled him,
and with a silent laugh of scorn at his own folly, he turned to her,
every thought burnt up in passion.
'Will you kiss me?'
For an answer she laid her hands on his shoulders and gazed at him.
Barfoot understood. He smiled constrainedly, and said in a low
voice,--
'You wish for that old, idle form--?'
'Not the religious form, which has no meaning for either of us, But--'
'You have been living here seven or eight days. Stay till the
fifteenth, then we can get a licence from the registrar of the
district. Does that please you?'
Her eyes made reply.
'Do you love me any the less, Everard?'
'Kiss me.'
She did, and consciousness was lost for them as their mouths clung
together and their hearts throbbed like one.
'Isn't it better?' Rhoda asked, as they walked back in the darkness.
'Won't it make our life so much simpler and happier?'
'Perhaps.'
'You know it will.' She laughed joyously, trying to meet his look.
'Perhaps you are right.'
'I shall let no one hear of it until--. Then let us go abroad.'
'You dare not face Mary?'
'I dare, if you wish it. Of course she will laugh at me. They will
all laugh at me.'
'Why, you may laugh as well.'
'But you have spoilt my life, you know. Such a grand life it might
have been. Why did you come and interfere with me? And you have been
so terribly obstinate.'
'Of course; that's my nature. But after all I have been weak.'
'Yielding in one point that didn't matter to you at all? It was the
only way of making sure that you loved me.'
Barfoot laughed slightingly.
'And what if I needed the other proof that you loved _me_.'
CHAPTER XXVI
THE UNIDEAL TESTED
And neither was content.
Barfoot, over his cigar and glass of whisky at the hotel, fell into
a mood of chagrin. The woman he loved would be his, and there was
matter enough for ardent imagination in the indulgence of that
thought; but his temper disturbed him. After all, he had not
triumphed. As usual the woman had her way. She played upon his
senses, and made him her obedient slave. To prolong the conflict
would have availed nothing; Rhoda, doubtless, was in part actuated
by the desire to conquer, and she knew her power over him. So it was
a mere repetition of the old story--a marriage like any other. And
how would it result?
She had great qualities; but was there not much in her that he must
subdue, reform, if they were really to spend their lives together?
Her energy of domination perhaps excelled his. Such a woman might be
unable to concede him the liberty in marriage which theoretically
she granted to be just. Perhaps she would torment him with restless
jealousies, suspecting on every trivial occasion an infringement of
her right. From that point of view it would have been far wiser to
persist in rejecting legal marriage, that her dependence upon him
might be more complete. Later, if all went well, the concession
could have been made--if, for instance, she became a mother. But
then returned the exasperating thought that Rhoda had overcome his
will. Was not that a beginning of evil augury?
To be sure, after marriage their relations would be different. He
would not then be at the mercy of his senses. But how miserable to
anticipate a long, perhaps bitter, struggle for predominance. After
all, that could hardly come about. The commencement of any such
discord would be the signal for separation. His wealth assured his
freedom. He was not like the poor devils who must perforce live with
an intolerable woman because they cannot support themselves and
their families in different places. Need he entertain that worst of
fears--the dread that his independence might fail him, subdued by
his wife's will?
Free as he boasted himself from lover's silliness, he had magnified
Rhoda's image. She was not the glorious rebel he had pictured. Like
any other woman, she mistrusted her love without the sanction of
society. Well, that was something relinquished, lost. Marriage would
after all be a compromise. He had not found his ideal--though in
these days it assuredly existed.
* * *
And Rhoda, sitting late in the little lodging-house parlour, visited
her soul with questionings no less troublesome. Everard was not
satisfied with her. He had yielded, perhaps more than half
contemptuously, to what he thought a feminine weakness. In going
with her to the registrar's office he would feel himself to be
acting an ignoble part. Was it not a bad beginning to rule him
against his conscience?
She had triumphed splendidly. In the world's eye this marriage of
hers was far better than any she could reasonably have hoped, and
her heart approved it with rapture. At a stage in life when she had
sternly reconciled herself never to know a man's love, this love had
sought her with passionate persistency of which even a beautiful
young girl might feel proud. She had no beauty; she was loved for
her mind, her very self. But must not Everard's conception of her
have suffered? In winning her had he obtained the woman of his
desire?
Why was she not more politic? Would it not have been possible to
gratify him, and yet to gain his consent to legal marriage? By first
of all complying she would have seemed to confirm all he believed of
her; and then, his ardour at height, how simple to point out to
him--without entreaty, without show of much concern--that by
neglecting formalities they gained absolutely nothing. Artifice of
that kind was perhaps demanded by the mere circumstances. Possibly
he himself would have welcomed it--after the grateful sense of
inspiring such complete devotion. It is the woman's part to exercise
tact; she had proved herself lamentably deficient in that quality.
To-morrow she must study his manner. If she discerned any serious
change, any grave indication of disappointment--
What was her life to be? At first they would travel together; but
before long it might be necessary to have a settled home, and what
then would be her social position, her duties and pleasures?
Housekeeping, mere domesticities, could never occupy her for more
than the smallest possible part of each day. Having lost one purpose
in life, dignified, absorbing, likely to extend its sphere as time
went on, what other could she hope to substitute for it?
Love of husband--perhaps of child. There must be more than that.
Rhoda did not deceive herself as to the requirements of her nature.
Practical activity in some intellectual undertaking; a share--nay,
leadership--in some "movement;" contact with the revolutionary
life of her time--the impulses of her heart once satisfied, these
things would again claim her. But how if Everard resisted such
tendencies? Was he in truth capable of respecting her individuality?
Or would his strong instinct of lordship urge him to direct his wife
as a dependent, to impose upon her his own view of things? She
doubted whether he had much genuine sympathy with woman's
emancipation as she understood it. Yet in no particular had her
convictions changed; nor would they change. She herself was no
longer one of the 'odd women'; fortune had--or seemed to have--
been kind to her; none the less her sense of a mission remained. No
longer an example of perfect female independence, and unable
therefore to use the same language as before, she might illustrate
woman's claim of equality in marriage.--If her experience proved
no obstacle.
* * *
Next morning, as had been agreed, they met at some distance from
Seascale, and spent two or three hours together. There was little
danger in observation unless by a casual peasant; for the most part
their privacy could not have been more secure in a locked chamber.
Lest curiosity should be excited by his making inquiries at the
hotel, Barfoot proposed to walk over to Gosforth, the nearest town,
this afternoon, and learn where the registrar for the locality of
Seascale might be found. By neither was allusion made to their
difference of last evening, but Rhoda distressed herself by
imagining a diminished fervour in her companion; he seemed unusually
silent and meditative, and was content to hold her hand now and
then.
'Shall you stay here all the week?' she inquired.
'If you wish me to.'
'You will find it wearisome.'
'Impossible, with you here. But if I run up to London for a day or
two it might be better. There are preparations. We shall go first of
all to my rooms--'
'I would rather not have stayed in London.'
'I thought you might wish to make purchases.'
'Let us go to some other town, and spend a few days there before
leaving England.'
'Very well. Manchester or Birmingham.'
'You speak rather impatiently,' said Rhoda, looking at him with an
uneasy smile. 'Let it be London if you prefer--'
'On no account. It's all indifferent to me so long as we get safely
away together. Every man is impatient of these preliminaries. Yes,
in that case I must of course go up to London. To-morrow, and back
on Saturday?'
A shower of rain caused them some discomfort. Through the afternoon
it still rained at intervals whilst Barfoot was discharging his
business at Gosforth. He was to see Rhoda again at eight o'clock,
and as the time threatened to hang heavily on his hands he returned
by a long detour, reaching the Seascale hotel about half-past six.
No sooner had he entered than there was delivered to him a letter,
brought by messenger an hour or two ago. It surprised him to
recognize Rhoda's writing on the envelope, which seemed to contain
at least two sheets of notepaper. What now? Some whimsey? Agitated
and annoyed by the anticipation of trouble, he went apart and broke
the letter open.
First appeared an enclosure--a letter in his cousin Mary's
writing. He turned to the other sheet and read these lines,--
'I send you something that has come by post this afternoon. Please
to bring it with you when you meet me at eight o'clock--if you
still care to do so.'
His face flushed with anger. What contemptible woman's folly was
this? 'If you still care to do so'--and written in a hand that
shook. If this was to be his experience of matrimonial engagement--What
rubbish had Mary been communicating?
'My DEAR RHODA,--I have just gone through a very painful scene,
and I feel bound to let you know of it without delay, as it _may_
concern you. This evening (Monday), when I came home from Great
Portland Street, Emma told me that Mr. Widdowson had called, that he
wished to see me as soon as possible, and would be here again at six
o'clock. He came, and his appearance alarmed me, he was looking so
dreadfully ill. Without preface, he said, "My wife has left me; she
has gone to her sister, and refuses to return." This was astonishing
in itself, and I wondered still more why he should come and tell
_me_ about it in so strange a way. The explanation followed very
promptly, and you may judge how I heard it. Mr. Widdowson said that
his wife had been behaving very badly of late; that he had
discovered several falsehoods she had told him as to her employment
during absences from home, in daytime and evening. Having cause for
suspecting the worst, he last Saturday engaged a private detective
to follow Mrs. Widdowson wherever she went. This man saw her go to
the flats in Bayswater where Everard lives and knock at _his_ door.
As no one replied, she went away for a time and returned, but again
found no one at home. This being at once reported to Mr. Widdowson
he asked his wife where she had been that afternoon. The answer was
false; she said she had been here, with me. Thereupon he lost
command of himself, and charged her with infidelity. She refused to
offer any kind of explanation, but denied that she was guilty and at
once left the house. Since, she has utterly refused to see him. Her
sister can only report that Monica is very ill, and that she charges
her husband with accusing her falsely.
'He had come to me, he said, in unspeakable anguish and
helplessness, to ask me whether I had seen anything suspicious in
the relations between Monica and my cousin when they met at this
house or elsewhere. A nice question! Of course I could only reply
that it had never even occurred to me to observe them--that to my
knowledge they had met so rarely--and that I should never have
dreamt of suspecting Monica. "Yet you see she _must_ be guilty," he
kept on repeating. I said no, that I thought her visit _might_ have
an innocent significance, though I couldn't suggest why she had told
falsehoods. Then he inquired what I knew about Everard's present
movements. I answered that I had every reason to think that he was
out of town, but didn't know when he went, or when he might be
expected to return. The poor man was grievously dissatisfied; he
looked at me as if I were in a base plot against him. It was an
immense relief when he went away, after begging me to respect his
confidence.
'I write very hurriedly, as you see. That I _ought_ to write is, I
think, clear--though I may be doing lamentable mischief. I cannot
credit this charge against Mrs. Widdowson; there must surely be some
explanation. If you have already left Seascale, no doubt this letter
will be forwarded.--Ever yours, dear Rhoda,
MARY BARFOOT.'
Everard laughed bitterly. The completeness of the case against him
in Rhoda's eyes must be so overwhelming, and his absolute innocence
made it exasperating to have to defend himself. How, indeed, was he
to defend himself?
The story was strange enough. Could he be right in the
interpretation which at once suggested itself to his mind--or
perhaps to his vanity? He remembered the meeting with Mrs. Widdowson
near his abode on Friday. He recollected, moreover, the signs of
interest in himself which, as he now thought, she had shown on
previous occasions. Had the poor little woman--doubtless miserable
with her husband--actually let herself fall in love with him? But,
even in that case, what a reckless thing to do--to come to his
rooms! Why, she must have been driven by a despair that blinded her
to all sense of delicacy! Perhaps, had he been at home, she would
have made a pretence of wishing to speak about Rhoda Nunn. That was
imprudent behaviour of his, making such a person his confidante. But
he was tempted by his liking for her.
'By Jove!' he muttered, overcome by the thought. 'I'm glad I was
_not_ at home!'
But then--he had told her that he was going away on Saturday. How
could she expect to find him? The hour of her visit was not stated;
probably she hoped to catch him before he left. And was her
appearance in the neighbourhood on Friday--her troubled aspect--
to be explained as an abortive attempt to have a private interview
with him?
The queerest affair--and maddening in its issues! Rhoda was raging
with jealousy. Well, he too would rage. And without affectation. It
was strange that he felt almost glad of a ground of quarrel with
Rhoda. All day he had been in an irritable temper, and so far as he
could understand himself it was due to resentment of his last
night's defeat. He though of Rhoda as ardently as ever, but an
element that was very like brutality had intruded into his emotions;
that was his reason from refraining from caresses this morning; he
could not trust himself.
He would endure no absurdities. If Rhoda did not choose to accept
his simple assurance--let her take the consequences. Even now,
perhaps, he would bring her to her knees before him. Let her wrong
him by baseless accusation! Then it would no longer be _he_ who sued
for favour. He would whistle her down the wind, and await her
penitent reappearance. Sooner or later his pride and hers, the
obstinacy in their natures, must battle it out; better that it
should be now, before the irrevocable step had been taken.
He ate his dinner with savage appetite, and drank a good deal more
wine than of wont. Then he smoked until the last minute of delay
that his engagement allowed. Of course she had sent the letter to
the hotel because he might be unable to read it in twilight. Wise
precaution. And he was glad to have been able to think the matter
over, to work himself into reasonable wrath. If ever man did well to
be angry--!
There she was, down by the edge of the waves. She would not turn to
see if he were coming; he felt sure of that. Whether she heard his
footsteps he could not tell. When quite close to her, he exclaimed,--
'Well, Rhoda?' She must have known of his approach, for she gave no
start.
She faced slowly to him. No trace of tears on her countenance; no,
Rhoda was above that. Gravity of the sternest--that was all.
'Well,' he continued, 'what have you to say to me?'
'I? Nothing.'
'You mean that it is my business to explain what Mary has told you.
I can't, so there's an end of it.'
'What do you mean by that?' she asked in clear, distant tones.
'Precisely what I say, Rhoda. And I am obliged to ask what _you_
mean by this odd way of speaking to me. What has happened since we
parted this morning?'
Rhoda could not suppress her astonishment; she gazed fixedly at him.
'If you can't explain this letter, who can?'
'I suppose Mrs. Widdowson would be able to account for her doings. I
certainly am not able to. And it seems to me that you are strangely
forgetful of something that passed between us yesterday.'
'Of what?' she asked coldly, her face, which was held proudly up,
turning towards the sea.
'Evidently you accuse me of concealing something from you. Please to
remember a certain plain question you asked me, and the equally
plain answer I gave.'
He detected the beginning of a smile about her rigid lips.
'I remember,' she said.
'And you can still behave to me with indignation? Surely the
indignation should be on my side. You are telling me that I deceived
you.'
For a moment Rhoda lost her self-control.
'How can I help thinking so?' she exclaimed, with a gesture of
misery. 'What can this letter mean? Why should she go to your
rooms?'
'I simply don't know, Rhoda.'
He preserved the show of calmness just because he saw that it
provoked her to anger.
'She has never been there before?'
'Never to my knowledge.'
Rhoda watched his face with greedy attention. She seemed to find
there a confirmation of her doubts. Indeed, it was impossible for
her to credit his denials after what she had observed in London, and
the circumstances which, even before Mary's letter, had made her
suspicious.
'When did you last see Mrs. Widdowson?'
'No, I shan't consent to be cross-examined,' replied Everard, with a
disdainful smile. 'As soon as you refuse to accept my word it's
folly to ask further questions. You don't believe me. Say it
honestly and let us understand each other.'
'I have good reason for thinking that you could explain Mrs.
Widdowson's behaviour if you chose.'
'Exactly. There's no misunderstanding _that_. And if I get angry I
am an unpardonable brute. Come now, you can't be offended if I treat
you as simply my equal, Rhoda. Let me test your sincerity. Suppose I
had seen you talking somewhere with some man who seemed to interest
you very much, and then--to-day, let us say--I heard that he had
called upon you when you were alone. I turn with a savage face and
accuse you of grossly deceiving me--in the worst sense. What would
your answer be?'
'These are idle suppositions,' she exclaimed scornfully.
'But the case is possible, you must admit. I want you to realize
what I am feeling. In such a case as that, you could only turn from
me with contempt. How else can I behave to _you_--conscious of my
innocence, yet in the nature of things unable to prove it?'
'Appearances are very strongly against you.'
'That's an accident--to me quite unaccountable. If I charged you
with dishonour you would only have your word to offer in reply. So
it is with me. And my word is bluntly rejected. You try me rather
severely.'
Rhoda kept silence.
'I know what you are thinking. My character was previously none of
the best. There is a prejudice against me in such a matter for your
good. My record is not immaculate; nor, I believe, is any as this.
Well, you shall hear some more plain speech, altogether man's. I
have gone here and there, and have had my adventures like other men.
One of them you have heard about--the story of that girl Amy Drake--the
subject of Mrs. Goodall's righteous wrath. You shall know the
truth, and if it offends your ears I can't help it. The girl simply
threw herself into my arms, on a railway journey, when we met by
pure chance.'
'I don't care to hear that,' said Rhoda, turning away.
'But you _shall_ hear it. That story has predisposed you to believe
the worst things of me. If I hold you by force, you shall hear every
word of it. Mary seems to have given you mere dark hints--'
'No; she has told me the details. I know it all.'
'From their point of view. Very well; that saves me a lot of
narrative. What those good people didn't understand was the girl's
character. They thought her a helpless innocent; she was a--I'll
spare you the word. She simply planned to get me into her power--
thought I should be forced to marry her. It's the kind of thing that
happens far oftener than you would suppose; that's the reason why
men so often smile in what you would call a brutal way when certain
stories are told to other men's discredit. You will have to take
this into account, Rhoda, before you reach satisfactory results on
the questions that have occupied you so much. I was not in the least
responsible for Amy Drake's desertion of creditable paths. At the
worst I behaved foolishly; and knowing I had done so, knowing how
thankless it was to try and clear myself at her expense, I let
people say what they would; it didn't matter. And you don't believe
me; I can see you don't. Sexual pride won't let you believe me. In
such a case the man must necessarily be the villain.'
'What you mean by saying you only behaved "foolishly," I can't
understand.'
'Perhaps not, and I can't explain as I once did in telling the story
to a man, a friend of mine. But however strict your moral ideas, you
will admit that a girl of thoroughly bad character isn't a subject
for the outcry that was raised about Miss Amy Drake. By taking a
little trouble I could have brought things to light which would have
given worthy Mrs. Goodall and cousin Mary a great shock. Well,
that's enough. I have never pretended to sanctity; but, on the other
hand, I have never behaved like a scoundrel. You charge me,
deliberately, with being a scoundrel, and I defend myself as best I
can. You argue that the man who would mislead an innocent girl and
then cast her off is more likely than not to be guilty in a case
like this of Mrs. Widdowson, when appearances are decidedly against
him. There is only my word in each instance. The question is--Will
you accept my word?'
For a wonder, their privacy was threatened by the approach of two
men who were walking this way from Seascale. Voices in conversation
caused Rhoda to look round; Barfoot had already observed the
strangers.
'Let us go up on to the higher sand,' he said.
Without reply Rhoda accompanied him, and for several minutes they
exchanged no word. The men, talking and laughing loudly, went by;
they seemed to be tourists of a kind that do not often trouble this
quiet spot on the coast; their cigars glowed in the dusk.
'After all this, what have you to say to me, Rhoda?'
'Will you please to give me your cousin's letter?' she said coldly.
'Here it is. Now you will go back to your lodgings, and sit with
that letter open before you half through the night. You will make
yourself unutterably wretched, and all for what?'
He felt himself once more in danger of weakness. Rhoda, in her
haughty, resentful mood, was very attractive to him. He was tempted
to take her in his arms, and kiss her until she softened, pleaded
with him. He wished to see her shed tears. But the voice in which
she now spoke to him was far enough from tearfulness.
'You must prove to me that you have been wrongly suspected.'
Ah, that was to be her line of conduct. She believed her power over
him was absolute. She stood on her dignity, would bring him to
supplication, would give him all the trouble she could before she
professed herself satisfied.
'How am I to prove it?' he asked bluntly.
'If there was nothing wrong between you and Mrs. Widdowson, there
must be some very simple explanation of her coming to your rooms and
being so anxious to see you.'
'And is it my business to discover that explanation?'
'Can it be mine?'
'It must either be yours, Rhoda, or no one's. I shall take no single
step in the matter.'
The battle was declared. Each stood at full height, pertinacious,
resolved on victory.
'You are putting yourself wildly in the wrong,' Everard continued.
'By refusing to take my word you make it impossible for me to hope
that we could live together as we imagined.'
The words fell upon her heart like a crushing weight. But she could
not yield. Last night she had suffered in his opinion by urging what
he thought a weak, womanly scruple; she had condescended to plead
tenderly with him, and had won her cause. Now she would prevail in
another way. If he were telling the truth, he should acknowledge
that natural suspicion made it incumbent upon him to clear so
strange a case of its difficulties. If he were guilty of deception,
as she still believed, though willing to admit to herself that
Monica might be most at fault, that there might have been no actual
wrongdoing between them--he should confess with humblest
penitence, and beseech pardon. Impossible to take any other
attitude. Impossible to marry him with this doubt in her mind--
equally out of the question to seek Monica, and humiliate herself by
making inquiries on such a subject. Guilty or not, Monica would
regard her with secret disdain, with woman's malice. Were she _able_
to believe him, that indeed would be a grand consummation of their
love, an ideal union of heart and soul. Listening to him, she had
tried to put faith in his indignant words. But it was useless. The
incredulity she could not help must either part them for ever, or be
to her an occasion of new triumph.
'I don't refuse to take your word,' she said, with conscious
quibbling. 'I only say that your name must be cleared from
suspicion. Mr. Widdowson is sure to tell his story to other people.
Why has his wife left him?'
'I neither know nor care.'
'You must prove to me that you are not the cause of it.'
'I shall not make the slightest effort to do so.'
Rhoda began to move away from him. As he kept silence, she walked on
in the Seascale direction. He followed at a distance of a few yards,
watching her movements. When they had gone so far that five minutes
more must bring them within sight of the hotel, Everard spoke.
'Rhoda!'
She paused and awaited him.
'You remember that I was going to London to-morrow. It seems that I
had better go and not trouble to return.'
'That is for you to decide.'
'For you rather.'
'I have said all that I _can_ say.'
'And so have I. But surely you must be unconscious how grossly you
are insulting me.'
'I want only to understand what purpose Mrs. Widdowson had in going
to your rooms.'
'Then why not ask her? You are friends. She would doubtless tell you
the truth.'
'If she comes to me voluntarily to make an explanation, I will hear
it. But I shall not ask her.'
'Your view of the fitness of things is that I should request her to
wait upon you for that purpose?'
'There are others who can act for you.'
'Very well. Then we are at a deadlock. It seems to me that we had
better shake hands like sensible people, and say good-bye.'
'Much better--if it seems so to you.'
The time for emotional help was past. In very truth they had nothing
more to say to each other, being now hardened in obstinacy. Each
suffered from the other's coldness, each felt angry with the other's
stubborn refusal to concede a point of dignity. Everard put out his
hand.
'When you are ready to say that you have used me very ill, I shall
remember only yesterday. Till then--good-bye, Rhoda.'
She made a show of taking his hand, but said nothing. And so they
parted.
* * *
At eight o'clock next morning Barfoot was seated in the southward
train. He rejoiced that his strength of will had thus far asserted
itself. Of final farewell to Rhoda he had no thought whatever. Her
curiosity would, of course, compel her to see Monica; one way or
another she would learn that he was blameless. His part was to keep
aloof from her, and to wait for her inevitable submission.
Violent rain was beating upon the carriage windows; it drove from
the mountains, themselves invisible, though dense low clouds marked
their position. Poor Rhoda! She would not have a very cheerful day
at Seascale. Perhaps she would follow him by a later train. Certain
it was that she must be suffering intensely--and that certainly
rejoiced him. The keener her suffering the sooner her submission.
Oh, but the submission should be perfect! He had seen her in many
moods, but not yet in the anguish of broken pride. She must shed
tears before him, declare her spirit worn and subjugated by torment
of jealousy and fear. Then he would raise her, and seat her in the
place of honour, and fall down at her feet, and fill her soul with
rapture.
Many times between Seascale and London he smiled in anticipation of
that hour.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE REASCENT
Whilst the rain pelted, and it did so until afternoon, Rhoda sat in
her little parlour, no whit less miserable than Barfoot imagined.
She could not be sure whether Everard had gone to London; at the
last moment reflection or emotion might have detained him. Early in
the morning she had sent to post a letter for Miss Barfoot, written
last night--a letter which made no revelation of her feelings, but
merely expressed a cold curiosity to hear anything that might become
known as to the course of Mr. Widdowson's domestic troubles. 'You
may still write to this address; if I leave, letters shall be
forwarded.'
When the sky cleared she went out. In the evening she again rambled
about the shore. Evidently Barfoot had gone; if still here, he would
have watched and joined her.
Her solitude now grew insufferable, yet she could not decide whither
to betake herself. The temptation to return to London was very
strong, but pride prevailed against it. Everard might perhaps go to
see his cousin, and relate all that had happened at Seascale,
justifying himself as he had here done. Whether Miss Barfoot became
aware of the story or not, Rhoda could not reconcile it with her
self-respect to curtail the stipulated three weeks of holiday.
Rather she would strain her nerves to the last point of endurance--
and if she were not suffering, then never did woman suffer.
Another cheerless day helped her to make up her mind. She cared
nothing now for lake and mountain; human companionship was her
supreme need. By the earliest train next day she started, not for
London, but for her brother's home in Somerset, and there she
remained until it was time to return to work. Miss Barfoot wrote
twice in the interval, saying that she had heard nothing more of
Monica. Of Everard she made no mention.
Rhoda got back again to Chelsea on the appointed Saturday afternoon.
Miss Barfoot knew when she would arrive, but was not at home to meet
her, and did not return till a couple of hours had passed. They met
at length as if nothing remarkable had occurred during the three
weeks. Mary, if she felt any solicitude, effectually concealed it;
Rhoda talked as if very glad to be at home again, explaining her
desertion of the lake country by the bad weather that prevailed
there. It was not till after dinner that the inevitable subject came
up between them.
'Have you seen Everard since you went away?' Miss Barfoot began by
asking.
So he had not been here to tell his story and plead his cause--or
it seemed not.
'Yes, I saw him at Seascale,' Rhoda replied, without sign of
emotion.
'Before or after that news came?'
'Both before and after. I showed him your letter, and all he had to
say was that he knew nothing of the affair.'
'That's all he has to say to me. I haven't seen him. A letter I sent
to his address was answered, after a week, from a place I never
heard of--Arromanches, in Normandy. The shortest and rudest letter
I ever had from him. Practically he told me to mind my own business.
And there things stand.'
Rhoda smiled a little, conscious of the extreme curiosity her friend
must be feeling, and determined not to gratify it. For by this time,
though her sunken cheeks were hard to reconcile with the enjoyment
of a summer holiday, she had matured a resolve to betray nothing of
what she had gone through. Her state of mind resembled that of the
ascetic who has arrived at a morbid delight in self-torture. She
regarded the world with an intense bitterness, and persuaded herself
not only that the thought of Everard Barfoot was hateful to her
soul, but that sexual love had become, and would ever be, to her an
impure idea, a vice of blood.
'I suppose,' she said carelessly, 'Mr. Widdowson will try to divorce
his wife.'
'I am in dread of that. But they may have made it up.'
'Of course you have no doubt of her guilt?'
Mary tried to understand the hard, austere face, with its touch of
cynicism. Conjecture as to its meaning was not difficult, but, in
the utter absence of information, certainty there could be none.
Under any circumstances, it was to be expected that Rhoda would
think and speak of Mrs. Widdowson no less severely than of the
errant Bella Royston.
'I have _some_ doubt,' was Miss Barfoot's answer. 'But I should be
glad of some one else's favourable opinion to help my charity.'
'Miss Madden hasn't been here, you see. She certainly would have
come if she had felt convinced that her sister was wronged.'
'Unless a day or two saw the end of the trouble--when naturally
none of them would say any more about it.'
This was the possibility which occupied Rhoda's reflections as long
as she lay awake that night.
Her feelings on entering the familiar bedroom were very strange.
Even before starting for her holiday she had bidden it good-bye, and
at Seascale, that night following upon the "perfect day," she had
thought of it as a part of her past life, a place abandoned for
ever, already infinitely remote. Her first sensation when she looked
upon the white bed was one of disgust; she thought it would be
impossible to use this room henceforth, and that she must ask Miss
Barfoot to let her change to another. Tonight she did not restore
any of the ornaments which were lying packed up. The scent of the
room revived so many hours of conflict, of hope, that it caused her
a sick faintness. In frenzy of detestation she cursed the man who
had so disturbed and sullied the swift, pure stream of her life.
* * *
Arromanches, in Normandy--? On Sunday she sought the name on a
map, but it was not marked, being doubtless too insignificant.
Improbable that he had gone to such a place alone; he was enjoying
himself with friends, careless what became of her. Having allowed
all this time to go by he would never seek her again. He found that
her will was the equal of his own, and, as he could not rule her,
she was numbered among the women who had afforded him interesting
experiences, to be thought of seriously no more.
During the next week she threw herself with energy upon her work,
stifling the repugnance with which at first it affected her, and
seeming at length to recover the old enthusiasm. This was the only
way of salvation. Idleness and absence of purpose would soon degrade
her in a sense she had never dreamt of. She made a plan of daily
occupation, which by leaving not a vacant moment from early morning
to late at night, should give her the sleep of utter weariness. New
studies were begun in the hour or two before breakfast. She even
restricted her diet, and ate only just enough to support life,
rejecting wine and everything that was most agreeable to her palate.
She desired to speak privately with Mildred Vesper, and opportunity
might have been made, but, as part of her scheme of self-subdual,
this conversation was postponed until the second week. It took place
one evening when work was over.
'I have been wanting to ask you,' Rhoda began, 'whether you have any
news of Mrs. Widdowson.'
'I wrote to her not long ago, and she answered from a new address.
She said she had left her husband and would never go back to him.'
Rhoda nodded gravely.
'Then what I had heard was true. You haven't seen her?'
'She asked me not to come. She is living with her sister.'
'Did she give you any reason for the separation from her husband?'
'None,' answered Mildred. 'But she said it was no secret; that every
one knew. That's why I haven't spoken to you about it--as I should
have done otherwise after our last conversation.'
'The fact is no secret,' said Rhoda coldly. 'But why will she offer
no explanation?'
Mildred shook her head, signifying inability to make any
satisfactory reply, and there the dialogue ended; for Rhoda could
not proceed in it without appearing to encourage scandal. The hope
of eliciting some suggestive information had failed; but whether
Mildred had really disclosed all she knew seemed doubtful.
At the end of the week Miss Barfoot left home for her own holiday;
she was going to Scotland, and would be away for nearly the whole of
September. At this time of the year the work in Great Portland
Street was very light; not much employment offered for the
typewriters, and the pupils numbered only about half a dozen.
Nevertheless, it pleased Rhoda to have the establishment under her
sole direction; she desired authority, and by magnifying the
importance of that which now fell into her hands, she endeavoured to
sustain herself under the secret misery which, for all her efforts,
weighed no less upon her as time went on. It was a dreary
make-believe. On the first night of solitude at Chelsea she shed
bitter tears; and not only wept, but agonized in mute frenzy, the
passions of her flesh torturing her until she thought of death as a
refuge. Now she whispered the name of her lover with every word and
phrase of endearment that her heart could suggest; the next moment
she cursed him with the fury of deadliest hatred. In the
half-delirium of sleeplessness, she revolved wild, impossible
schemes for revenging herself, or, as the mood changed, all but
resolved to sacrifice everything to her love, to accuse herself of
ignoble jealousy and entreat forgiveness. Of many woeful nights this
was the worst she had yet suffered.
It recalled to her with much vividness a memory of girlhood, or
indeed of childhood. She thought of that figure in the dim past,
that rugged, harsh-featured man, who had given her the first
suggestion of independence; thrice her own age, yet the inspirer of
such tumultuous emotion in her ignorant heart; her friend at
Clevedon--Mr. Smithson. A question from Mary Barfoot had caused
her to glance back at him across the years, but only for an instant,
and with self-mockery. What she now endured was the ripe intensity
of a woe that fell upon her, at fifteen, when Mr. Smithson passed
from her sight and away for ever. Childish folly! but the misery of
it, the tossing at night, the blank outlook! How contemptible to
revive such sensations, with mature intellect, after so long and
stern a discipline!
Dreading the Sunday, so terrible in its depressing effect upon the
lonely and unhappy, she breakfasted as soon as possible, and left
home--simply to walk, to exert herself physically, that fatigue
and sleep might follow. There was a dull sky, but no immediate fear
of rain; the weather brightened a little towards noon. Careless of
the direction, she walked on and on until the last maddening church
bell had ceased its clangour; she was far out in the western
suburbs, and weariness began to check her quick pace. Then she
turned back. Without intending it, she passed by Mrs. Cosgrove's
house, or rather would have passed, when she saw Mrs. Cosgrove at
the dining-room window making signs to her. In a moment the door
opened and she went in. She was glad of this accident, for the
social lady might have something to tell about Mrs. Widdowson, who
often visited her.
'In mercy, come and talk to me!' exclaimed Mrs. Cosgrove. 'I am
quite alone, and feel as if I could hang myself. Are you obliged to
go anywhere?'
'No. I was having a walk.'
'A walk? What astonishing energy! It never occurs to me to take a
walk in London. I came from the country last night and expected to
find my sister her, but she won't arrive till Tuesday. I have been
standing at the window for an hour, getting crazy with _ennui_.'
They went to the drawing-room. It was not long before Mrs. Cosgrove
made an allusion which enabled Rhoda to speak of Mrs. Widdowson. For
a month or more Mrs. Cosgrove had seen and heard nothing of her; she
had been out of town all the time. Rhoda hesitated, but could not
keep silence on the subject that had become a morbid preoccupation
of her mind. She told as much as she knew--excepting the suspicion
against Everard Barfoot.
'It doesn't in the least surprise me,' said the listener, with
interest. 'I saw they wouldn't be able to live together very well.
Without children the thing was impossible. Of course she has told
you all about it?'
'I haven't seen her since it happened.'
'Do you know, I always have a distinct feeling of pleasure when I
hear of married people parting. How horrible that would seem to some
of our good friends! But it isn't a malicious pleasure; there's
nothing personal in it. As I have told you before, I think, I led a
very contented life with my husband. But marriage in general is
_such_ a humbug--you forgive the word.'
'Of course it is,' assented Rhoda, laughing with forced gaiety.
'I am glad of anything that seems to threaten it as an institution--in
its present form. A scandalous divorce case is a delight to me--anything
that makes it evident how much misery would be spared if
we could civilize ourselves in this respect. There are women whose
conduct I think personally detestable, and whom yet I can't help
thanking for their assault upon social laws. We shall have to go
through a stage of anarchy, you know, before reconstruction begins.
Yes, in that sense I am an anarchist. Seriously, I believe if a few
men and women in prominent position would contract marriage of the
free kind, without priest or lawyer, open and defiantly, they would
do more benefit to their kind than in any other possible way. I
don't declare this opinion to every one, but only because I am a
coward. Whatever one believes with heart and soul one ought to make
known.'
Rhoda wore a look of anxious reflection.
'It needs a great deal of courage,' she said. 'To take that step, I
mean.'
'Of course. We need martyrs. And yet I doubt whether the martyrdom
would be very long, or very trying, to intellectual people. A woman
of brains who boldly acted upon her conviction would have no lack of
congenial society. The best people are getting more liberal than
they care to confess to each other. Wait until some one puts the
matter to the test and you will see.'
Rhoda became so busy with her tumultuous thoughts that she spoke
only a word now and then, allowing Mrs. Cosgrove to talk at large on
this engrossing theme.
'Where is Mrs. Widdowson living?' the revolutionist at length
inquired.
'I don't know. But I can get you her address.'
'Pray do. I shall go and see her. We are quite friendly enough for
me to do so without impertinence.'
Having lunched with her acquaintance, Rhoda went in the afternoon to
Mildred Vesper's lodgings. Miss Vesper was at home, reading, in her
usual placid mood. She gave Rhoda the address that was on Mrs.
Widdowson's last brief note, and that evening Rhoda sent it to Mrs.
Cosgrove by letter.
In two days she received a reply. Mrs. Cosgrove had called upon Mrs.
Widdowson at her lodgings at Clapham. 'She is ill, wretched, and
unwilling to talk. I could only stay about a quarter of an hour, and
to ask questions was impossible. She mentioned your name, and
appeared very anxious to hear about you; but when I asked whether
she would like you to call she grew timid all at once, and said she
hoped you wouldn't unless you really desired to see her. Poor thing!
Of course I don't know what it all means, but I came away with
maledictions on marriage in my heart--one is always safe in
indulging that feeling.'
A week or so after this there arrived for Miss Barfoot a letter from
Everard. The postmark was Ostend.
Never before had Rhoda been tempted to commit a break of confidence
such as in any one else she would have scorned beyond measure. She
had heard, of course, of people secretly opening letters with the
help of steam; whether it could be done with absolute security from
detection she did not feel sure, but her thoughts dwelt on the
subject for several hours. It was terrible to hold this letter of
Everard's writing, and yet be obliged to send it away without
knowledge of the contents, which perhaps gravely concerned her. She
could not ask Miss Barfoot to let her know what Everard had written.
The information might perhaps be voluntarily granted; but perhaps
not.
To steam the back of the envelope--would it not leave marks, a
rumpling or discoloration? Even to be suspected of such dishonour
would be more bitter to her than death. Could she even think of it?
How she was degraded by this hateful passion, which wrought in her
like a disease!
With two others which that day had arrived she put the letter into a
large envelope, and so dispatched it. But no satisfaction rewarded
her; her heart raged against the world, against every law of life.
When, in a few days, a letter came to her from Miss Barfoot, she
tore it Open, and there--yes, there was Everard's handwriting.
Mary had sent the communication for her to read.
'DEAR COUSIN MARY,--After all I was rather too grumpy In my last
note to you. But my patience had been desperately tried. I have gone
through a good deal; now at last I am recovering sanity, and can
admit that you had no choice but to ask those questions. I know and
care nothing about Mrs. Widdowson. By her eccentric behaviour she
either did me a great injury or a great service, I'm not quite sure
which, but I incline to the latter view. Here is a conundrum--not
very difficult to solve, I dare say.
'Do you know anything about Arromanches? A very quiet little spot on
the Normandy coast. You get to it by an hour's coach from Bayeux.
Not infested by English. I went there on an invitation from the
Brissendens; who discovered the place last year. Excellent people
these. I like them better the more I know of them. A great deal of
quiet liberality--even extreme liberality--in the two girls.
They would suit you, I am sure. Well instructed. Agnes, the younger,
reads half a dozen languages, and shames me by her knowledge of all
sorts of things. And yet delightfully feminine.
'As they were going to Ostend I thought I might as well follow them,
and we continue to see each other pretty frequently.
'By-the-bye, I shall have to find new quarters if I come back to
London. The engineer, back from Italy after a longer absence than he
anticipated, wants his flat, and of course must have it. But then I
may not come back at all, except to gather my traps. I shall not
call on you, unless I have heard that you don't doubt the assurance
I have now twice given.--Your profligate relative,
E. B.'
'I think,' wrote Mary, 'that we may safely believe him. Such a lie
would be too bad; he is incapable of it. Remember, I have never
charged him with falsehood. I shall write and tell him that I accept
his word. Has it, or has it not, occurred to you to see Mrs.
Widdowson herself? Or, if there are insuperable objections, why not
see Miss Madden? We talk to each other in a sort of cypher, dear
Rhoda. Well, I desire nothing but your good, as I think you know,
and you must decide for yourself where that good lies.'
Everard's letter put Rhoda beside herself with wrath. In writing it
he knew it would come into her hands; he hoped to sting her with
jealousy. So Mrs. Widdowson had done him a service. He was free to
devote himself to Agnes Brissenden, with her six languages, her
extreme liberality, her feminine charm.
If she could not crush out her love for this man she would poison
herself--as she had so often decided she would do if ever some
hopeless malady, such as cancer, took hold upon her--
And be content to feed his vanity? To give him the lifelong
reflection that, for love of him, a woman excelled by few in
qualities of brain and heart had died like a rat?
She walked about the rooms, here and there, upstairs and downstairs,
in a fever of unrest. After all, was he not behaving in the very way
she ought to desire? Was he not helping her to hate him? He struck
at her with unmanly blows, thinking, no doubt, to quell her pride,
and bring her to him in prostrate humility. Never! Even if it were
proved in the clearest way that she ought to have believed him she
would make no submission. If he loved her he must woo once more.
But the suggestion in Mary's letter was not fruitless. When she had
thought over it for a day or two she wrote to Virginia Madden,
asking her as a favour to come to Queen's Road on Saturday
afternoon. Virginia quickly replied with a promise to call, and
punctually kept the engagement. Though she was much better dressed
than in the days previous to Monica's marriage, she had lost
something for which costume could not compensate: her face had no
longer that unmistakable refinement which had been wont to make her
attire a secondary consideration. A disagreeable redness tinged her
eyelids and the lower part of her nose; her mouth was growing coarse
and lax, the under-lip hanging a little; she smiled with a
shrinking, apologetic shyness only seen in people who have done
something to be ashamed of--smiled even when she was endeavouring
to look sorrowful; and her glance was furtive. She sat down on the
edge of a chair, like an anxious applicant for work or charity, and
a moistness of the eyes, which obliged her to use her handkerchief
frequently, strengthened this resemblance.
Rhoda could not play at smooth phrases with this poor, dispirited
woman, whose change during the last few years, and especially during
the last twelve months, had often occupied her thoughts in a very
unpleasant way. She came almost at once to the subject of their
interview.
'Why have you not been to see me before this?'
'I--really couldn't. The circumstances--everything is so very
painful. You know--of course you know what has happened?'
'Of course I do.'
'How,' asked Virginia timidly, 'did the news first of all reach
you?'
'Mr. Widdowson came here and told Miss Barfoot everything.'
'He came? We didn't know that. Then you have heard the accusation he
makes?'
'Everything.'
'It is quite unfounded, I do assure you. Monica is not guilty. The
poor child has done nothing--it was an indiscretion--nothing
more than indiscretion--'
'I am very anxious to believe it. Can you give me certainty? Can you
explain Monica's behaviour--not only on that one occasion, but the
deceit she practised at other times? Her husband told Miss Barfoot
that she had frequently told him untruths--such as saying that she
called here when she certainly did not.'
'I can't explain that,' lamented Virginia. 'Monica won't tell me why
she concealed her movements.'
'Then how can you ask me to believe your assurance that she isn't
guilty?'
The sternness of this question caused Virginia to redden and become
utterly disconcerted. She dropped her handkerchief, fumbled for it,
breathed hard.
'Oh, Miss Nunn! How can you think Monica--? You know her better;
I'm sure you do!'
'Any human being may commit a crime,' said the other impatiently,
exasperated by what seemed to be merely new evidence against
Barfoot. 'Who knows any one well enough to say that a charge _must_
be unfounded?'
Miss Madden began to sob.
'I'm afraid that is true. But my sister--my dear sister--'
'I didn't want to distress you. Do command yourself, and let us talk
about it calmly.'
'Yes--I will--I shall be so glad to talk about it with you. Oh,
if I could persuade her to return to her husband! He is willing to
receive her. I meet him very often on Clapham Common, and--We
are living at his expense. When Monica had been with me in my old
lodgings for about a week he took these new rooms for us, and Monica
consented to remove. But she won't hear of going back to live with
him. He has offered to let us have the house to ourselves, but it's
no use. He writes to her, but she won't reply. Do you know that he
has taken a house at Clevedon--a beautiful house? They were to go
to it in a week or two, and Alice and I would have gone to share it
with them--then this dreadful thing happened. And Mr. Widdowson
doesn't even insist on her telling him what she keeps secret. He is
willing to take her back under any circumstances. And she is so ill--'
Virginia broke off, as if there were something more that she did not
venture to impart. Her cheeks coloured, and she looked distressfully
about the room.
'Seriously ill, do you mean?' inquired Rhoda, with difficulty
softening her voice.
'She gets up each day, but I'm often afraid that--She has had
fainting fits--'
Rhoda gazed at the speaker with pitiless scrutiny.
'What can have caused this? Is it the result of her being falsely
accused?'
'Partly that. But--'
Suddenly Virginia rose, stepped to Rhoda's side, and whispered a
word or two. Rhoda turned pale; her eyes glared fiercely.
'And _still_ you believe her innocent?'
'She has sworn to me that she is innocent. She says that she has a
proof of it which I shall see some day--and her husband also. A
presentiment has fixed itself in her mind that she can't live, and
before the end she will tell everything.'
'Her husband knows of this, of course--of what you have told me?'
'No. She has forbidden me to say anything--and how could I, Miss
Nunn? She has made me promise solemnly that he shall not be told. I
haven't even told Alice. But she will know very soon. At the end of
September she leaves her place, and will come to London to be with
us--for a time at all events. We do so hope that we shall succeed
in persuading Monica to go to the house at Clevedon. Mr. Widdowson
is keeping it, and will move the furniture from Herne Hill at any
moment. Couldn't you help us, dear Miss Nunn? Monica would listen to
you; I am sure she would.'
'I'm afraid I can be of no use,' Rhoda answered coldly.
'She has been hoping to see you.'
'She has said so?'
'Not in so many words--but I am sure she wishes to see you. She
has asked about you several times, and when your note came she was
very pleased. It would be a great kindness to us--'
'Does she declare that she will never return to her husband?'
'Yes--I am sorry to say she does. But the poor child believes that
she has only a short time to live. Nothing will shake her
presentiment. "I shall die, and give no more trouble"--that's what
she always says to me. And a conviction of that kind is so likely to
fulfil itself. She never leaves the house, and of course that is
very wrong; she ought to go out every day. She won't see a medical
man.'
'Has Mr. Widdowson given her any cause for disliking him?' Rhoda
inquired.
'He was dreadfully violent when he discovered--I'm afraid it was
natural--he thought the worst of her, and he has always been so
devoted to Monica. She says he seemed on the point of killing her.
He is a man of very severe nature, I have always thought. He never
could bear that Monica should go anywhere alone. They were very,
very unhappy, I'm afraid--so ill-matched in almost every respect.
Still, under the circumstances--surely she ought to return to
him?'
'I can't say. I don't know.'
Rhoda's voice signified a conflict of feeling. Had she been
disinterested her opinion would not have wavered for a moment; she
would have declared that the wife's inclination must be the only law
in such a case. As it was, she could only regard Monica with
profound mistrust and repugnance. The story of decisive evidence
kept back seemed to her only a weak woman's falsehood--a fiction
due to shame and despair. Undoubtedly it would give some vague
relief to her mind if Monica were persuaded to go to Clevedon, but
she could not bring herself to think of visiting the suffering
woman. Whatever the end might be, she would have not part in
bringing it about. Her dignity, her pride, should remain unsullied
by such hateful contact.
'I mustn't stay longer,' said Virginia, rising after a painful
silence. 'I am always afraid to be away from her even for an hour;
the fear of dreadful things that might happen haunts me day and
night. How glad I shall be when Alice comes!'
Rhoda had no words of sympathy. Her commiseration for Virginia was
only such as she might have felt for any stranger involved in sordid
troubles; all the old friendliness had vanished. Nor would she have
been greatly shocked or astonished had she followed Miss Madden on
the way to the railway station and seen her, after a glance up and
down the street, turn quickly into a public-house, and come forth
again holding her handkerchief to her lips. A feeble, purposeless,
hopeless woman; type of a whole class; living only to deteriorate--
Will! Purpose! Was _she_ not in danger of forgetting these
watchwords, which had guided her life out of youth into maturity?
That poor creature's unhappiness was doubtless in great measure due
to the conviction that in missing love and marriage she had missed
everything. So thought the average woman, and in her darkest hours
she too had fallen among those poor of spirit, the flesh prevailing.
But the soul in her had not finally succumbed. Passion had a new
significance; her conception of life was larger, more liberal; she
made no vows to crush the natural instincts. But her conscience, her
sincerity should not suffer. Wherever destiny might lead, she would
still be the same proud and independent woman, responsible only to
herself, fulfilling the nobler laws of her existence.
A day or two after this she had guests to dine with her--Mildred
Vesper and Winifred Haven. Among the girls whom she had helped to
educate, these two seemed by far the most self-reliant, the most
courageous and hopeful. In minor details of character they differed
widely, and intellectually Miss Haven was far in advance. Rhoda had
a strong desire to observe them as they talked bout the most various
subjects; she knew them well, but hoped to find in them some new
suggestion of womanly force which would be of help to her in her own
struggle for redemption.
It was seldom that either of them ailed anything. Mildred still
showed traces of her country breeding; she was the more robust,
walked with a heavier step, had less polish of manner. Under strain
of any kind Winifred's health would sooner give way, but her natural
vivacity promised long resistance to oppressing influences. Mildred
had worked harder, and amid privations of which the other girl knew
nothing. She would never distinguish herself, but it was difficult
indeed to imagine her repining so long as she had her strength and
her congenial friends. Twenty years hence, in all probability, she
would keep the same clear, steady eye, the same honest smile, and
the same dry humour in her talk. Winifred was more likely to
traverse a latitude of storm. For one thing, her social position
brought her in the way of men who might fall in love with her,
whereas Mildred lived absolutely apart from the male world;
doubtless, too, her passions were stronger. She loved literature,
spent as much time as possible in study, and had set her mind upon
helping to establish that ideal woman's paper of which there was
often talk at Miss Barfoot's.
In this company Rhoda felt her old ambitions regaining their power
over her. To these girls she was an exemplar; it made her smile to
think how little they could dream of what she had experienced during
the last few weeks; if ever a moment of discontent assailed them,
they must naturally think of her, of the brave, encouraging words
she had so often spoken. For a moment she had deserted them,
abandoning a course which her reason steadily approved for one that
was beset with perils of indignity. It would shame her if they knew
the whole truth--and yet she wished it were possible for them to
learn that she had been passionately wooed. A contemptible impulse
of vanity; away with it!
There was a chance, it seemed to her, that during Miss Barfoot's
absence Everard might come to the house. Mary had written to him; he
would know that she was away. What better opportunity, if he had not
dismissed her memory from his thoughts?
Every evening she made herself ready to receive a possible visitor.
She took thought for her appearance. But the weeks passed by, Miss
Barfoot returned, and Everard had given no sign.
She would set a date, a limit. If before Christmas he neither came
nor wrote all was at an end; after that she would not see him,
whatever his plea. And having persuaded herself that this decision
was irrevocable, she thought it as well to gratify Miss Barfoot's
curiosity, for by now she felt able to relate what had happened in
Cumberland with a certain satisfaction--the feeling she had
foreseen when, in the beginning of her acquaintance with Everard, it
flattered her to observe his growing interest. Her narrative, to
which Mary listened with downcast eyes, presented the outlines of
the story veraciously; she told of Everard's wish to dispense with
the legal bond, of her own indecision, and of the issue.
'When your letter came, could I very well have acted otherwise than
I did? It was not a flat refusal to believe him; all I asked was
that things should be cleared up before our marriage. For his own
sake he ought to have willingly agreed to that. He preferred to take
my request as an insult. His unreasonable anger made me angry too.
And now I don't think we shall ever meet again unless as mere
acquaintances.'
'I think,' commented the listener, 'that he behaved with
extraordinary impudence.'
'In the first proposal? But I myself attach no importance to the
marriage ceremony.'
'Then why did you insist upon it?' asked Mary, with a smile that
might have become sarcastic but that her eye met Rhoda's.
'Would you have received us?'
'In the one case as readily as in the other.'
Rhoda was silent and darkly thoughtful.
'Perhaps I never felt entire confidence in him.'
Mary smiled and sighed.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE BURDEN OF FUTILE SOULS
'My own dearest love, if I could but describe to you all I have
suffered before sitting down to write this letter! Since our last
meeting I have not known one hour of quietness. To think that I
missed you when you called and left that note--for it was you
yourself, was it not? The journey was horrible, and the week that I
have spent here--I assure you I have not slept for more than a few
minutes at a time, and I am utterly broken down by misery. My
darling'--etc. 'I regard myself as a criminal; if _you_ have
suffered a thousandth part of what _I_ have, I deserve any
punishment that could be devised. For it has all been my fault.
Knowing as I did that our love could never end in happiness, it was
my duty to hide what I felt. I ought never to have contrived that
first meeting alone--for it _was_ contrived; I sent my sisters
away on purpose. I ought never'--etc. 'The only reflection that
can ever bring me comfort is that our love has been pure. We can
always think of each other without shame. And why should this love
ever have an end? We are separated, and perhaps shall never see each
other again, but may not our hearts remain for ever true? May we not
think'--etc. 'If I were to bid you leave your home and come to me,
I should be once more acting with base selfishness. I should ruin
your life, and load my own with endless self-reproach. I find that
even mere outward circumstances would not allow of what for a moment
we dreamt might be possible, and of that I am _glad_, since it helps
me to overcome the terrible temptation. Oh, if you knew how that
temptation'--etc. 'Time will be a friend to both of us, dearest
Monica. Forget each other we never can, we _never_ will. But our
unsullied love'--etc.
Monica read it through again, the long rigmarole. Since the day that
she received it--addressed to 'Mrs. Williamson' at the little
stationer's by Lavender Hill--the day before she consented to
accompany her sister into new lodgings--the letter had lain in its
hiding-place. Alone this afternoon, for Virginia was gone to call on
Miss Nunn, alone and miserable, every printed page a weariness to
her sight, she took out the French-stamped envelope and tried to
think that its contents interested her. But not a word had power of
attraction or of repulsion. The tender phrases affected her no more
than if they had been addressed to a stranger. Love was become a
meaningless word. She could not understand how she had ever drifted
into such relations with the writer. Fear and anger were the sole
passions surviving in her memory from those days which had violently
transformed her life, and it was not with Bevis, but her husband,
that these emotions were connected. Bevis's image stood in that
already distant past like a lay figure, the mere semblance of a man.
And with such conception of him his letter corresponded; it was
artificial, lifeless, as if extracted from some vapid novel.
But she must no destroy it. Its use was still to come. Letter and
envelope must go back again into hiding, and await the day which
would give them power over human lives.
Suffering, as always, from headache and lassitude, she sat by the
window and watched the people who passed along--her daily
occupation. This sitting-room was on the ground floor. In a room
above some one was receiving a music lesson; every now and then the
teacher's voice became audible, raised in sharp impatience, and
generally accompanied by a clash upon the keys of the piano. At the
area gate of the house opposite a servant was talking angrily with a
tradesman's errand boy, who at length put his thumb to his nose with
insulting significance and scampered off. Then, at the house next to
that one, there stopped a cab, from which three busy-looking men
alighted. Cabs full of people were always stopping at that door.
Monica wondered what it meant, who might live there. She thought of
asking the landlady.
Virginia's return aroused her. She went upstairs with her sister
into the double-bedded room which they occupied.
'What have you heard?'
'He went there. He told them everything.'
'How did Miss Nunn look? How did she speak?'
'Oh, she was very, very distant,' lamented Virginia. 'I don't quite
know why she sent for me. She said there would be no use in her
coming to see you--and I don't think she ever will. I told her
that there was no truth in--'
'But how did she look?' asked Monica impatiently.
'Not at all well, I thought. She had been away for her holiday, but
it doesn't seem to have done her much good.'
'He went there and told them everything?'
'Yes--just after it happened. But he hasn't seen them since that.
I could see they believed him. It was no use all that I said. She
looked so stern and--'
'Did you ask anything about Mr. Barfoot?'
'My dear, I didn't venture to. It was impossible. But I feel quite
sure that they must have broken off all intercourse with him.
Whatever he may have said, they evidently didn't believe it. Miss
Barfoot is away now.
'And what did you tell her about me?'
'Everything that you said I might, dear.'
'Nothing else--you are sure?'
Virginia coloured, but made asseveration that nothing else had
passed her lips.
'It wouldn't have mattered if you had,' said Monica indifferently.
'I don't care.'
The sister, struggling with shame, was irritated by the needlessness
of her falsehood.
'Then why were you so particular to forbid me, Monica?'
'It was better--but I don't care. I don't care for anything. Let
them believe and say what they like--'
'Monica, if I find out at last that you have deceived me--'
'Oh, do, do, do be quiet!' cried the other wretchedly. 'I shall go
somewhere and live alone--or die alone. You worry me--I'm tired
of it.'
'You are not very grateful, Monica.'
'I can't be grateful! You must expect nothing from me. If you keep
talking and questioning I shall go away. I don't care what becomes
of me. The sooner I die the better.'
Scenes such as this had been frequent lately. The sisters were a
great trial to each other's nerves. Tedium and pain drove Monica to
the relief of altercation, and Virginia, through her secret vice,
was losing all self-control. They wrangled, wailed, talked of
parting, and only became quiet when their emotions had exhausted
them. Yet no ill-feeling resulted from these disputes. Virginia had
a rooted faith in her sister's innocence; when angry, she only tried
to provoke Monica into a full explanation of the mystery, so
insoluble by unaided conjecture. And Monica, say what she might,
repaid this confidence with profound gratitude. Strangely, she had
come to view herself as not only innocent of the specific charge
brought against her, but as a woman in every sense maligned. So
utterly void of significance, from her present point of view, was
all that had passed between her and Bevis. One reason for this lay
in the circumstance that, when exchanging declarations with her
lover, she was ignorant of a fact which, had she known it, would
have made their meetings impossible. Her husband she could never
regard but as a cruel enemy; none the less, nature had set a seal
upon their marriage against which the revolt of her heart was
powerless. If she lived to bear a child, that child would be his.
Widdowson, when he heard of her condition, would declare it the
final proof of infidelity; and this injustice it was that
exclusively occupied her mind. On this account she could think only
of the accusation which connected her name with Barfoot's--all
else was triviality. Had there been no slightest ground for
imputation upon her conduct, she could not have resented more
vigorously her husband's refusal to acquit her of dishonour.
On the following day, after their early dinner, Monica unexpectedly
declared that she must go out.
'Come with me. We'll go into the town.'
'But you refused to go out this morning when it was fine,'
complained Virginia. 'And now you can see it will rain.'
'Then I shall go alone.'
The sister at once started up.
'No, no; I'm quite ready. Where do you wish--'
'Anywhere out of this dead place. We'll go by train, and walk from
Victoria--anywhere. To the Abbey, if you like.'
'You must be very careful not to catch cold. After all this time
that you haven't left the house--'
Monica cut short the admonition and dressed herself with feverish
impatience. As they set forth, drops of rain had begun to fall, but
Monica would not hear of waiting. The journey by train made her
nervous, but affected her spirits favourably. At Victoria it rained
so heavily that they could not go out into the street.
'It doesn't matter. There's plenty to see here. Let us walk about
and look at things. We'll buy something at the bookstall to take
back.'
As they turned again towards the platform, Monica was confronted by
a face which she at once recognized, though it had changed
noticeably in the eighteen months since she last saw it. The person
was Miss Eade, her old acquaintance at the shop. But the girl no
longer dressed as in those days; cheap finery of the 'loudest'
description arrayed her form, and it needed little scrutiny to
perceive that her thin cheeks were artificially reddened. The
surprise of the meeting was not Monica's only reason for evincing
embarrassment. Seeing that Miss Eade was uncertain whether to make a
sign of acquaintance, she felt it would be wiser to go by. But this
was not permitted. As they were passing each other the girl bent her
head and whispered--
'I want to speak to you--just a minute.'
Virginia perceived the communication, and looked in surprise at her
sister.
'It's one of the girls from Walworth Road,' said Monica. 'Just walk
on; I'll meet you at the bookstall.'
'But, my dear, she doesn't look respectable--'
'Go on; I won't be a minute.'
Monica motioned to Miss Eade, who followed her towards a more
retired spot.
'You have left the shop?'
'Left--I should think so. Nearly a year ago. I told you I
shouldn't stand it much longer. Are you married?'
'Yes.'
Monica did not understand why the girl should eye her so
suspiciously.
'You are?' said Miss Eade. 'Nobody that I know, I suppose?'
'Quite a stranger to you.'
The other made an unpleasant click with her tongue, and looked
vaguely about her. Then she remarked inconsequently that she was
waiting the arrival of her brother by train.
'He's a traveller for a West-end shop; makes five hundred a year. I
keep house for him, because of course he's a widower.'
The 'of course' puzzled Monica for a moment, but she remembered that
it was an unmeaning expletive much used by people of Miss Eade's
education. However, the story did not win her credence; by this time
her disagreeable surmises had too much support.
'Was there anything you wished particularly to speak about?'
'You haven't seen nothing of Mr. Bullivant?'
To what a remote period of her life this name seemed to recall
Monica! She glanced quickly at the speaker, and again detected
suspicion in her eyes.
'I have neither seen nor heard of him since I left Walworth Road.
Isn't he still there?'
'Not he. He went about the same time you did, and nobody knew where
he hid himself.'
'Hid? Why should he hide?'
'I only mean he got out of sight somewheres. I thought perhaps you
might have come across him.'
'No, I haven't. Now I must say good-bye. That lady is waiting for
me.'
Miss Eade nodded, but immediately altered her mind and checked
Monica as she was turning away.
'You wouldn't mind telling me what your married name may be?'
'That really doesn't concern you, Miss Eade,' replied the other
stiffly. 'I must go--'
'If you don't tell me, I'll follow you till I find out, and chance
it!'
The change from tolerable civility to coarse insolence was so sudden
that Monica stood in astonishment. There was unconcealed malignity
in the gaze fixed upon her.
'What do you mean? What interest have you in learning my name?'
The girl brought her face near, and snarled in the true voice of the
pavement--
'Is it a name as you're ashamed to let out?'
Monica walked away to the bookstall. When she had joined her sister,
she became aware that Miss Eade was keeping her in sight.
'Let us buy a book,' she said, 'and go home again. The rain won't
stop.'
They selected a cheap volume, and, having their return tickets,
moved towards the departure platform. Before she could reach the
gates Monica heard Miss Eade's voice just behind her; it had changed
again, and the appealing note reminded her of many conversations in
Walworth Road.
'Do tell me! I beg your pardon for bein' rude. Don't go without
telling me.'
The meaning of this importunity had already flashed upon Monica, and
now she felt a slight pity for the tawdry, abandoned creature, in
whom there seemed to survive that hopeless passion of old days.
'My name,' she said abruptly, 'is Mrs. Widdowson.'
'Are you telling me the truth?'
'I have told you what you wish to know. I can't talk--'
'And you don't really know nothing about _him_?'
'Nothing whatever.'
Miss Eade moved sullenly away, not more than half convinced. Long
after Monica's disappearance she strayed about the platform and the
approaches to the station. Her brother was slow in arriving. Once or
twice she held casual colloquy with men who also stood waiting--
perchance for their sisters; and ultimately one of these was kind
enough to offer her refreshment, which she graciously accepted.
Rhoda Nunn would have classed her and mused about her: a not
unimportant type of the odd woman.
* * *
After this Monica frequently went out, always accompanied by her
sister. It happened more than once that they saw Widdowson, who
walked past the house at least every other day; he didn't approach
them, and had he done so Monica would have kept an obstinate
silence.
For more than a fortnight he had not written to her. At length there
came a letter, merely a repetition of his former appeals.
'I hear,' he wrote, 'that your elder sister is coming to London. Why
should she live here in lodgings, when a comfortable house is at the
disposal of you all? Let me again entreat you to go to Clevedon. The
furniture shall be moved any moment you wish. I solemnly promise not
to molest you in any way, not even by writing. It shall be
understood that business makes it necessary for me to live in
London. For your sister's sake do accept this offer. If I could see
you in private, I should be able to give you a very good reason why
your sister Virginia would benefit by the change; perhaps you
yourself know of it. Do answer me, Monica. Never again will I refer
by word or look to what has passed. I am anxious only to put an end
to the wretched life that you are leading. Do go to the house at
Clevedon, I implore you.'
It was not the first time he had hinted darkly at a benefit that
might accrue to Virginia if she left London. Monica had no inkling
of what he meant. She showed her sister this communication, and
asked if she could understand the passage which concerned her.
'I haven't the least idea,' Virginia replied, her hand trembling as
she held the paper. 'I can only suppose that he thinks that I am not
looking well.'
The letter was burnt, as all the others had been, no answer
vouchsafed. Virginia's mind seemed to waver with regard to the
proposed settlement at Clevedon. Occasionally she had urged Monica,
with extreme persistence, to accept what was offered; at other
times, as now, for instance, she said nothing. Yet Alice had written
beseeching her to use all means for Monica's persuasion. Miss Madden
infinitely preferred the thought of dwelling at Clevedon--however
humble the circumstances had been--to that of coming back into
London lodgings whilst she sought for a new engagement. The
situation she was about to quit had proved more laborious than any
in her experience. At first merely a governess, she had gradually
become children's nurse as well, and for the past three months had
been expected to add the tendance of a chronic invalid to her other
duties. Not a day's holiday since she came. She was broken down and
utterly woebegone.
But Monica could not be moved. She refused to go again under her
husband's roof until he had stated that his charge against her was
absolutely unfounded. This concession went beyond Widdowson's power;
he would forgive, but still declined to stultify himself by a
statement that could have no meaning. To what extent his wife had
deceived him might be uncertain, but the deception was a proved
fact. Of course it never occurred to him that Monica's demand had a
significance which emphasized the name of Barfoot. Had he said, 'I
am convinced that your relations with Barfoot were innocent,' he
would have seemed to himself to be acquitting her of all
criminality; whereas Monica, from her point of view, illogically
supposed that he might credit her on this one issue without
overthrowing all the evidence that declared her untrustworthy. In
short, she expected him to read a riddle which there was scarcely a
possibility of his understanding.
Alice was in correspondence with the gloomy husband. She promised
him to use every effort to gain Monica's confidence. Perhaps as the
eldest sister she might succeed where Virginia had failed. Her faith
in Monica's protestations had been much shaken by the item of
intelligence which Virginia secretly communicated; she thought it
too likely that her unhappy sister saw no refuge from disgrace but
in stubborn denial of guilt. And in the undertaking that was before
her she had no hope save through the influence of religion--with
her a much stronger force than with either of the others.
Her arrival was expected on the last day of September. The evening
before, Monica went to bed soon after eight o'clock; for a day or
two she had suffered greatly, and at length had allowed a doctor to
be called. Whenever her sister retired very early, Virginia also
went to her own bedroom, saying that she preferred to sit there.
The room much surpassed in comfort that which she had occupied at
Mrs. Conisbee's; it was spacious, and provided with a couple of very
soft armchairs. Having locked her door, Virginia made certain
preparations which had nothing to do with natural repose. From the
cupboard she brought out a little spirit-kettle, and put water to
boil. Then from a more private repository were produced a bottle of
gin and a sugar-basin, which, together with a tumbler and spoon,
found a place on a little table drawn up within reach of the chair
where she was going to sit. On the same table lay a novel procured
this afternoon from the library. Whilst the water was boiling,
Virginia made a slight change of dress, conducive to bodily ease.
Finally, having mixed a glass of gin and water--one-third only of
the diluent--she sat down with one of her frequent sighs and began
to enjoy the evening.
The last, the very last, of such enjoyment; so she assured herself.
Alice's presence in the house would render impossible what she had
hitherto succeeded in disguising from Monica. Her conscience
welcomed the restraint, which was coming none too soon, for her will
could no longer be depended upon. If she abstained from strong
liquors for three or four days it was now a great triumph; yet
worthless, for even in abstaining she knew that the hour of
indulgence had only been postponed. A fit of unendurable depression
soon drove her to the only resource which had immediate efficacy.
The relief, she knew, was another downward step; but presently she
would find courage to climb back again up to the sure ground. Save
for her trouble on Monica's account the temptation would already
have been conquered. And now Alice's arrival made courage a mere
necessity.
Her bottle was all but empty; she would finish it to-night, and in
the morning, as her custom was, take it back to the grocer's in her
little hand-bag. How convenient that this kind of thing could be
purchased at the grocer's! In the beginning she had chiefly made use
of railway refreshment rooms. Only on rare occasions did she enter a
public-house, and always with the bitterest sense of degradation. To
sit comfortably at home, the bottle beside her, and a novel on her
lap, was an avoidance of the worst shame attaching to this vice; she
went to bed, and in the morning--ah, the morning brought its
punishment, but she incurred no risk of being detected.
Brandy had first of all been her drink, as is generally the case
with women of the educated class. There are so many plausible
excuses for taking a drop of brandy. But it cost too much. Whisky
she had tried, and did not like. Finally she had recourse to gin,
which was palatable and very cheap. The name, debased by such foul
associations, still confused her when she uttered it; as a rule, she
wrote it down in a list of groceries which she handed over the
counter.
To-night she drank her first glass quickly; a consuming thirst was
upon her. By half-past eight the second was gently steaming at her
elbow. At nine she had mixed the third; it must last a long time,
for the bottle was now empty.
The novel entertained her, but she often let her thoughts stray from
it; she reflected with exultation that to-night's indulgence was her
very last. On the morrow she would be a new woman. Alice and she
would devote themselves to their poor sister, and never rest till
they had restored her to a life of dignity. This was a worthy, a
noble task; success in it must need minister to her own peace.
Before long they would all be living at Clevedon--a life of ideal
contentment. It was no longer necessary to think of the school, but
she would exert herself for the moral instruction of young women--
on the principles inculcated by Rhoda Nunn.
The page before her was no longer legible; the book dropped from her
lap. Why this excited her laughter she could not understand; but she
laughed for a long time, until her eyes were dim with tears. It
might be better to go to bed. What was the hour? She tried vainly to
read her watch, and again laughed at such absurd incapacity. Then--
Surely that was a knock at her door? Yes; it was repeated, with a
distinct calling of her name. She endeavoured to stand up.
'Miss Madden!' It was the landlady's voice. 'Miss Madden! Are you in
bed yet?'
Virginia succeeded in reaching the door.
'What is it?'
Another voice spoke.
'It is I, Virginia. I have come this evening instead of to-morrow.
Please let me come in.'
'Alice? You can't--I'll come--wait downstairs.'
She was still able to understand the situation, and able, she
thought, to speak coherently, to disguise her condition. The things
on the table must be put out of sight. In trying to do this, she
upset her glass and knocked the empty bottle on to the floor. But in
a few minutes bottle, glass, and spirit-kettle were hidden away. The
sugar-basin she lost sight of; it still remained in its former
place.
Then she opened the door, and with uncertain step went out into the
passage.
'Alice!' she called aloud.
At once both her sisters appeared, coming out of Monica's chamber.
Monica had partly dressed herself.
'Why have you come to-night?' Virginia exclaimed, in a voice which
seemed to her own ears perfectly natural.
She tottered, and was obliged to support herself against the wall.
The light from her room fell full upon her, and Alice, who had
stepped forward to give her a kiss, not only saw, but smelt, that
something very strange was the matter. The odour proceeding from the
bedroom, and that of Virginia's breath, left small doubt as to the
cause of delay in giving admittance.
Whilst Alice stood bewildered, Monica received an illumination which
instantly made clear to her many things in Virginia's daily life. At
the same moment she understood those mysterious hints concerning her
sister in Widdowson's letters.
'Come into the room,' she said abruptly. 'Come, Virgie.'
'I don't understand--why has Alice come to-night?--what's the
time?'
Monica took hold of the tottering woman's arm and drew her out of
the passage. The cold air had produced its natural effect upon
Virginia, who now with difficulty supported herself.
'O Virgie!' cried the eldest sister, when the door was closed. 'What
is the matter? What does it mean?'
Already she had been shedding tears at the meeting with Monica, and
now distress overcame her; she sobbed and lamented.
'What have you been doing, Virgie?' asked Monica with severity.
'Doing? I feel a little faint--surprise--didn't expect--'
'Sit down at once. You are disgusting! Look, Alice.' She pointed to
the sugar-basin on the table; then, after a rapid glance round the
room, she went to the cupboard and threw the door open. 'I thought
so. Look, Alice. And to think I never suspected this! It has been
going on a long time--oh, a long time. She was doing it at Mrs.
Conisbee's before I was married. I remember smelling spirits--'
Virginia was making efforts to rise.
'What are you talking about?' she exclaimed in a thick voice, and
with a countenance which was changing from dazed astonishment to
anger. 'It's only when I feel faint. Do you suppose I drink? Where's
Alice? Wasn't Alice here?'
'O Virgie! What _does_ it mean? How _could_ you?'
'Go to bed at once, Virginia,' said Monica. 'We're ashamed of you.
Go back into my room Alice, and I'll get her to bed.'
Ultimately this was done. With no slight trouble, Monica persuaded
her sister to undress, and got her into a recumbent position,
Virginia all the time protesting that she had perfect command of her
faculties, that she needed no help whatever, and was utterly at a
loss to comprehend the insults directed against her.
'Lie quiet and go to sleep,' was Monica's last word, uttered
contemptuously.
She extinguished the lamp and returned to her own room, where Alice
was still weeping. The unexpected arrival had already been explained
to Monica. Sudden necessity for housing a visitor had led to the
proposition that Miss Madden, for her last night, should occupy a
servant's bedroom. Glad to get away, Alice chose the alternative of
leaving the house at once. It had been arranged that she should
share Virginia's room, but to-night this did not seem advisable.
'To-morrow,' said Monica, 'we must talk to her very seriously. I
believe she has been drinking like that night after night. It
explains the look she always has the first thing in the morning.
Could you have imagined anything so disgraceful?'
But Alice had softened towards the erring woman.
'You must remember what her life has been, dear. I'm afraid
loneliness is very often a cause--'
'She needn't have been lonely. She refused to come and live at Herne
Hill, and now of course I understand why. Mrs. Conisbee must have
known about it, and it was her duty to tell me. Mr. Widdowson had
found out somehow, I feel sure.'
She explained the reason of this belief.
'You know what it all points to,' said Miss Madden, drying her
sallow, pimpled cheeks. 'You must do as your husband wishes,
dearest. We must go to Clevedon. There the poor girl will be out of
temptation.'
'You and Virgie may go.'
'You too, Monica. My dear sister, it is your duty.'
'Don't use that word to me!' exclaimed the other angrily. 'It is
_not_ my duty. It can be no woman's duty to live with a man she
hates-or even to make a pretence of living with him.'
'But, dearest--'
'You mustn't begin this to-night, Alice. I have been ill all day,
and now my head is aching terribly. Go downstairs and eat the supper
they have laid for you.'
'I couldn't touch a morsel,' sobbed Miss Madden. 'Oh, everything is
too dreadful! Life is too hard!'
Monica had returned to bed, and lay there with her face half hidden
against the pillow.
'If you don't want any supper,' she said in a moment, 'please go and
tell them, so that they needn't sit up for you.'
Alice obeyed. When she came up again, her sister was, or pretended
to be, asleep; even the noise made by bringing luggage into the room
did not cause her to move. Having sat in despondency for a while,
Miss Madden opened one of her boxes, and sought in it for the Bible
which it was her custom to make use of every night. She read in the
book for about half an hour, then covered her face with her hands
and prayed silently. This was _her_ refuge from the barrenness and
bitterness of life.
CHAPTER XXIX
CONFESSION AND COUNSEL
The sisters did not exchange a word until morning, but both of them
lay long awake. Monica was the first to lose consciousness; she
slept for about an hour, then the pains of a horrid dream disturbed
her, and again she took up the burden of thought. Such waking after
brief, broken sleep, when mind and body are beset by weariness, yet
cannot rest, when night with its awful hush and its mysterious
movements makes a strange, dread habitation for the spirit--such
waking is a grim trial of human fortitude. The blood flows
sluggishly, yet subject to sudden tremors that chill the veins and
for an instant choke the heart. Purpose is idle, the will impure;
over the past hangs a shadow of remorse, and life that must yet be
lived shows lurid, a steep pathway to the hopeless grave. Of this
cup Monica drank deeply.
A fear of death compassed her about. Night after night it had thus
haunted her. In the daytime she could think of death with
resignation, as a refuge from miseries of which she saw no other
end; but this hour of silent darkness shook her with terrors. Reason
availed nothing; its exercise seemed criminal. The old faiths, never
abandoned, though modified by the breath of intellectual freedom
that had just touched her, reasserted all their power. She saw
herself as a wicked woman, in the eye of truth not less wicked than
her husband declared her. A sinner stubborn in impenitence,
defending herself by a paltry ambiguity that had all the evil of a
direct lie. Her soul trembled in its nakedness.
What redemption could there be for her? What path of spiritual
health was discoverable? She could not command herself to love the
father of her child; the repugnance with which she regarded him
seemed to her a sin against nature, yet how was she responsible for
it? Would it profit her to make confession and be humbled before
him? The confession must some day be made, if only for her child's
sake; but she foresaw in it no relief of mind. Of all human beings
her husband was the one least fitted to console and strengthen her.
She cared nothing for his pardon; from his love she shrank. But if
there were some one to whom she could utter her thoughts with the
certainty of being understood--
Her sisters had not the sympathetic intelligence necessary for
aiding her; Virginia was weaker than she herself, and Alice dealt
only in sorrowful commonplaces, profitable perhaps to her own heart,
but powerless over the trouble of another's. Among the few people
she had called her friends there was one strong woman--strong of
brain, and capable, it might be, of speaking the words that go from
soul to soul; this woman she had deeply offended, yet owing to mere
mischance. Whether or no Rhoda Nunn had lent ear to Barfoot's wooing
she must be gravely offended; she had given proof of it in the
interview reported by Virginia. The scandal spread abroad by
Widdowson might even have been fatal to a happiness of which she had
dreamt. To Rhoda Nunn some form of reparation was owing. And might
not an avowal of the whole truth elicit from her counsel of
gratitude--some solace, some guidance?
Amid the tremors of night Monica felt able to take this step, for
the mere chance of comfort that it offered. But when day came the
resolution had vanished; shame and pride again compelled her to
silence.
And this morning she had new troubles to think about. Virginia was
keeping her room; would admit no one; answered every whisper of
appeal with brief, vague words that signified anything or nothing.
The others breakfasted in gloom that harmonized only too well with
the heavy, dripping sky visible from their windows. Only at midday
did Alice succeed in obtaining speech with her remorseful sister.
They were closeted together for more than an hour, and the elder
woman came forth at last with red, tear-swollen eyes.
'We must leave her alone today,' she said to Monica. 'She won't take
any meal. Oh, the wretched state she is in! If only I could have
known of this before!'
'Has it been going on for very long?'
'It began soon after she went to live at Mrs. Conisbee's. She has
told me all about it--poor girl, poor thing! Whether she can ever
break herself of it, who knows? She says that she will take the
pledge of total abstinence, and I encouraged her to do so; it may be
some use, don't you think?'
'Perhaps--I don't know--'
'But I have no faith in her reforming unless she goes away from
London. She thinks herself that only a new life in a new place will
give her the strength. My dear, at Mrs. Conisbee's she starved
herself to have money to buy spirits; she went without any food but
dry bread day after day.'
'Of course that made it worse. She must have craved for support.'
'Of course. And your husband knows about it. He came once when she
was in that state--when you were away--'
Monica nodded sullenly, her eyes averted.
'Her life has been so dreadfully unhealthy. She seems to have become
weak-minded. All her old interests have gone; she reads nothing but
novels, day after day.'
'I have noticed that.'
'How can we help her, Monica? Won't you make a sacrifice for the
poor girl's sake? Cannot I persuade you, dear? Your position has a
bad influence on her; I can see it has. She worries so about you,
and then tries to forget the trouble--you know how.'
Not that day, nor the next, could Monica listen to these entreaties.
But her sister at length prevailed. It was late in the evening;
Virginia had gone to bed, and the others sat silently, without
occupation. Miss Madden, after several vain efforts to speak, bent
forward and said in a low, grave voice,--
'Monica--you are deceiving us all. You are guilty.'
'Why do you say that?'
'I know it. I have watched you. You betray yourself when you are
thinking.'
The other sat with brows knitted, with hard, defiant lips.
'All your natural affection is dead, and only guilt could have
caused that. You don't care what becomes of your sister. Only the
fear, or the evil pride, that comes of guilt could make you refuse
what we ask of you. You are afraid to let your husband know of your
condition.'
Alice could not have spoken thus had she not believed what she said.
The conviction had become irresistible to her mind. Her voice
quivered with intensity of painful emotion.
'That last is true,' said her sister, when there had been silence
for a minute.
'You confess it? O Monica--'
'I don't confess what you think,' went on the younger, with more
calmness than she had yet commanded in these discussions.
'Of that I am _not_ guilty. I am afraid of his knowing, because he
will never believe me. I have a proof which would convince anyone
else; but, even if I produced it, it would be no use. I don't think
it is possible to persuade him-when once he knows--'
'If you were innocent you would disregard that.'
'Listen to me, Alice. If I were guilty I should not be living here
at his expense. I only consented to do that when I knew what my
condition was. But for this thing I should have refused to accept
another penny from him. I should have drawn upon my own money until
I was able to earn my own living again. If you won't believe this it
shows you know nothing of me. Your reading of my face is all
foolishness.'
'I would to God I were sure of what you say!' moaned Miss Madden,
with vehemence which seemed extraordinary in such a feeble, flabby
person.
'You know that I told my husband lies,' exclaimed Monica, 'so you
think I am never to be trusted. I did tell him lies; I can't deny
it, and I am ashamed of it. But I am not a deceitful woman--I can
say that boldly. I love the truth better than falsehood. If it
weren't for that I should never have left home. A deceitful woman,
in my circumstances--you don't understand them--would have
cheated her husband into forgiving her--such a husband as mine.
She would have calculated the most profitable course. I left my
husband because it was hateful to me to be with a man for whom I had
lost every trace of affection. In keeping away from him I am acting
honestly. But I have told you that I am also afraid of his making a
discovery. I want him to believe--when the time comes--'
She broke off.
'Then, Monica, you ought to make known to him what you have been
concealing. If you are telling the truth, that confession can't be
anything very dreadful.'
'Alice, I am willing to make an agreement. If my husband will
promise never to come near Clevedon until I send for him I will go
and live there with you and Virgie.'
'He has promised that, darling,' cried Miss Madden delightedly.
'Not to me. He has only said that he will make his home in London
for a time: that means he would come whenever he wished, if it were
only to speak to you and Virgie. But he must undertake never to come
near until I give him permission. If he will promise this, and keep
his word, I pledge myself to let him know the whole truth in less
than a year. Whether I live or die, he shall be told the truth in
less than a year.'
Before going to bed Alice wrote and dispatched a few lines to
Widdowson, requesting an interview with him as soon as possible. She
would come to his house at any hour he liked to appoint. The next
afternoon brought a reply, and that same evening Miss Madden went to
Herne Hill. As a result of what passed there, a day or two saw the
beginning of the long-contemplated removal to Clevedon. Widdowson
found a lodging in the neighbourhood of his old home; he had engaged
never to cross the bounds of Somerset until he received his wife's
permission.
As soon as this compact was established Monica wrote to Miss Nunn. A
short submissive letter. 'I am about to leave London, and before I
go I very much wish to see you. Will you allow me to call at some
hour when I could speak to you in private? There is something I must
make known to you, and I cannot write it.' After a day's interval
came the reply, which was still briefer. Miss Nunn would be at home
at half-past eight this or the next evening.
Monica's announcement that she must go out alone after nightfall
alarmed her sisters. When told that her visit was to Rhoda Nunn they
were somewhat relieved, but Alice begged to be permitted to
accompany her.
'It will be lost trouble,' Monica declared. 'More likely than not
there is a spy waiting to follow me wherever I go. Your assurance
that I really went to Miss Barfoot's won't be needed.'
When the others still opposed her purpose she passed from irony into
anger.
'Have you undertaken to save him the expense of private detectives?
Have you promised never to let me go out of your sight?'
'Certainly I have not,' said Alice.
'Nor I, dear,' protested Virginia. 'He has never asked anything of
the kind.'
'Then you may be sure that the spies are still watching me. Let them
have something to do, poor creatures. I shall go alone, so you
needn't say any more.'
She took train to York Road Station, and thence, as the night was
fine, walked to Chelsea. This semblance of freedom, together with
the sense of having taken a courageous resolve, raised her spirits.
She hoped that a detective might be tracking her; the futility of
such measures afforded her a contemptuous satisfaction. Not to
arrive before the appointed hour she loitered on Chelsea Embankment,
and it gave her pleasure to reflect that in doing this she was
outraging the proprieties. Her mind was in a strange tumult of
rebellious and distrustful thought. She had determined on making a
confession to Rhoda; but would she benefit by it? Was Rhoda generous
enough to appreciate her motives? It did not matter much. She would
have discharged a duty at the expense of such shame, and this fact
alone might strengthen her to face the miseries beyond.
As she stood at Miss Barfoot's door he heart quailed. To the servant
who opened she could only speak Miss Nunn's name; fortunately
instructions had been given, and she was straightway led to the
library. Here she waited for nearly five minutes. Was Rhoda doing
this on purpose? Her face, when at length she entered, made it seem
probable', a cold dignity, only not offensive haughtiness, appeared
in her bearing. She did not offer to shake hands, and used no form
of civility beyond requesting her visitor to be seated.
'I am going away,' Monica began, when silence compelled her to
speak.
'Yes, so you told me.'
'I can see that you can't understand why I have come.'
'Your note only said that you wished to see me.'
Their eyes met, and Monica knew in the moment that succeeded that
she was being examined from head to foot. It seemed to her that she
had undertaken something beyond her strength; her impulse was to
invent a subject of brief conversation and escape into the darkness.
But Miss Nunn spoke again.
'Is it possible that I can be of any service to you?'
'Yes. You might be. But--I find it is very difficult to say what I--'
Rhoda waited, offering no help whatever, not even that of a look
expressing interest.
'Will you tell me, Miss Nunn, why you behave so coldly to me?'
'Surely that doesn't need any explanation, Mrs. Widdowson?'
'You mean that you believe everything Mr. Widdowson has said?'
'Mr. Widdowson has said nothing to me. But I have seen your sister,
and there seemed no reason to doubt what she told me.'
'She couldn't tell you the truth, because she doesn't know it.'
'I presume she at least told no untruth.'
'What did Virginia say? I think I have a right to ask that.'
Rhoda appeared to doubt it. She turned her eyes to the nearest
bookcase, and for a moment reflected.
'Your affairs don't really concern me, Mrs. Widdowson,' she said at
length. 'They have been forced upon my attention, and perhaps I
regard them from a wrong point of view. Unless you have come to
defend yourself against a false accusation, is there any profit in
our talking of these things?'
'I _have_ come for that.'
'Then I am not so unjust as to refuse to hear you.'
'My name has been spoken of together with Mr. Barfoot's. This is
wrong. It began from a mistake.'
Monica could not shape her phrases. Hastening to utter the statement
that would relieve her from Miss Nunn's personal displeasure, she
used the first simple words that rose to her lips.
'When I went to Bayswater that day I had no thought of seeing Mr.
Barfoot. I wished to see someone else.'
The listener manifested more attention. She could not mistake the
signs of sincerity in Monica's look and speech.
'Some one,' she asked coldly, 'who was living with Mr. Barfoot?'
'No. Some one in the same building; in another flat. When I knocked
at Mr. Barfoot's door, I knew--or I felt sure--no one would
answer. I knew Mr. Barfoot was going away that day--going into
Cumberland.'
Rhoda's look was fixed on the speaker's countenance.
'You knew he was going to Cumberland?' she asked in a slow, careful
voice.
'He told me so. I met him, quite by chance, the day before.'
'Where did you meet him?'
'Near the flats,' Monica answered, colouring. 'He had just come out--I
saw him come out. I had an appointment there that afternoon,
and I walked a short way with him, so that he shouldn't--'
Her voice failed. She saw that Rhoda had begun to mistrust her, to
think that she was elaborating falsehoods. The burdensome silence
was broken by Miss Nunn's saying repellently,--
'I haven't asked for your confidence, remember.'
'No--and if you try to imagine what it means for me to be speaking
like this--I am not shameless. I have suffered a great deal before
I could bring myself to come here and tell you. If you were more
human--if you tried to believe--'
The agitation which found utterance in these words had its effect
upon Rhoda. In spite of herself she was touched by the note of
womanly distress.
'Why have you come? Why do you tell me this?'
'Because it isn't only that I have been falsely accused. I felt I
must tell you that Mr. Barfoot had never-that there was nothing
between us. What has he said? How did he meet the charge Mr.
Widdowson made against him?'
'Simply by denying it.'
'Hasn't he wished to appeal to _me_?'
'I don't know. I haven't heard of his expressing such a wish. I
can't see that you are called upon to take any trouble about Mr.
Barfoot. He ought to be able to protect his own reputation.'
'Has he done so?' Monica asked eagerly. 'Did you believe him when he
denied--'
'But what does it matter whether I believed him or not?'
'He would think it mattered a great deal.'
'Mr. Barfoot would think so? Why?'
'He told me how much he wished to have your good opinion That is
what we used to talk about. I don't know why he took me into his
confidence. It happened first of all when we were going by train--
the same train, by chance--after we had both been calling here. He
asked me many questions about you, and at last said--that he loved
you--or something that meant the same.'
Rhoda's eyes had fallen.
'After that pursued Monica, we several times spoke of you. We did so
when we happened to meet near his rooms--as I have told you. He
told me he was going to Cumberland with the hope of seeing you; and
I understood him to mean he wished to ask you--'
The sudden and great change in Miss Nunn's expression checked the
speaker. Scornful austerity had given place to a smile, stern
indeed, but exultant. There was warmth upon her face; her lips moved
and relaxed; she altered her position in the chair as if inclined
for more intimate colloquy.
'There was never more than that between us,' pursued Monica with
earnestness. 'My interest in Mr. Barfoot was only on your account. I
hoped he might be successful. And I have come to you because I
feared you would believe my husband--as I see you have done.'
Rhoda, though she thought it very unlikely that all this should be
admirable acting, showed that the explanation had by no means fully
satisfied her. Unwilling to put the crucial question, she waited,
with gravity which had none of the former harshness, for what else
Mrs. Widdowson might choose to say. A look of suffering appeal
obliged her to break the silence.
'I am very sorry you have laid this task upon yourself--'
Still Monica looked at her, and at length murmured,--
'If only I could know that I had done any good--'
'But,' said Rhoda, with a searching glance, 'you don't wish me to
repeat what you have said?'
'It was only for you. I thought--if you felt able to let Mr.
Barfoot know that you had no longer any--'
A flash of stern intelligence shot from the listener's eyes.
'You have seen him then?' she asked with abrupt directness.
'Not since.'
'He has written to you?'--still in the same voice.
'Indeed he has not. Mr. Barfoot never wrote to me. I know nothing
whatever about him. No one asked me to come to you--don't think
that. No one knows of what I have been telling you.'
Again Rhoda was oppressed by the difficulty of determining how much
credit was due to such assertions. Monica understood her look.
'As I have said so much I must tell you all. It would be dreadful
after this to go away uncertain whether you believed me or not.'
Human feeling prompted the listener to declare that she had no
doubts left. Yet she could not give utterance to the words. She knew
they would sound forced, insincere. Shame at inflicting shame caused
her to bend her head. Already she had been silent too long.
'I will tell you everything,' Monica was saying in low, tremulous
tones. 'If no one else believes me, you at all events shall. I have
not done what--'
'No--I can't hear this,' Rhoda broke in, the speaker's voice
affecting her too powerfully. 'I will believe you without this.'
Monica broke into sobbing. The strain of this last effort had
overtaxed her strength.
'We won't talk any more of it,' said Rhoda, with an endeavour to
speak kindly. 'You have done all that could be asked of you. I am
grateful to you for coming on my account.
The other controlled herself.
'Will you hear what I have to say, Miss Nunn? Will you hear it as a
friend? I want to put myself right in your thoughts. I have told no
one else; I shall be easier in mind if you will hear me. My husband
will know everything before very long--but perhaps I shall not be
alive--'
Something in Miss Nunn's face suggested to Monica that her meaning
was understood. Perhaps, notwithstanding her denial, Virginia had
told more when she was here than she had permission to make known.
'Why should you wish to tell _me_?' asked Rhoda uneasily.
'Because you are so strong. You will say something that will help
me. I know you think that I have committed a sin which it is a shame
to speak of. That isn't true. If it were true I should never consent
to go and live in my husband's house.'
'You are returning to him?'
'I forgot that I haven't told you.'
And Monica related the agreement that had been arrived at. When she
spoke of the time that must elapse before she would make a
confession to her husband, it again seemed to her that Miss Nunn
understood.
'There is a reason why I consent to be supported by him,' she
continued. 'If it were true that I had sinned as he suspects I would
rather kill myself than pretend still to be his wife. The day before
he had me watched I thought I had left him forever. I thought that
if I went back to the house again it would only be to get a few
things that I needed. It was some one who lived in the same building
as Mr. Barfoot. You have met him--'
She raised her eyes for an instant, and they encountered the
listener's. Rhoda was at no loss to supply the omitted name; she saw
at once how plain things were becoming.
'He has left England,' pursued Monica in a hurried but clear voice.
'I thought then that I should go away with him. But--it was
impossible. I loved him--or thought I loved him; but I was
guiltless of anything more than consenting to leave my husband. Will
you believe me?'
'Yes, Monica, I do believe you.'
'If you have any doubt, I can show you a letter he wrote to me from
abroad, which will prove--'
'I believe you absolutely.'
'But let me tell you more. I must explain how the misunderstanding--'
Rapidly she recounted the incidents of that fatal Saturday
afternoon. At the conclusion her self-command was again overcome;
she shed tears, and murmured broken entreaties for kindness.
'What shall I do, Miss Nunn? How can I live until--? I know it's
only for a short time. My wretched life will soon be at an end--'
'Monica--there is one thing you must remember.'
The voice was so gentle, though firm--so unlike what she had
expected to hear--that the sufferer looked up with grateful
attention.
'Tell me--give me what help you can.'
'Life seems so bitter to you that you are in despair. Yet isn't it
your duty to live as though some hope were before you?'
Monica gazed in uncertainty.
'You mean--' she faltered.
'I think you will understand. I am not speaking of your husband.
Whether you have duties to him or not I can't say; that is for your
own mind and heart to determine. But isn't it true that your health
has a graver importance than if you yourself only were concerned?'
'Yes--you have understood me--'
'Isn't it your duty to remember at every moment that your thoughts,
your actions, may affect another life--that by heedlessness, by
abandoning yourself to despair, you may be the cause of suffering it
was in your power to avert?'
Herself strongly moved, Rhoda had never spoken so impressively, had
never given counsel of such earnest significance. She felt her power
in quite a new way, without touch of vanity, without posing or any
trivial self-consciousness. When she least expected it an
opportunity had come for exerting the moral influence on which she
prided herself, and which she hoped to make the ennobling element of
her life. All the better that the case was one calling for courage,
for contempt of vulgar reticences; the combative soul in her became
stronger when faced by such conditions. Seeing that her words were
not in vain, she came nearer to Monica and spoke yet more kindly.
'Why do you encourage that fear of your life coming to an end?'
'It's more a hope than a fear--at most times. I can see nothing
before me. I don't wish to live.'
'That's morbid. It isn't yourself that speaks, but your trouble. You
are young and strong, and in a year's time very much of this
unhappiness will have passed.'
'I have felt it like a certainty--as if it had been foretold to me--ever
since I knew--'
'I think it very likely that young wives have often the same dread.
It is physical, Monica, and in your case there is so little relief
from dark brooding. But again you must think of your responsibility.
You will live, because the poor little life will need your care.'
Monica turned her head away and moaned.
'I shall not love my child.'
'Yes, you will. And that love, that duty, is the life to which you
must look forward. You have suffered a great deal, but after such
sorrow as yours there comes quietness and resignation. Nature will
help you.'
'Oh, if you could give me some of _your_ strength! I have never been
able to look at life as you do. I should never have married him if I
hadn't been tempted by the thoughts of living easily--and I feared
so--that I might always be alone--My sisters are so miserable;
it terrified me to think of struggling on through life as they do--'
'Your mistake was in looking only at the weak women. You had other
examples before you--girls like Miss Vesper and Miss Haven, who
live bravely and work hard and are proud of their place in the
world. But it's idle to talk of the past, and just as foolish to
speak as if you were sorrowing without hope. How old are you,
Monica?'
'Two-and-twenty.'
'Well, I am two-and-thirty--and I don't call myself old. When you
have reached my age I prophesy you will smile at your despair of ten
years ago. At your age one talks so readily of "wrecked life" and
"hopeless future," and all that kind of thing. My dear girl, you may
live to be one of the most contented and most useful women in
England. Your life isn't wrecked at all--nonsense! You have gone
through a storm, that's true; but more likely than not you will be
all the better for it. Don't talk or think about _sins_; simply make
up your mind that you won't be beaten by trials and hardships. There
cannot--can there?--be the least doubt as to how you ought to
live through these next coming months. Your duty is perfectly clear.
Strengthen yourself in body and mind. You _have_ a mind, which is
more than can be said of a great many women. Think bravely and nobly
of yourself! Say to yourself: This and that it is in me to do, and I
will do it!'
Monica bent suddenly forward and took one of her friend's hands, and
clung to it.
'I knew you could say something that would help me. You have a way
of speaking. But it isn't only now. I shall be so far away, and so
lonely, all through the dark winter. Will you write to me?'
'Gladly. And tell you all we are doing.'
Rhoda's voice sank for a moment; her eyes wandered; but she
recovered the air of confidence.
'We seemed to have lost you; but before long you will be one of us
again. I mean, you will be one of the women who are fighting in
woman's cause. You will prove by your life that we can be
responsible human beings--trustworthy, conscious of purpose.'
'Tell me--do you think it right for me to live with my husband
when I can't even regard him as a friend?'
'In that I dare not counsel you. If you _can_ think of him as a
friend, in time to come, surely it will be better. But here you must
guide yourself. You seem to have made a very sensible arrangement,
and before long you will see many things more clearly. Try to
recover health--health; that is what you need. Drink in the air of
the Severn Sea; it will be a cordial to you after this stifling
London. Next summer I shall--I hope I shall be at Cheddar, and
then I shall come over to Clevedon--and we shall laugh and talk as
if we had never known a care.'
'Ah, it that time were come! But you have done me good. I shall try--'
She rose.
'I mustn't forget,' said Rhoda, without looking at her, 'that I owe
you thanks. You have done what you felt was right in spite of all it
cost you; and you have very greatly relieved my mind. Of course it
is all a secret between us. If I make it understood that a doubt is
no longer troubling me I shall never say how it was removed.'
'How I wish I had come before.'
'For your own sake, if I have really helped you, I wish you had. But
as for anything else--it is much better as it is.'
And Rhoda stood with erect head, smiling her smile of liberty.
Monica did not dare to ask any question. She moved up to her friend,
holding out both hands timidly.
'Good-bye!'
'Till next summer.'
They embraced, and kissed each other, Monica, when she had withdrawn
her hot lips, again murmuring words of gratitude. Then in silence
they went together to the house-door, and in silence parted.
CHAPTER XXX
RETREAT WITH HONOUR
Alighting, on his return to London, at the Savoy Hotel, Barfoot
insensibly prolonged his stay there. For the present he had no need
of a more private dwelling; he could not see more than a few days
ahead; his next decisive step was as uncertain as it had been during
the first few months after his coming back from the East.
Meantime, he led a sufficiently agreeable life. The Brissendens were
not in town, but his growing intimacy with that family had extended
his social outlook, and in a direction correspondent with the change
in his own circumstances. He was making friends in the world with
which he had a natural affinity; that of wealthy and cultured people
who seek no prominence, who shrink from contact with the circles
known as 'smart,' who possess their souls in quiet freedom. It is a
small class, especially distinguished by the charm of its women.
Everard had not adapted himself without difficulty to this new
atmosphere; from the first he recognized its soothing and bracing
quality, but his experiences had accustomed him to an air more
rudely vigorous; it was only after those weeks spent abroad in
frequent intercourse with the Brissendens that he came to understand
the full extent of his sympathy with the social principles these men
and women represented.
In the houses where his welcome was now assured he met some three of
four women among whom it would have been difficult to assign the
precedence for grace of manner and of mind. These persons were not
in declared revolt against the order of things, religious, ethical,
or social; that is to say, they did not think it worthwhile to
identify themselves with any 'movement'; they were content with the
unopposed right of liberal criticism. They lived placidly;
refraining from much that the larger world enjoined, but never
aggressive. Everard admired them with increasing fervour. With one
exception they were married, and suitably married; that member of
the charming group who kept her maiden freedom was Agnes Brissenden,
and it seemed to Barfoot that, if preference were at all justified,
Agnes should receive the palm. His view of her had greatly changed
since the early days of their acquaintance; in fact, he perceived
that till of late he had not known her at all. His quick assumption
that Agnes was at his disposal if he chose to woo her had been mere
fatuity; he misread her perfect simplicity of demeanour, the
unconstraint of her intellectual sympathies. What might now be her
personal attitude to him he felt altogether uncertain, and the
result was a genuine humility such as he had never known. Nor was it
Agnes only that subdued his masculine self-assertiveness; her
sisters in grace had scarcely less dominion over him; and at times,
as he sat conversing in one of these drawing-rooms, he broke off to
marvel at himself, to appreciate the perfection of his own suavity,
the vast advance he had been making in polished humanism.
Towards the end of November he learnt that the Brissendens were at
their town house, and a week later he received an invitation to dine
with them.
Over his luncheon at the hotel Everard reflected with some gravity,
for, if he were not mistaken, the hour had come when he must make up
his mind on a point too long in suspense. What was Rhoda Nunn doing?
He had heard nothing whatever of her. His cousin Mary wrote to him,
whilst he was at Ostend, in a kind and friendly tone, informing him
that his simple assurance with regard to a certain disagreeable
matter was all she had desired, and hoping that he would come and
see her as usual when he found himself in London. But he had kept
away from the house in Queen's Road, and it was probable that Mary
did not even know his address. As the result of meditation he went
to his sitting-room, and with an air of reluctance sat down to write
a letter. It was a request that Mary would let him see her somewhere
or other--not at her house. Couldn't they have a talk at the place
in Great Portland Street, when no one else was there?
Miss Barfoot answered with brief assent. If he liked to come to
Great Portland Street at three o'clock on Saturday she would be
awaiting him.
On arriving, he inspected the rooms with curiosity.
'I have often wished to come here, Mary. Show me over the premises,
will you?'
'That was your purpose--?'
'No, not altogether. But you know how your work interests me.'
Mary compiled, and freely answered his various questions. Then they
sat down on hard chairs by the fire, and Everard, leaning forward as
if to warm his hands, lost no more time in coming to the point.
'I want to hear about Miss Nunn.'
'To hear about her? Pray, what do you wish to hear?'
'Is she well?'
'Very well indeed.'
'I'm very glad of that. Does she ever speak of me?'
'Let me see--I don't think she has referred to you lately.'
Everard looked up.
'Don't let us play a comedy, Mary. I want to talk very seriously.
Shall I tell you what happened when I went to Seascale?'
'Ah, you went to Seascale, did you?'
'Didn't you know that?' he asked, unable to decide the question from
his cousin's face, which was quite friendly, but inscrutable.
'You went when Miss Nunn was there?'
'Of course. You must have known I was going, when I asked you for
her Seascale address.'
'And what did happen? I shall be glad to hear--if you feel at
liberty to tell me.'
After a pause, Everard began the narrative. But he did not see fit
to give it with all the detail which Mary had learnt from her
friend. He spoke of the excursion to Wastwater, and of the
subsequent meeting on the shore.
'The end of it was that Miss Nunn consented to marry me.'
'She consented?'
'That comes as a surprise?'
'Please go on.'
'Well, we arranged everything. Rhoda was to stay till the fifteen
days were over, and the marriage would have been there. But then
arrived your letter, and we quarrelled about it. I wasn't disposed
to beg and pray for justice. I told Rhoda that her wish for evidence
was an insult, that I would take no step to understand Mrs.
Widdowson's behaviour. Rhoda was illogical, I think. She did not
refuse to take my word, but she wouldn't marry me until the thing
was cleared up. I told her that she must investigate it for herself,
and so we parted in no very good temper.'
Miss Barfoot smiled and mused. Her duty, she now felt convinced, was
to abstain from any sort of meddling. These two people must settle
their affairs as they chose. To interfere was to incur an enormous
responsibility. For what she had already done in that way Mary
reproved herself.
'Now I want to ask you a plain question,' Everard resumed. 'That
letter you wrote to me at Ostend--did it represent Rhoda's mind as
well as your own?'
'It's quite impossible for me to say. I didn't know Rhoda's mind.'
'Well, perhaps that is a satisfactory answer. It implies, no doubt,
that she was still resolved not to concede the point on which I
insisted. But since then? Has she come to a decision?'
It was necessary to prevaricate. Mary knew of the interview between
Miss Nunn and Mrs. Widdowson, knew its result; but she would not
hint at this.
'I have no means of judging how she regards you, Everard.'
'It is possible she even thinks me a liar?'
'I understood you to say that she never refused to believe you.'
He made a movement of impatience.
'Plainly--you will tell me nothing?'
'I have nothing to tell.'
'Then I suppose I must see Rhoda. Perhaps she will refuse to admit
me?'
'I can't say. But if she does her meaning would be unmistakable.'
'Cousin Mary'--he looked at her and laughed--'I think you will
be very glad if she _does_ refuse.'
She seemed about to reply with some pleasantry, but checked herself,
and spoke in a serious voice.
'No. I have no such feeling. Whatever you both agree upon will
satisfy me. So come by all means if you wish. I can have nothing to
do with it. You had better write and ask her if she will see you, I
should think.'
Barfoot rose from his seat, and Mary was glad to be released so
quickly from a disagreeable situation. For her own part she had no
need to put indiscreet questions; Everard's manner acquainted her
quite sufficiently with what was going on in his thoughts. However,
he had still something to say.
'You think I have behaved rather badly--let us say, harshly?'
'I am not so foolish as to form any judgment in such a case, cousin
Everard.'
'Speaking as a woman, should you say that Rhoda had reason on her
side--in the first instance?'
'I think,' Mary replied, with reluctance, but deliberately, 'that
she was not unreasonable in wishing to postpone her marriage until
she knew what was to be the result of Mrs. Widdowson's indiscreet
behaviour.'
'Well, perhaps she was not,' Everard admitted thoughtfully.
'And what _has_ been the result?'
'I only know that Mrs. Widdowson has left London and gone to live at
a house her husband has taken somewhere in the country.'
'I'm relieved to hear that. By-the-bye, the little lady's
"indiscreet behaviour" is as much a mystery to me as ever.'
'And to me,' Mary replied with an air of indifference.
'Well, then, let us take it for granted that I was rather harsh with
Rhoda. But suppose she still meets me with the remark that things
are just as they were--that nothing has been explained?'
'I can't discuss your relations with Miss Nunn.'
'However, you defend her original action. Be so good as to admit
that I can't go to Mrs. Widdowson and request her to publish a
statement that I have never--'
'I shall admit nothing,' interrupted Miss Barfoot rather tartily. 'I
have advised you to see Miss Nunn--if she is willing. And there's
nothing more to be said.'
'Good. I will write to her.'
* * *
He did so, in the fewest possible words, and received an answer of
equal brevity. In accordance with permission granted, on the Monday
evening he found himself once more in his cousin's drawing-room,
sitting alone, waiting Miss Nunn's appearance. He wondered how she
would present herself, in what costume. Her garb proved to be a
plain dress of blue serge, certainly not calculated for effect; but
his eye at once distinguished the fact that she had arranged her
hair as she wore it when he first knew her, a fashion subsequently
abandoned for one that he thought more becoming.
They shook hands. Externally Barfoot was the more agitated, and his
embarrassment appeared in the awkward words with which he began.
'I had made up my mind never to come until you let me know that I
was tried and acquitted But after all it is better to have reason on
one's side.'
'Much better,' replied Rhoda, with a smile which emphasized her
ambiguity.
She sat down, and he followed her example. Their relative positions
called to mind many a conversation they had held in this room.
Barfoot--he wore evening-dress--settled in the comfortable chair
as though he were an ordinary guest.
'I suppose you would never have written to me?'
'Never,' she answered quietly.
'Because you are too proud, or because the mystery is still a
mystery?'
'There is no longer any mystery.'
Everard made a movement of surprise.
'Indeed? You have discovered what it all meant?'
'Yes, I know what it all meant.'
'Can you gratify my not unnatural curiosity?'
'I can say nothing about it, except that I know how the
misunderstanding arose.'
Rhoda was betraying the effort it had cost her to seem so self-
possessed when she entered. Her colour had deepened, and she spoke
hurriedly, unevenly.
'And it didn't occur to you that it would be a kindness, not
inconsistent with your dignity, to make me in some way acquainted
with this fact?'
'I feel no uneasiness on your account.'
Everard laughed.
'Splendidly frank, as of old. You really didn't care in the least
how much I suffered?'
'You misunderstand me. I felt sure that you didn't suffer at all.'
'Ah, I see. You imagined me calm in the assurance that I should some
day be justified.'
'I had every reason for imagining it,' rejoined Rhoda. 'Other wise,
you would have given some sign.'
Of course he had deeply offended her by his persistent silence. He
had intended to do so first of all; and afterwards--had thought it
might be as well. Now that he had got over the difficulty of the
meeting he enjoyed his sense of security. How the interview would
end he know not; but on his side there would be nothing hasty,
unconsidered, merely emotional. Had Rhoda any new revelation of
personality within her resources?--that was the question. If so,
he would be pleased to observe it. If not--why, it was only the
end to which he had long ago looked forward.
'It was not for me to give any sign,' he remarked.
'Yet you have said that it is well to have reason on one's side.'
Perhaps a softer note allowed itself to be detected in these words.
In any case, they were not plainly ironical.
'Admit, then, that an approach was due from me. I have made it. I am
here.'
Rhoda said nothing. Yet she had not an air of expectancy. Her eye
was grave, rather sad, as though for the moment she had forgotten
what was at issue, and had lost herself in remoter thought.
Regarding her, Everard felt a nobility in her countenance which
amply justified all he had ever felt and said. But was there
anything more--any new power?
'So we go back,' he pursued, 'to our day at Wastwater. The perfect
day--wasn't it?'
'I shall never wish to forget it,' said Rhoda reflectively.
'And we stand as when we quitted each other that night--do we?'
She glanced at him.
'I think not.'
'Then what is the difference?'
He waited some seconds, and repeated the question before Rhoda
answered.
'You are conscious of no difference?' she said.
'Months have lapsed. We are different because we are older. But you
speak as if you were conscious of some greater change.'
'Yes, you are changed noticeably. I thought I knew you; perhaps I
did. Now I should have to learn you all over again. It is difficult,
you see, for me to keep pace with you. Your opportunities are so
much wider.'
This was puzzling. Did it signify mere jealousy, or a profounder
view of things? Her voice had something even of pathos, as though
she uttered a simple thought, without caustic intention.
'I try not to waste my life,' he answered seriously. 'I have made
new acquaintances.'
'Will you tell me about them?'
'Tell me first about yourself. You say you would never have written
to me. That means, I think, that you never loved me. When you found
that I had been wrongly suspected--and you suspected me yourself,
say what you will--if you had loved me, you would have asked
forgiveness.'
'I have a like reason for doubting _your_ love. If you had loved me
you could never have waited so long without trying to remove the
obstacle that was between us.'
'It was you who put the obstacle there,' said Everard, smiling.
'No. An unlucky chance did that. Or a lucky one. Who knows?'
He began to think: If this woman had enjoyed the social advantages
to which Agnes Brissenden and those others were doubtless indebted
for so much of their charm, would she not have been their equal, or
more? For the first time he compassionated Rhoda. She was brave, and
circumstances had not been kind to her. At this moment, was she not
contending with herself? Was not her honesty, her dignity,
struggling against the impulses of her heart? Rhoda's love had been
worth more than his, and it would be her one love in life. A fatuous
reflection, perhaps; yet every moment's observation seemed to
confirm it.
'Well, now,' he said, 'there's the question which we must decide. If
you incline to think that the chance was fortunate--'
She would not speak.
'We must know each other's mind.'
'Ah, that is so difficult!' Rhoda murmured, just raising her hand
and letting it fall.
'Yes, unless we give each other help. Let us imagine ourselves back
at Seascale, down by the waves. (How cold and grim it must be there
to-night!) I repeat what I said then: Rhoda, will you marry me?'
She looked fixedly at him.
'You didn't say that then.'
'What do the words matter?'
'That was not what you said.'
He watched the agitation of her features, until his gaze seemed to
compel her to move. She stepped towards the fireplace, and moved a
little screen that stood too near the fender.
'Why do you want me to repeat exactly what I said?' Everard asked,
rising and following her.
'You speak of the "perfect day." Didn't the day's perfection end
before there was any word of marriage?'
He looked at her with surprise. She had spoken without turning her
face towards him; it was visible now only by the glow of the fire.
Yes, what she said was true, but a truth which he had neither
expected nor desired to hear. Had the new revelation prepared
itself?
'Who first used the word, Rhoda?'
'Yes; I did.'
There was silence. Rhoda stood unmoving, the fire's glow upon her
face, and Barfoot watched her.
'Perhaps,' he said at length, 'I was not quite serious when I--'
She turned sharply upon him, a flash of indignation in her eyes.
'Not quite serious? Yes, I have thought that. And were you quite
serious in _anything_ you said?'
'I loved you,' he answered curtly, answering her steady look.
'Yet wanted to see whether--'
She could not finish the sentence; her throat quivered.
'I loved you, that's all. And I believe I still love you.'
Rhoda turned to the fire again.
'Will you marry me?' he asked, moving a step nearer.
'I think you are "not quite serious".'
'I have asked you twice. I ask for the third time.'
'I won't marry you with the forms of marriage,' Rhoda answered in an
abrupt, harsh tone.
'Now it is you who play with a serious matter.'
'You said we had both changed. I see now that our "perfect day" was
marred by my weakness at the end. If you wish to go back in
imagination to that summer night, restore everything, only let _me_
be what I now am.'
Everard shook his head.
'Impossible. It must be then or now for both of us.'
'Legal marriage,' she said, glancing at him, 'has acquired some new
sanction for you since then?'
'On the whole, perhaps it has.'
'Naturally. But I shall never marry, so we will speak no more of
it.'
As if finally dismissing the subject she walked to the opposite side
of the hearth, and there turned towards her companion with a cold
smile.
'In other words, then, you have ceased to love me?'
'Yes, I no longer love you.'
'Yet, if I had been willing to revive that fantastic idealism--as
you thought it--'
She interrupted him sternly.
'What _was_ it?'
'Oh, a kind of idealism undoubtedly. I was so bent on making sure
that you loved me.'
She laughed.
'After all, the perfection of our day was half make-believe. You
never loved me with entire sincerity. And you will never love any
woman--even as well as you loved me.'
'Upon my soul, I believe it, Rhoda. And even now--'
'And even now it is just possible for us to say goodbye with so
mething like friendliness. But not if you talk longer. Don't let us
spoil it; things are so straight--and clear--'
A threatened sob made her break off, but she recovered herself and
offered him her hand.
* * *
He walked all the way back to his hotel, and the cold, clammy night
restored his equanimity. A fortnight later, sending a Christmas
present, with greetings, to Mr. and Mrs. Micklethwaite, he wrote
thus--
'I am about to do my duty--as you put it--that is, to marry. The
name of my future wife is Miss Agnes Brissenden. It will be in
March, I think. But I shall see you before then, and give you a
fuller account of myself.'
CHAPTER XXXI
A NEW BEGINNING
Widdowson tried two or three lodgings; he settled at length in a
small house at Hampstead; occupying two plain rooms. Here, at long
intervals, his friend Newdick came to see him, but no one else. He
had brought with him a selection of solid books from his library,
and over these the greater part of each day was spent. Not that he
studied with any zeal; reading, and of a kind that demanded close
attention, was his only resource against melancholia; he knew not
how else to occupy himself. Adam Smith's classical work, perused
with laborious thoroughness, gave him employment for a couple of
months; subsequently he plodded through all the volumes of Hallam.
His landlady, and the neighbours who were at leisure to observe him
when he went out for his two hours' walk in the afternoon, took him
for an old gentleman of sixty-five or so. He no longer held himself
upright, and when out of doors seldom raised his eyes from the
ground; grey streaks had begun to brindle his hair; his face grew
yellower and more deeply furrowed. Of his personal appearance, even
of cleanliness, he became neglectful, and occasionally it happened
that he lay in bed all through the morning, reading, dozing, or in a
state of mental vacuity.
It was long since he had seen his relative, the sprightly widow; but
he had heard from her. On the point of leaving England for her
summer holiday, Mrs. Luke sent him a few lines, urging him, in the
language of the world, to live more sensibly, and let his wife 'have
her head' now and then; it would be better for both of them. Then
followed the time of woe, and for many weeks he gave no thought to
Mrs. Luke. But close upon the end of the year he received one day a
certain society journal, addressed in a hand he knew to the house at
Herne Hill. In it was discoverable, marked with a red pencil, the
following paragraph.
'Among the English who this year elected to take their repose and
recreation at Trouville there was no more brilliant figure than Mrs.
Luke Widdowson. This lady is well know in the _monde_ where one
never _s'ennuie_; where smart people are gathered together, there is
the charming widow sure to be seen. We are able to announce that,
before leaving Trouville, Mrs. Widdowson had consented to a private
engagement with Capt. William Horrocks--no other, indeed, than
"Captain Bill," the universal favourite, so beloved by hostesses as
a sure dancing man. By the lamented death of his father, this best
of good fellows has now become Sir William, and we understand that
his marriage will be celebrated after the proper delays. Our
congratulations!'
Subsequently arrived a newspaper with an account of the marriage.
Mrs. Luke was now Lady Horrocks: she had the title desired of her
heart.
Another two months went by, and there came a letter--re-addressed,
like the other communications, at the post office--in which the
baronet's wife declared herself anxious to hear of her friends. She
found they had left Herne Hill; if this letter reached him, would
not Edmund come and see her at her house in Wimpole Street?
Misery of solitude, desire for a woman's sympathy and counsel,
impelled him to use this opportunity, little as it seemed to
promise. He went to Wimpole Street and had a very long private talk
with Lady Horrocks, who, in some way he could not understand, had
changed from her old self. She began frivolously, but in rather a
dull, make-believe way; and when she heard that Widdowson had parted
from his wife, when a few vague, miserable words had suggested the
domestic drama so familiar to her observation, she at once grew
quiet, sober, sympathetic, as if really glad to have something
serious to talk about.
'Now look here, Edmund. Tell the whole story from the first. You're
the sort of man to make awful blunders in such a case as this. Just
tell me all about it. I'm not a bad sort, you know, and I have
troubles of my own--I don't mind telling you so much. Women make
fools of themselves--well, never mind. Just tell me about the
little girl, and see if we can't square things somehow.'
He had a struggle with himself, but at length narrated everything,
often interrupted by shrewd questions.
'No one writes to you?' the listener finally inquired.
'I am expecting to hear from them,' was Widdowson's answer, as he
sat in the usual position, head hanging forward and hands clasped
between his knees.
'To hear what?'
'I think I shall be sent for.'
'Sent for? To make it up?'
'She is going to give birth to a child.'
Lady Horrocks nodded twice thoughtfully, and with a faint smile.
'How did you find this out?'
'I have known it long enough. Her sister Virginia told me before
they went away. I had a suspicion all at once, and I forced her to
tell me.'
'And if you are sent for shall you go?'
Widdowson seemed to mutter an affirmative, and added,--
'I shall hear what she has to tell me, as she promised.'
'Is it--is it possible--?'
The lady's question remained incomplete. Widdowson, though he
understood it, vouchsafed no direct answer. Intense suffering was
manifest in his face, and at length he spoke vehemently.
'Whatever she tells me--how can I believe it? When once a woman
has lied how can she ever again be believed? I can't be sure of
anything.'
'All that fibbing,' remarked Lady Horrocks, 'has an unpleasant look.
No denying it. She got entangled somehow. But I think you had better
believe that she pulled up just in time.'
'I have no love for her left,' he went on in a despairing voice. 'It
all perished in those frightful days. I tried hard to think that I
still loved her. I kept writing letters--but they meant nothing--
or they only meant that I was driven half crazy by wretchedness. I
had rather we lived on as we have been doing. It's miserable enough
for me, God knows; but it would be worse to try and behave to her as
if I could forget everything. I know her explanation won't satisfy
me. Whatever it is I shall still suspect her. I don't know that the
child is mine. It may be. Perhaps as it grows up there will be a
likeness to help me to make sure. But what a life! Every paltry
trifle will make me uneasy; and if I discovered any fresh deceit I
should do something terrible. You don't know how near I was--'
He shuddered and hid his face.
'The Othello business won't do,' said Lady Horrocks not unkindly.
'You couldn't have gone on together, of course; you had to part for
a time. Well, that's all over; take it as something that couldn't be
helped. You were behaving absurdly, you know; I told you plainly; I
guessed there'd be trouble. You oughtn't to have married at all,
that's the fact; it would be better for most of us if we kept out of
it. Some marry for a good reason, some for a bad, and mostly it all
comes to the same in the end. But there, never mind. Pull yourself
together, dear boy. It's all nonsense about not caring for her. Of
course you're eating your heart out for want of her. And I'll tell
you what I think: it's very likely Monica was pulled up just in time
by discovering--you understand?--that she was more your wife
than any one else's. Something tells me that's how it was. Just try
to look at it in that way. If the child lives she'll be different.
She has sowed her wild oats--why shouldn't a woman as well as a
man? Go down to Clevedon and forgive her. You're an honest man, and
it isn't every woman--never mind. I could tell you stories about
people--but you wouldn't care to hear them. Just take things with
a laugh--we _all_ have to. Life's as you take it: all gloom or
moderately shiny.'
With much more to the same solacing effect. For the time Widdowson
was perchance a trifle comforted; at all events, he went away with a
sense of gratitude to Lady Horrocks. And when he had left the house
he remembered that not even a civil formality with regard to Sir
William had fallen from his lips. But Sir William's wife, for
whatever reason, had also not once mentioned the baronet's name.
* * *
Only a few days passed before Widdowson received the summons he was
expecting. It came in the form of a telegram, bidding him hasten to
his wife; not a word of news added. At the time of its arrival he
was taking his afternoon walk; this delay made it doubtful whether
he could get to Paddington by six-twenty, the last train which would
enable him to reach Clevedon that night. He managed it, with only
two or three minutes to spare.
Not till he was seated in the railway carriage could he fix his
thoughts on the end of the journey. An inexpressible repugnance then
affected him; he would have welcomed any disaster to the train, any
injury which might prevent his going to Monica at such a time.
Often, in anticipation, the event which was now come to pass had
confused and darkened his mind; he loathed the thought of it. If the
child, perhaps already born, were in truth his, it must be very long
before he could regard it with a shadow of paternal interest;
uncertainty, to which he was condemned, would in all likelihood make
it an object of aversion to him as long as he lived.
He was at Bristol by a quarter past nine, and had to change for a
slow train, which by ten o'clock brought him to Yatton, the little
junction for Clevedon. It was a fine starry night, but extremely
cold. For the few minutes of detention he walked restlessly about
the platform. His chief emotion was now a fear lest all might not go
well with Monica. Whether he could believe what she had to tell him
or not, it would be worse if she were to die before he could hear
her exculpation. The anguish of remorse would seize upon him.
Alone in his compartment, he did not sit down, but stamped backwards
and forwards on the floor, and before the train stopped he jumped
out. No cab was procurable; he left his bag at the station, and
hastened with all speed in the direction that he remembered. But
very soon the crossways had confused him. As he met no one whom he
could ask to direct him, he had to knock at a door. Streaming with
perspiration, he came at length within sight of his own house. A
church clock was striking eleven.
Alice and Virginia were both standing in the hall when the door was
opened; they beckoned him into a room.
'Is it over?' he asked, staring from one to the other with his
dazzled eyes.
'At four this afternoon,' answered Alice, scarce able to articulate.
'A little girl.'
'She had to have chloroform,' said Virginia, who looked a miserable,
lifeless object, and shook like one in an ague.
'And all's well?'
'We think so--we hope so,' they stammered together.
Alice added that the doctor was to make another call to-night. They
had a good nurse. The infant seemed healthy, but was a very, very
little mite, and had only made its voice heard for a few minutes.
'She knows you sent for me?'
'Yes. And we have something to give you. You were to have this as
soon as you arrived.'
Miss Madden handed him a sealed envelope; then both the sisters drew
away, as if fearing the result of what they had done. Widdowson just
glanced at the unaddressed missive and put it into his pocket.
'I must have something to eat,' he said, wiping his forehead. 'When
the doctor comes I'll see him.'
This visit took place while he was engaged on his supper. On coming
down from the patient the doctor gave him an assurance that things
were progressing 'fairly well'; the morning, probably, would enable
him to speak with yet more confidence. Widdowson had another brief
conversation with the sisters, then bade them good-night, and went
to the room that had been prepared for him. As he closed the door he
heard a thin, faint wail, and stood listening until it ceased; it
came from a room on the floor below.
Having brought himself with an effort to open the envelope he had
received, he found several sheets of notepaper, one of them,
remarked immediately, in a man's writing. At this he first glanced,
and the beginning showed him that it was a love-letter written to
Monica. He threw it aside and took up the other sheets, which
contained a long communication from his wife; it was dated two
months ago. In it Monica recounted to him, with scrupulous
truthfulness, the whole story of her relations with Bevis.
'I only make this confession'--so she concluded--'for the sake
of the poor child that will soon be born. The child is yours, and
ought not to suffer because of what I did. The enclosed letter will
prove this to you, if anything can. For myself I ask nothing. I
don't think I shall live. If I do I will consent to anything you
propose. I only ask you to behave without any pretence; if you
cannot forgive me, do not make a show of it. Say what your will is,
and that shall be enough'.
He did not go to bed that night. There was a fire in the room, and
he kept it alight until daybreak, when he descended softly to the
hall and let himself out of the house.
In a fierce wind that swept from the north-west down the foaming
Channel, he walked for an hour or two, careless whither the roads
directed him. All he desired was to be at a distance from that
house, with its hideous silence and the faint cry that could
scarcely be called a sound. The necessity of returning, of spending
days there, was an Oppression which held him like a nightmare.
Monica's statement he neither believed nor disbelieved; he simply
could not make up his mind about it. She had lied to him so
resolutely before; was she not capable of elaborate falsehood to
save her reputation and protect her child? The letter from Bevis
might have been a result of conspiracy between them.
That Bevis was the man against whom his jealousy should have been
directed at first astounded him. By now he had come to a full
perception of his stupidity in never entertaining such a thought.
The revelation was equivalent to a second offence just discovered;
for he found it impossible to ignore his long-cherished suspicion of
Barfoot, and he even surmised the possibility of Monica's having
listened to love-making from that quarter previously to her intimacy
with Bevis. He loathed the memory of his life since marriage; and as
for pardoning his wife, he could as soon pardon and smile upon the
author of that accursed letter from Bordeaux.
But go back to the house he must. By obeying his impulse, and
straightway returning to London, he might be the cause of a fatal
turn in Monica's illness. Constraint of bare humanity would keep him
here until his wife was out of danger. But he could not see her, and
as soon as possible he must escape from such unendurable
circumstances.
Re-entering at half-past eight, he was met by Alice, who seemed to
have slept as little as he himself had done. They went into the
dining-room.
'She has been inquiring about you,' began Miss Madden timorously.
'How is she?'
'Not worse, I believe. But so very weak. She wishes me to ask you--'
'What?'
His manner did not encourage the poor woman.
'I shall be obliged to tell her something. If I have nothing to say
she will fret herself into a dangerous state. She wants to know if
you have read her letter, and if--if you will see the child.'
Widdowson turned away and stood irresolute. He felt Miss Madden's
hand upon his arm.
'Oh, don't refuse! Let me give her some comfort.'
'It's the child she's anxious about?'
Alice admitted it, looking into her brother-in-law's face with
woeful appeal.
'Say I will see it,' he answered, 'and have it brought into some
room--then say I _have_ seen it.'
'Mayn't I take her a word of forgiveness?'
'Yes, say I forgive her. She doesn't wish me to go to her?'
Alice shook her head.
'Then say I forgive her.'
As he directed so it was done; and in the course of the morning Miss
Madden brought word to him that her sister had experienced great
relief. She was sleeping.
But the doctor thought it necessary to make two visits before
nightfall, and late in the evening he came again. He explained to
Widdowson that there were complications, not unlikely to be
dangerous, and finally he suggested that, if the morrow brought no
decided improvement, a second medical man should be called in to
consult. This consultation was held. In the afternoon Virginia came
weeping to her brother-in-law, and told him that Monica was
delirious. That night the whole household watched. Another day was
passed in the gravest anxiety, and at dusk the medical attendant no
longer disguised his opinion that Mrs. Widdowson was sinking. She
became unconscious soon after, and in the early morning breathed her
last.
Widdowson was in the room, and at the end sat by the bedside for an
hour. But he did not look upon his wife's face. When it was told him
that she had ceased to breathe, he rose and went into his own
chamber, death-pale, but tearless.
* * *
On the day after the funeral--Monica was buried in the cemetery,
which is hard by the old church--Widdowson and the elder sister
had a long conversation in private. It related first of all to the
motherless baby. Widdowson's desire was that Miss Madden should
undertake the care of the child. She and Virginia might live
wherever they preferred; their needs would be provided for. Alice
had hardly dared to hope for such a proposal--as it concerned the
child, that is to say. Gladly she accepted it.
'But there's something I must tell you,' she said, with embarrassed
appeal in her wet eyes. 'Poor Virginia wishes to go into an
institution.'
Widdowson looked at her, not understanding; whereupon she broke into
tears, and made known that her sister was such a slave to strong
drink that they both despaired of reformation unless by help of the
measure she had indicated. There were people, she had heard, who
undertook the care of inebriates.
'You know that we are by no means penniless,' sobbed Alice. 'We can
very well bear the expense. But will you assist us to find a
suitable place?'
He promised to proceed at once in the matter.
'And when she is cured,' said Miss Madden, 'she shall come and live
with me. And when baby is about two years old we will do what we
have been purposing for a long time. We will open a school for young
children, either here or at Weston. That will afford my poor sister
occupation. Indeed, we shall both be better for the exertion of such
an undertaking--don't you think so?'
'It would be a wise thing, I have no doubt whatever.'
The large house was to be abandoned, and as much of the furniture as
seemed needful transported to a smaller dwelling in another part of
Clevedon. For Alice resolved to stay here in spite of painful
associations. She loved the place, and looked forward with quiet joy
to the life that was prepared for her. Widdowson's books would go
back to London; not to the Hampstead lodgings, however. Fearful of
solitude, he proposed to his friend Newdick that they should live
together, he, as a man of substance, bearing the larger share of the
expense. And this plan also came into execution.
* * *
Three months went by, and on a day of summer, when the wooded hills
and green lanes and rich meadows of Clevedon looked their best, when
the Channel was still and blue, and the Welsh mountains loomed
through a sunny haze, Rhoda Nunn came over from the Mendips to see
Miss Madden. It could not be a gladsome meeting, but Rhoda was
bright and natural, and her talk as inspiriting as ever. She took
the baby in her arms, and walked about with it for a long time in
the garden, often murmuring, 'Poor little child! Dear little child!'
There had been doubt whether it would live, but the summer seemed to
be fortifying its health. Alice, it was plain, had found her
vocation; she looked better than at any time since Rhoda had known
her. Her complexion was losing its muddiness and spottiness; her
step had become light and brisk.
'And where is your sister?' inquired Miss Nunn.
'Staying with friends at present. She will be back before long, I
hope. And as soon as baby can walk we are going to think very
seriously about the school. You remember?'
'The school? You will really make the attempt?'
'It will be so good for us both. Why, look,' she added laughingly,
'here is one pupil growing for us!'
'Make a brave woman of her,' said Rhoda kindly.
'We will try--ah, we will try! And is your work as successful as
ever?'
'More!' replied Rhoda. 'We flourish like the green bay-tree. We
shall have to take larger premises. By-the-bye, you must read the
paper we are going to publish; the first number will be out in a
month, though the name isn't quite decided upon yet. Miss Barfoot
was never in such health and spirit--nor I myself. The world is
moving!'
Whilst Miss Madden went into the house to prepare hospitalities,
Rhoda, still nursing, sat down on a garden bench. She gazed intently
at those diminutive features, which were quite placid and relaxing
in soft drowsiness. The dark, bright eye was Monica's. And as the
baby sank into sleep, Rhoda's vision grew dim; a sigh made her lips
quiver, and once more she murmured, 'Poor little child!'
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Odd Women
by George Gissing