The Odd Women

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 unworthiness—for I am not unworthy of you. I shall never call you queen and goddess—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—women 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 it 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 café on the Cannibiere. Does that name convey anything to you? The Cannibiere is the principal street of Marseilles, street of gorgeous cafés 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.