The Odd Women

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'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.

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