The Odd Women

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'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.'

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