The Odd Women

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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.

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