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The Odd Women

G >> George Gissing >> The Odd Women




One does not break the heart of such a woman. Heartbreak is a very
old-fashioned disorder, associated with poverty of brain. If Rhoda
were what he thought her, she enjoyed this opportunity of studying a
modern male, and cared not how far he proceeded in his own
investigations, sure that at any moment she could bid him fall back.
The amusement was only just beginning. And if for him it became
earnest, why what did he seek but strong experiences?

Rhoda, in the meantime, had gone home. She shut herself in her
bedroom, and remained there until the bell rang for dinner.

Miss Barfoot entered the dining-room just before her; they sat down
in silence, and through the meal exchanged but a few sentences,
relative to a topic of the hour which interested neither of them.

The elder woman had a very unhappy countenance; she looked worn out;
her eyes never lifted themselves from the table.

Dinner over, Miss Barfoot went to the drawing-room alone. She had
sat there about half an hour, brooding, unoccupied, when Rhoda came
in and stood before her.

'I have been thinking it over. It isn't right for me to remain here.
Such an arrangement was only possible whilst we were on terms of
perfect understanding.'

'You must do what you think best, Rhoda,' the other replied gravely,
but with no accent of displeasure.

'Yes, I had better take a lodging somewhere. What I wish to know is,
whether you can still employ me with any satisfaction?'

'I don't employ you. That is not the word to describe your relations
with me. If we must use business language, you are simply my
partner.'

'Only your kindness put me into that position. When you no longer
regard me as a friend, I am only in your employment.'

'I haven't ceased to regard you as a friend. The estrangement
between us is entirely of your making.'

Seeing that Rhoda would not sit down, Miss Barfoot rose and stood by
the fireplace.

'I can't bear reproaches,' said the former; 'least of all when they
are irrational and undeserved.'

'If I reproached you, it was in a tone which should never have given
you offence. One would think that I had rated you like a disobedient
servant.'

'If _that_ had been possible,' answered Rhoda, with a faint smile,
'I should never have been here. You said that you bitterly repented
having given way to me on a certain occasion. That was unreasonable;
in giving way, you declared yourself convinced. And the reproach I
certainly didn't deserve, for I had behaved conscientiously.'

'Isn't it allowed me to disapprove of what your conscience
dictates?'

'Not when you have taken the same view, and acted upon it. I don't
lay claim to many virtues, and I haven't that of meekness. I could
never endure anger; my nature resents it.'

'I did wrong to speak angrily, but indeed I hardly knew what I was
saying. I had suffered a terrible shock. I loved that poor girl; I
loved her all the more for what I had seen of her since she came to
implore my help. Your utter coldness--it seemed to me inhuman--I
shrank from you. If your face had shown ever so little compassion--'

'I _felt_ no compassion.'

'No. You have hardened your heart with theory. Guard yourself,
Rhoda! To work for women one must keep one's womanhood. You are
becoming--you are wandering as far from the true way--oh, much
further than Bell a did!'

'I can't answer you. When we argued about our differences in a
friendly spirit, all was permissible; now if I spoke my thought it
would be mere harshness and cause of embitterment. I fear all is at
an end between us. I should perpetually remind you of this sorrow.'

There was a silence of some length. Rhoda turned away, and stood in
reflection.

'Let us do nothing hastily,' said Miss Barfoot. 'We have more to
think of than our own feelings.'

'I have said that I am quite willing to go on with my work, but it
must be on a different footing. The relation between us can no
longer be that of equals. I am content to follow your directions.
But your dislike of me will make this impossible.'

'Dislike? You misunderstand me wretchedly. I think rather it is you
who dislike me, as a weak woman with no command of her emotions.'

Again they ceased from speech. Presently Miss Barfoot stepped
forward.

'Rhoda, I shall be away all to-morrow; I may not return to London
until Monday morning. Will you think quietly over it all? Believe
me, I am not angry with you, and as for disliking you--what
nonsense are we talking! But I can't regret that I let you see how
painfully your behaviour impressed me. That hardness is not natural
to you. You have encouraged yourself in it, and you are warping a
very noble character.'

'I wish only to be honest. Where you felt compassion I felt
indignation.'

'Yes; we have gone through all that. The indignation was a forced,
exaggerated sentiment. You can't see it in that light perhaps. But
try to imagine for a moment that Bella had been your sister--'

'That is confusing the point at issue,' Rhoda exclaimed irritably.
'Have I ever denied the force of such feelings? My grief would have
blinded me to all larger considerations, of course. But she was
happily _not_ my sister, and I remained free to speak the simple
truth about her case. It isn't personal feeling that directs a great
movement in civilization. If you were right, I also was right. You
should have recognized the inevitable discord of our Opinions at
that moment.'

'It didn't seem to me inevitable.'

'I should have despised myself if I could have affected sympathy.'

'Affected--yes.'

'Or have really felt it. That would have meant that I did not know
myself. I should never again have dared to speak on any grave
subject.'

Miss Barfoot smiled sadly.

'How young you are! Oh, there is far more than ten years between our
ages, Rhoda! In spirit you are a young girl, and I an old woman. No,
no; we _will not_ quarrel. Your companionship is far too precious to
me, and I dare to think that mine is not without value for you. Wait
till my grief has had its course; then I shall be more reasonable
and do you more justice.'

Rhoda turned towards the door, lingered, but without looking back,
and so left the room.

Miss Barfoot was absent as she had announced, returning only in time
for her duties in Great Portland Street on Monday morning. She and
Rhoda then shook hands, but without a word of personal reference.
They went through the day's work as usual.

This was the day of the month on which Miss Barfoot would deliver
her four o'clock address. The subject had been announced a week ago:
'Woman as an Invader.' An hour earlier than usual work was put
aside, and seats were rapidly arranged for the small audience; it
numbered only thirteen--the girls already on the premises and a
few who came specially. All were aware of the tragedy in which Miss
Barfoot had recently been concerned; her air of sadness, so great a
contrast to that with which she was wont to address them, they
naturally attributed to this cause.

As always, she began in the simplest conversational tone. Not long
since she had received an anonymous letter, written by some clerk
out of employment, abusing her roundly for her encouragement of
female competition in the clerkly world. The taste of this epistle
was as bad as its grammar, but they should hear it; she read it all
through. Now, whoever the writer might be, it seemed pretty clear
that he was not the kind of person with whom one could profitably
argue; no use in replying to him, even had he given the opportunity.
For all that, his uncivil attack had a meaning, and there were
plenty of people ready to urge his argument in more respectable
terms. 'They will tell you that, in entering the commercial world,
you not only unsex yourselves, but do a grievous wrong to the
numberless men struggling hard for bare sustenance. You reduce
salaries, you press into an already overcrowded field, you injure
even your own sex by making it impossible for men to marry, who, if
they earned enough, would be supporting a wife.' To-day, continued
Miss Barfoot, it was not her purpose to debate the economic aspects
of the question. She would consider it from another point of view,
repeating, perhaps, much that she had already said to them on other
occasions, but doing so because these thoughts had just now very
strong possession of her mind.

This abusive correspondent, who declared that he was supplanted by a
young woman who did his work for smaller payment, doubtless had a
grievance. But, in the miserable disorder of our social state, one
grievance had to be weighed against another, and Miss Barfoot held
that there was much more to be urged on behalf of women who invaded
what had been exclusively the men's sphere. than on behalf of the
men who began to complain of this invasion.

'They point to half a dozen occupations which are deemed strictly
suitable for women. Why don't we confine ourselves to this ground?
Why don't I encourage girls to become governesses, hospital nurses,
and so on? You think I ought to reply that already there are too
many applicants for such places. It would be true, but I don't care
to make use of the argument, which at once involves us in a debate
with the out-crowded clerk. No; to put the truth in a few words, I
am not chiefly anxious that you should _earn money_, but that women
in general shall become _rational and responsible human beings_.

'Follow me carefully. A governess, a nurse, may be the most
admirable of women. I will dissuade no one from following those
careers who is distinctly fitted for them. But these are only a few
out of the vast number of girls who must, if they are not to be
despicable persons, somehow find serious work. Because I myself have
had an education in clerkship, and have most capacity for such
employment, I look about for girls of like mind, and do my best to
prepare them for work in offices. And (here I must become emphatic
once more) I am _glad_ to have entered on this course. I am _glad_
that I can show girls the way to a career which my opponents call
unwomanly.

'Now see why. Womanly and womanish are two very different words; but
the latter, as the world uses it, has become practically synonymous
with the former. A womanly occupation means, practically, an
occupation that a man disdains. And here is the root of the matter.
I repeat that I am not first of all anxious to keep you supplied
with daily bread. I am a troublesome, aggressive, revolutionary
person. I want to do away with that common confusion of the words
womanly and womanish, and I see very clearly that this can only be
effected by an armed movement, an invasion by women of the spheres
which men have always forbidden us to enter. I am strenuously
opposed to that view of us set forth in such charming language by
Mr. Ruskin--for it tells on the side of those men who think and
speak of us in a way the reverse of charming. Were we living in an
ideal world, I think women would not go to sit all day in offices.
But the fact is that we live in a world as far from ideal as can be
conceived. We live in a time of warfare, of revolt. If woman is no
longer to be womanish, but a human being of powers and
responsibilities. she must become militant, defiant. She must push
her claims to the extremity.

'An excellent governess, a perfect hospital nurse, do work which is
invaluable; but for our cause of emancipation they are no good--
nay, they are harmful. Men point to them, and say, Imitate these,
keep to your proper world. Our proper world is the world of
intelligence, of honest effort, of moral strength. The old types of
womanly perfection are no longer helpful to us. Like the Church
service, which to all but one person in a thousand has become
meaningless gabble by dint of repetition, these types have lost
their effect. They are no longer educational. We have to ask
ourselves, What course of training will wake women up, make them
conscious of their souls, startle them into healthy activity?

'It must be something new, something free from the reproach of
womanliness. I don't care whether we crowd out the men or not. I
don't care _what_ results, if only women are made strong and
self-reliant and nobly independent! The world must look to its
concerns. Most likely we shall have a revolution in the social order
greater than any that yet seems possible. Let it come, and let us
help its coming. When I think of the contemptible wretchedness of
women enslaved by custom, by their weakness, by their desires, I am
ready to cry, Let the world perish in tumult rather than things go
on in this way!'

For a moment her voice failed. There were tears in her eyes. The
hearers, most of them, understood what made her so passionate; they
exchanged grave looks.

'Our abusive correspondent shall do as best he can. He suffers for
the folly of men in all ages. We can't help it. It is very far from
our wish to cause hardship to any one, but we ourselves are escaping
from a hardship that has become intolerable. We are educating
ourselves. There must be a new type of woman, active in every sphere
of life: a new worker out in the world, a new ruler of the home. Of
the old ideal virtues we can retain many, but we have to add to them
those which have been thought appropriate only in men. Let a woman
be gentle, but at the same time let her be strong; let her be pure
of heart, but none the less wise and instructed. Because we have to
set an example to the sleepy of our sex, we must carry on an active
warfare--must be invaders. Whether woman is the equal of man I
neither know nor care. We are not his equal in size, in weight, in
muscle, and, for all I can say, we may have less power of brain.
That has nothing to do with it. Enough for us to know that our
natural growth has been stunted. The mass of women have always been
paltry creatures, and their paltriness has proved a curse to men.
So, if you like to put it in this way, we are working for the
advantage of men as well as for our own. Let the responsibility for
disorder rest on those who have made us despise our old selves. At
any cost--at any cost--we will free ourselves from the heritage
of weakness and contempt!'

The assembly was longer than usual in dispersing. When all were
gone, Miss Barfoot listened for a footstep in the other room. As she
could detect no sound, she went to see if Rhoda was there or not.

Yes; Rhoda was sitting in a thoughtful attitude. She looked up,
smiled, and came a few paces forward.

'It was very good.'

'I thought it would please you.'

Miss Barfoot drew nearer, and added,--

'It was addressed to you. It seemed to me that you had forgotten how
I really thought about these things.'

'I have been ill-tempered,' Rhoda replied. 'Obstinacy is one of my
faults.'

'It is.'

Their eyes met.

'I believe,' continued Rhoda, 'that I ought to ask your pardon.
Right or wrong, I behaved in an unmannerly way.'

'Yes, I think you did.'

Rhoda smiled, bending her head to the rebuke.

'And there's the last of it,' added Miss Barfoot. 'Let us kiss and
be friends.'





CHAPTER XIV

MOTIVES MEETING




When Barfoot made his next evening call Rhoda did not appear. He sat
for some time in pleasant talk with his cousin, no reference
whatever being made to Miss Nunn; then at length, beginning to fear
that he would not see her, he inquired after her health. Miss Nunn
was very well, answered the hostess, smiling.

'Not at home this evening?'

'Busy with some kind of study, I think.'

Plainly, the difference between these women had come to a happy end,
as Barfoot foresaw that it would. He thought it better to make no
mention of his meeting with Rhoda in the gardens.

'That was a very unpleasant affair that I saw your name connected
with last week,' he said presently.

'It made me very miserable--ill indeed for a day or two.'

'That was why you couldn't see me?'

'Yes.'

'But in your reply to my note you made no mention of the
circumstances.'

Miss Barfoot kept silence; frowning slightly, she looked at the fire
near which they were both sitting, for the weather had become very
cold.

'No doubt,' pursued Everard, glancing at her, 'you refrained out of
delicacy--on my account, I mean.'

'Need we talk of it?'

'For a moment, please. You are very friendly with me nowadays, but I
suppose your estimate of my character remains very much the same as
years ago?'

'What is the use of such questions?'

'I ask for a distinct purpose. You can't regard me with any
respect?'

'To tell you the truth, Everard, I know nothing about you. I have no
wish to revive disagreeable memories, and I think it quite possible
that you may be worthy of respect.'

'So far so good. Now, in justice, please answer me another question.
How have you spoken of me to Miss Nunn?'

'How can it matter?'

'It matters a good deal. Have you told her any scandal about me?'

'Yes, I have.'

Everard looked at her with surprise.

'I spoke to Miss Nunn about you,' she continued, 'before I thought
of your coming here. Frankly, I used you as an illustration of the
evils I abominate.'

'You are a courageous and plain-spoken woman, cousin Mary,' said
Everard, laughing a little. 'Couldn't you have found some other
example?'

There was no reply.

'So,' he proceeded, 'Miss Nunn regards me as a proved scoundrel?'

'I never told her the story. I made known the general grounds of my
dissatisfaction with you, that was all.'

'Come, that's something. I'm glad you didn't amuse her with that
unedifying bit of fiction.'

'Fiction?'

'Yes, fiction,' said Everard bluntly. 'I am not going into details;
the thing's over and done with, and I chose my course at the time.
But it's as well to let you know that my behaviour was grossly
misrepresented. In using me to point a moral you were grievously
astray. I shall say no more. Ii you can believe me, do; if you
can't, dismiss the matter from your mind.'

There followed a silence of some moments. Then, with a perfectly
calm manner, Miss Barfoot began to speak of a new subject. Everard
followed her lead. He did not stay much longer, and on leaving asked
to be remembered to Miss Nunn.

A week later he again found his cousin alone. He now felt sure that
Miss Nunn was keeping out of his way. Her parting from him in the
gardens had been decidedly abrupt, and possibly it signified more
serious offence than at the time he attributed to her. It was so
difficult to be sure of anything in regard to Miss Nunn. If another
woman had acted thus he would have judged it coquetry. But perhaps
Rhoda was quite incapable of anything of that kind. Perhaps she took
herself so very seriously that the mere suspicion of banter in his
talk had moved her to grave resentment. Or again, she might be half
ashamed to meet him after confessing her disagreement with Miss
Barfoot; on recovery from ill-temper (unmistakable ill-temper it
was), she had seen her behaviour in an embarrassing light. Between
these various conjectures he wavered whilst talking with Mary. But
he did not so much as mention Miss Nunn's name.

Some ten days went by, and he paid a call at the hour sanctioned by
society, five in the afternoon; it being Saturday. One of his
reasons for coming at this time was the hope that he might meet
other callers, for he felt curious to see what sort of people
visited the house. And this wish was gratified. On entering the
drawing-room, whither he was led by the servant straightway, after
the manner of the world, he found not only his cousin and her
friend, but two strangers, ladies. A glance informed him that both
of these were young and good-looking, one being a type that
particularly pleased him--dark, pale, with very bright eyes.

Miss Barfoot received him as any hostess would have done. She was
her cheerful self once more, and in a moment introduced him to the
lady with whom she had been talking--the dark one, by name Mrs.
Widdowson. Rhoda Nunn, sitting apart with the second lady, gave him
her hand, but at once resumed her conversation.

With Mrs. Widdowson he was soon chatting in his easy and graceful
way, Miss Barfoot putting in a word now and then. He saw that she
had not long been married; a pleasant diffidence and the maidenly
glance of her bright eyes indicated this. She was dressed very
prettily, and seemed aware of it.

'We went to hear the new opera at the Savoy last night,' she said to
Miss Barfoot, with a smile of remembered enjoyment.

'Did you? Miss Nunn and I were there.'

Everard gazed at his cousin with humorous incredulity.

'Is it possible?' he exclaimed. 'You were at the Savoy?'

'Where is the impossibility? Why shouldn't Miss Nunn and I go to the
theatre?'

'I appeal to Mrs. Widdowson. She also was astonished.'

'Yes, indeed I was, Miss Barfoot!' exclaimed the younger lady, with
a merry little laugh. 'I hesitated before speaking of such a
frivolous entertainment.'

Lowering her voice, and casting a smile in Rhoda's direction, Miss
Barfoot replied,--

'I have to make a concession occasionally on Miss Nunn's account. It
would be unkind never to allow her a little recreation.'

The two at a distance were talking earnestly, with grave
countenances. In a few moments they rose, and the visitor came
towards Miss Barfoot to take her leave. Thereupon Everard crossed to
Miss Nunn.

'Is there anything very good in the new Gilbert and Sullivan opera?'
he asked.

'Many good things. You really haven't been yet?'

'No--I'm ashamed to say.'

'Do go this evening, if you can get a seat. Which part of the
theatre do you prefer?'

His eye rested on her, but he could detect no irony.

'I'm a poor man, you know. I have to be content with the cheap
places. Which do you like best, the Savoy operas or the burlesques
at the Gaiety?'

A few more such questions and answers, of laboured commonplace or
strained flippancy, and Everard, after searching his companion's
face, broke off with a laugh.

'There now,' he said, 'we have talked in the approved five o'clock
way. Precisely the dialogue I heard in a drawing-room yesterday. It
goes on day after day, year after year, through the whole of
people's lives.'

'You are on friendly terms with such people?'

'I am on friendly terms with people of every kind.' He added, in an
undertone, 'I hope I may include you, Miss Nunn?'

But to this she paid no attention. She was looking at Monica and
Miss Barfoot, who had just risen from their seats. They approached,
and presently Barfoot found himself alone with the familiar pair.

'Another cup of tea, Everard?' asked his cousin.

'Thank you. Who was the young lady you didn't introduce me to?'

'Miss Haven--one of our pupils.'

'Does she think of going into business?'

'She has just got a place in the publishing department of a weekly
paper.'

'But really--from the few words of her talk that fell upon my ear
I should have thought her a highly educated girl.'

'So she is,' replied Miss Barfoot. 'What is your objection?'

'Why doesn't she aim at some better position?'

Miss Barfoot and Rhoda exchanged smiles.

'But nothing could be better for her. Some day she hopes to start a
paper of her own, and to learn all the details of such business is
just what she wants. Oh, you are still very conventional, Everard.
You meant she ought to take up something graceful and pretty--
something ladylike.'

'No, no. It's all right. I thoroughly approve. And when Miss Haven
starts her paper, Miss Nunn will write for it.'

'I hope so,' assented his cousin.

'You make me feel that I am in touch with the great movements of our
time. It's delightful to know you. But come now, isn't there any way
in which I could help?'

Mary laughed.

'None whatever, I'm afraid.'

'Well,--"They also serve who only stand and wait."'

If Everard had pleased himself he would have visited the house in
Queen's Road every other day. As this might not be, he spent a good
deal of his time in other society, not caring to read much. or
otherwise occupy his solitude. Starting with one or two
acquaintances in London, people of means and position, he easily
extended his social sphere. Had he cared to marry, he might,
notwithstanding his poverty, have wooed with fair chance in a
certain wealthy family, where two daughters, the sole children,
plain but well-instructed girls, waited for the men of brains who
should appreciate them. So rare in society, these men of brains,
and, alas! so frequently deserted by their wisdom when it comes to
choosing a wife. It being his principle to reflect on every
possibility, Barfoot of course asked himself whether it would not be
reasonable to approach one or other of these young women--the Miss
Brissendens. He needed a larger income; he wanted to travel in a
more satisfactory way than during his late absence. Agnes Brissenden
struck him as a very calm and sensible girl; not at all likely to
marry any one but the man who would be a suitable companion for her,
and probably disposed to look on marriage as a permanent friendship,
which must not be endangered by feminine follies. She had no beauty,
but mental powers above the average--superior, certainly, to her
sister's.

It was worth thinking about, but in the meantime he wanted to see
much more of Rhoda Nunn. Rhoda he was beginning to class with women
who are attractive both physically and mentally. Strange how her
face had altered to his perception since the first meeting. He
smiled now when he beheld it--smiled as a man does when his senses
are pleasantly affected. He was getting to know it so well, to be
prepared for its constant changes, to watch for certain movements of
brows or lips when he had said certain things. That forcible holding
of her hand had marked a stage in progressive appreciation; since
then he felt a desire to repeat the experiment.

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