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The Odd Women

G >> George Gissing >> The Odd Women




'Among the English who this year elected to take their repose and
recreation at Trouville there was no more brilliant figure than Mrs.
Luke Widdowson. This lady is well know in the _monde_ where one
never _s'ennuie_; where smart people are gathered together, there is
the charming widow sure to be seen. We are able to announce that,
before leaving Trouville, Mrs. Widdowson had consented to a private
engagement with Capt. William Horrocks--no other, indeed, than
"Captain Bill," the universal favourite, so beloved by hostesses as
a sure dancing man. By the lamented death of his father, this best
of good fellows has now become Sir William, and we understand that
his marriage will be celebrated after the proper delays. Our
congratulations!'

Subsequently arrived a newspaper with an account of the marriage.
Mrs. Luke was now Lady Horrocks: she had the title desired of her
heart.

Another two months went by, and there came a letter--re-addressed,
like the other communications, at the post office--in which the
baronet's wife declared herself anxious to hear of her friends. She
found they had left Herne Hill; if this letter reached him, would
not Edmund come and see her at her house in Wimpole Street?

Misery of solitude, desire for a woman's sympathy and counsel,
impelled him to use this opportunity, little as it seemed to
promise. He went to Wimpole Street and had a very long private talk
with Lady Horrocks, who, in some way he could not understand, had
changed from her old self. She began frivolously, but in rather a
dull, make-believe way; and when she heard that Widdowson had parted
from his wife, when a few vague, miserable words had suggested the
domestic drama so familiar to her observation, she at once grew
quiet, sober, sympathetic, as if really glad to have something
serious to talk about.

'Now look here, Edmund. Tell the whole story from the first. You're
the sort of man to make awful blunders in such a case as this. Just
tell me all about it. I'm not a bad sort, you know, and I have
troubles of my own--I don't mind telling you so much. Women make
fools of themselves--well, never mind. Just tell me about the
little girl, and see if we can't square things somehow.'

He had a struggle with himself, but at length narrated everything,
often interrupted by shrewd questions.

'No one writes to you?' the listener finally inquired.

'I am expecting to hear from them,' was Widdowson's answer, as he
sat in the usual position, head hanging forward and hands clasped
between his knees.

'To hear what?'

'I think I shall be sent for.'

'Sent for? To make it up?'

'She is going to give birth to a child.'

Lady Horrocks nodded twice thoughtfully, and with a faint smile.

'How did you find this out?'

'I have known it long enough. Her sister Virginia told me before
they went away. I had a suspicion all at once, and I forced her to
tell me.'

'And if you are sent for shall you go?'

Widdowson seemed to mutter an affirmative, and added,--

'I shall hear what she has to tell me, as she promised.'

'Is it--is it possible--?'

The lady's question remained incomplete. Widdowson, though he
understood it, vouchsafed no direct answer. Intense suffering was
manifest in his face, and at length he spoke vehemently.

'Whatever she tells me--how can I believe it? When once a woman
has lied how can she ever again be believed? I can't be sure of
anything.'

'All that fibbing,' remarked Lady Horrocks, 'has an unpleasant look.
No denying it. She got entangled somehow. But I think you had better
believe that she pulled up just in time.'

'I have no love for her left,' he went on in a despairing voice. 'It
all perished in those frightful days. I tried hard to think that I
still loved her. I kept writing letters--but they meant nothing--
or they only meant that I was driven half crazy by wretchedness. I
had rather we lived on as we have been doing. It's miserable enough
for me, God knows; but it would be worse to try and behave to her as
if I could forget everything. I know her explanation won't satisfy
me. Whatever it is I shall still suspect her. I don't know that the
child is mine. It may be. Perhaps as it grows up there will be a
likeness to help me to make sure. But what a life! Every paltry
trifle will make me uneasy; and if I discovered any fresh deceit I
should do something terrible. You don't know how near I was--'

He shuddered and hid his face.

'The Othello business won't do,' said Lady Horrocks not unkindly.
'You couldn't have gone on together, of course; you had to part for
a time. Well, that's all over; take it as something that couldn't be
helped. You were behaving absurdly, you know; I told you plainly; I
guessed there'd be trouble. You oughtn't to have married at all,
that's the fact; it would be better for most of us if we kept out of
it. Some marry for a good reason, some for a bad, and mostly it all
comes to the same in the end. But there, never mind. Pull yourself
together, dear boy. It's all nonsense about not caring for her. Of
course you're eating your heart out for want of her. And I'll tell
you what I think: it's very likely Monica was pulled up just in time
by discovering--you understand?--that she was more your wife
than any one else's. Something tells me that's how it was. Just try
to look at it in that way. If the child lives she'll be different.
She has sowed her wild oats--why shouldn't a woman as well as a
man? Go down to Clevedon and forgive her. You're an honest man, and
it isn't every woman--never mind. I could tell you stories about
people--but you wouldn't care to hear them. Just take things with
a laugh--we _all_ have to. Life's as you take it: all gloom or
moderately shiny.'

With much more to the same solacing effect. For the time Widdowson
was perchance a trifle comforted; at all events, he went away with a
sense of gratitude to Lady Horrocks. And when he had left the house
he remembered that not even a civil formality with regard to Sir
William had fallen from his lips. But Sir William's wife, for
whatever reason, had also not once mentioned the baronet's name.

* * *

Only a few days passed before Widdowson received the summons he was
expecting. It came in the form of a telegram, bidding him hasten to
his wife; not a word of news added. At the time of its arrival he
was taking his afternoon walk; this delay made it doubtful whether
he could get to Paddington by six-twenty, the last train which would
enable him to reach Clevedon that night. He managed it, with only
two or three minutes to spare.

Not till he was seated in the railway carriage could he fix his
thoughts on the end of the journey. An inexpressible repugnance then
affected him; he would have welcomed any disaster to the train, any
injury which might prevent his going to Monica at such a time.
Often, in anticipation, the event which was now come to pass had
confused and darkened his mind; he loathed the thought of it. If the
child, perhaps already born, were in truth his, it must be very long
before he could regard it with a shadow of paternal interest;
uncertainty, to which he was condemned, would in all likelihood make
it an object of aversion to him as long as he lived.

He was at Bristol by a quarter past nine, and had to change for a
slow train, which by ten o'clock brought him to Yatton, the little
junction for Clevedon. It was a fine starry night, but extremely
cold. For the few minutes of detention he walked restlessly about
the platform. His chief emotion was now a fear lest all might not go
well with Monica. Whether he could believe what she had to tell him
or not, it would be worse if she were to die before he could hear
her exculpation. The anguish of remorse would seize upon him.

Alone in his compartment, he did not sit down, but stamped backwards
and forwards on the floor, and before the train stopped he jumped
out. No cab was procurable; he left his bag at the station, and
hastened with all speed in the direction that he remembered. But
very soon the crossways had confused him. As he met no one whom he
could ask to direct him, he had to knock at a door. Streaming with
perspiration, he came at length within sight of his own house. A
church clock was striking eleven.

Alice and Virginia were both standing in the hall when the door was
opened; they beckoned him into a room.

'Is it over?' he asked, staring from one to the other with his
dazzled eyes.

'At four this afternoon,' answered Alice, scarce able to articulate.
'A little girl.'

'She had to have chloroform,' said Virginia, who looked a miserable,
lifeless object, and shook like one in an ague.

'And all's well?'

'We think so--we hope so,' they stammered together.

Alice added that the doctor was to make another call to-night. They
had a good nurse. The infant seemed healthy, but was a very, very
little mite, and had only made its voice heard for a few minutes.

'She knows you sent for me?'

'Yes. And we have something to give you. You were to have this as
soon as you arrived.'

Miss Madden handed him a sealed envelope; then both the sisters drew
away, as if fearing the result of what they had done. Widdowson just
glanced at the unaddressed missive and put it into his pocket.

'I must have something to eat,' he said, wiping his forehead. 'When
the doctor comes I'll see him.'

This visit took place while he was engaged on his supper. On coming
down from the patient the doctor gave him an assurance that things
were progressing 'fairly well'; the morning, probably, would enable
him to speak with yet more confidence. Widdowson had another brief
conversation with the sisters, then bade them good-night, and went
to the room that had been prepared for him. As he closed the door he
heard a thin, faint wail, and stood listening until it ceased; it
came from a room on the floor below.

Having brought himself with an effort to open the envelope he had
received, he found several sheets of notepaper, one of them,
remarked immediately, in a man's writing. At this he first glanced,
and the beginning showed him that it was a love-letter written to
Monica. He threw it aside and took up the other sheets, which
contained a long communication from his wife; it was dated two
months ago. In it Monica recounted to him, with scrupulous
truthfulness, the whole story of her relations with Bevis.

'I only make this confession'--so she concluded--'for the sake
of the poor child that will soon be born. The child is yours, and
ought not to suffer because of what I did. The enclosed letter will
prove this to you, if anything can. For myself I ask nothing. I
don't think I shall live. If I do I will consent to anything you
propose. I only ask you to behave without any pretence; if you
cannot forgive me, do not make a show of it. Say what your will is,
and that shall be enough'.

He did not go to bed that night. There was a fire in the room, and
he kept it alight until daybreak, when he descended softly to the
hall and let himself out of the house.

In a fierce wind that swept from the north-west down the foaming
Channel, he walked for an hour or two, careless whither the roads
directed him. All he desired was to be at a distance from that
house, with its hideous silence and the faint cry that could
scarcely be called a sound. The necessity of returning, of spending
days there, was an Oppression which held him like a nightmare.

Monica's statement he neither believed nor disbelieved; he simply
could not make up his mind about it. She had lied to him so
resolutely before; was she not capable of elaborate falsehood to
save her reputation and protect her child? The letter from Bevis
might have been a result of conspiracy between them.

That Bevis was the man against whom his jealousy should have been
directed at first astounded him. By now he had come to a full
perception of his stupidity in never entertaining such a thought.
The revelation was equivalent to a second offence just discovered;
for he found it impossible to ignore his long-cherished suspicion of
Barfoot, and he even surmised the possibility of Monica's having
listened to love-making from that quarter previously to her intimacy
with Bevis. He loathed the memory of his life since marriage; and as
for pardoning his wife, he could as soon pardon and smile upon the
author of that accursed letter from Bordeaux.

But go back to the house he must. By obeying his impulse, and
straightway returning to London, he might be the cause of a fatal
turn in Monica's illness. Constraint of bare humanity would keep him
here until his wife was out of danger. But he could not see her, and
as soon as possible he must escape from such unendurable
circumstances.

Re-entering at half-past eight, he was met by Alice, who seemed to
have slept as little as he himself had done. They went into the
dining-room.

'She has been inquiring about you,' began Miss Madden timorously.

'How is she?'

'Not worse, I believe. But so very weak. She wishes me to ask you--'

'What?'

His manner did not encourage the poor woman.

'I shall be obliged to tell her something. If I have nothing to say
she will fret herself into a dangerous state. She wants to know if
you have read her letter, and if--if you will see the child.'

Widdowson turned away and stood irresolute. He felt Miss Madden's
hand upon his arm.

'Oh, don't refuse! Let me give her some comfort.'

'It's the child she's anxious about?'

Alice admitted it, looking into her brother-in-law's face with
woeful appeal.

'Say I will see it,' he answered, 'and have it brought into some
room--then say I _have_ seen it.'

'Mayn't I take her a word of forgiveness?'

'Yes, say I forgive her. She doesn't wish me to go to her?'

Alice shook her head.

'Then say I forgive her.'

As he directed so it was done; and in the course of the morning Miss
Madden brought word to him that her sister had experienced great
relief. She was sleeping.

But the doctor thought it necessary to make two visits before
nightfall, and late in the evening he came again. He explained to
Widdowson that there were complications, not unlikely to be
dangerous, and finally he suggested that, if the morrow brought no
decided improvement, a second medical man should be called in to
consult. This consultation was held. In the afternoon Virginia came
weeping to her brother-in-law, and told him that Monica was
delirious. That night the whole household watched. Another day was
passed in the gravest anxiety, and at dusk the medical attendant no
longer disguised his opinion that Mrs. Widdowson was sinking. She
became unconscious soon after, and in the early morning breathed her
last.

Widdowson was in the room, and at the end sat by the bedside for an
hour. But he did not look upon his wife's face. When it was told him
that she had ceased to breathe, he rose and went into his own
chamber, death-pale, but tearless.

* * *

On the day after the funeral--Monica was buried in the cemetery,
which is hard by the old church--Widdowson and the elder sister
had a long conversation in private. It related first of all to the
motherless baby. Widdowson's desire was that Miss Madden should
undertake the care of the child. She and Virginia might live
wherever they preferred; their needs would be provided for. Alice
had hardly dared to hope for such a proposal--as it concerned the
child, that is to say. Gladly she accepted it.

'But there's something I must tell you,' she said, with embarrassed
appeal in her wet eyes. 'Poor Virginia wishes to go into an
institution.'

Widdowson looked at her, not understanding; whereupon she broke into
tears, and made known that her sister was such a slave to strong
drink that they both despaired of reformation unless by help of the
measure she had indicated. There were people, she had heard, who
undertook the care of inebriates.

'You know that we are by no means penniless,' sobbed Alice. 'We can
very well bear the expense. But will you assist us to find a
suitable place?'

He promised to proceed at once in the matter.

'And when she is cured,' said Miss Madden, 'she shall come and live
with me. And when baby is about two years old we will do what we
have been purposing for a long time. We will open a school for young
children, either here or at Weston. That will afford my poor sister
occupation. Indeed, we shall both be better for the exertion of such
an undertaking--don't you think so?'

'It would be a wise thing, I have no doubt whatever.'

The large house was to be abandoned, and as much of the furniture as
seemed needful transported to a smaller dwelling in another part of
Clevedon. For Alice resolved to stay here in spite of painful
associations. She loved the place, and looked forward with quiet joy
to the life that was prepared for her. Widdowson's books would go
back to London; not to the Hampstead lodgings, however. Fearful of
solitude, he proposed to his friend Newdick that they should live
together, he, as a man of substance, bearing the larger share of the
expense. And this plan also came into execution.

* * *

Three months went by, and on a day of summer, when the wooded hills
and green lanes and rich meadows of Clevedon looked their best, when
the Channel was still and blue, and the Welsh mountains loomed
through a sunny haze, Rhoda Nunn came over from the Mendips to see
Miss Madden. It could not be a gladsome meeting, but Rhoda was
bright and natural, and her talk as inspiriting as ever. She took
the baby in her arms, and walked about with it for a long time in
the garden, often murmuring, 'Poor little child! Dear little child!'
There had been doubt whether it would live, but the summer seemed to
be fortifying its health. Alice, it was plain, had found her
vocation; she looked better than at any time since Rhoda had known
her. Her complexion was losing its muddiness and spottiness; her
step had become light and brisk.

'And where is your sister?' inquired Miss Nunn.

'Staying with friends at present. She will be back before long, I
hope. And as soon as baby can walk we are going to think very
seriously about the school. You remember?'

'The school? You will really make the attempt?'

'It will be so good for us both. Why, look,' she added laughingly,
'here is one pupil growing for us!'

'Make a brave woman of her,' said Rhoda kindly.

'We will try--ah, we will try! And is your work as successful as
ever?'

'More!' replied Rhoda. 'We flourish like the green bay-tree. We
shall have to take larger premises. By-the-bye, you must read the
paper we are going to publish; the first number will be out in a
month, though the name isn't quite decided upon yet. Miss Barfoot
was never in such health and spirit--nor I myself. The world is
moving!'

Whilst Miss Madden went into the house to prepare hospitalities,
Rhoda, still nursing, sat down on a garden bench. She gazed intently
at those diminutive features, which were quite placid and relaxing
in soft drowsiness. The dark, bright eye was Monica's. And as the
baby sank into sleep, Rhoda's vision grew dim; a sigh made her lips
quiver, and once more she murmured, 'Poor little child!'

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