The Odd Women Part 39

'I'm afraid you are not well, dear. You have had no appet.i.te for several days.'

'As much as usual, I think,' she replied absently.

They went into the library, commonly their resort of an evening.

Widdowson possessed several hundred volumes of English literature, most of them the works which are supposed to be indispensible to a well-informed man, though very few men even make a pretence of reading them. Self-educated, Widdowson deemed it his duty to make acquaintance with the great, the solid authors. Nor was his study of them affectation. For the poets he had little taste; the novelists he considered only profitable in intervals of graver reading; but history, political economy, even metaphysics, genuinely appealed to him. He had always two or three solid books on hand, each with its marker; he studied them at stated hours, and always sitting at a table, a notebook open beside him. A little work once well-known, Todd's 'Student's Manual,' had formed his method and inspired him with zeal.

To-night, it being Sunday, he took down a volume of Barrow's Sermons.

Though not strictly orthodox in religious faith, he conformed to the practices of the Church of England, and since his marriage had been more scrupulous on this point than before. He abhorred unorthodoxy in a woman, and would not on any account have suffered Monica to surmise that he had his doubts concerning any article of the Christian faith.

Like most men of his kind, he viewed religion as a precious and powerful instrument for directing the female conscience. Frequently he read aloud to his wife, but this evening he showed no intention of doing so. Monica, however, sat unoccupied. After glancing at her once or twice, he said reprovingly,--

'Have you finished your Sunday book?'

'Not quite. But I don't care to read just now.'

The silence that followed was broken by Monica herself.

'Have you accepted Mrs. Luke's invitation to dinner?' she asked.

'I have declined it,' was the reply, carelessly given.

Monica bit her lip.

'But why?'

'Surely we needn't discuss that over again, Monica.'

His eyes were still on the book, and he stirred impatiently.

'But,' urged his wife, 'do you mean to break with her altogether? If so, I think it's very unwise, Edmund. What an opinion you must have of me, if you think I can't see people's faults! I know it's very true, all you say about her. But she wishes to be kind to us, I'm sure--and I like to see something of a life so different from our own.'

Widdowson drummed on the floor with his foot. In a few moments, ignoring Monica's remarks, he stroked his beard, and asked, with a show of casual interest--

'How was it you knew that Mr. Barfoot?'

'I had met him before--when I went there on the Sat.u.r.day.'

Widdowson's eyes fell; his brow was wrinkled.

'He's often there, then?'

'I don't know. Perhaps he is. He's Miss Barfoot's cousin, you know.'

'You haven't seen him more than once before?'

'No. Why do you ask?'

'Oh, it was only that he seemed to speak as if you were old acquaintances.'

'That's his way, I suppose.'

Monica had already learnt that the jealousy which Widdowson so often betrayed before their manage still lurked in his mind. Perceiving why he put these questions, she could not look entirely unconcerned, and the sense of his eye being upon her caused her some annoyance.

'You talked to him, didn't you?' she said, changing her position in the deep chair.

'Oh, the kind of talk that is possible with a perfect stranger. I suppose he is in some profession?'

'I really don't know. Why, Edmund? Does he interest you?'

'Only that one likes to know something about the people that are introduced to one's wife,' Widdowson answered rather acridly.

Their bedtime was half-past ten. Precisely at that moment Widdowson closed his book--glad to be relieved from the pretence of reading--and walked over the lower part of the house to see that all was right. He had a pa.s.sion for routine. Every night, before going upstairs, he did a number of little things in unvarying sequence--changed the calendar for next day, made perfect order on his writing-table, wound lip his watch, and so on. That Monica could not direct her habits with like exact.i.tude was frequently a distress to him; if she chanced to forget any most trivial detail of daily custom he looked very solemn, and begged her to be more vigilant.

Next morning after breakfast, as Monica stood by the dining-room window and looked rather cheerlessly at a leaden sky, her husband came towards her as if he had something to say. She turned, and saw that his face no longer wore the austere expression which had made her miserable last night, and even during the meal this morning.

'Are we friends?' he said, with the attempt at playfulness which always made him look particularly awkward.

'Of course we are,' Monica answered, smiling, but not regarding him.

'Didn't he behave gruffly last night to his little girl?'

'Just a little.'

'And what can the old bear do to show that he's sorry?'

'Never be gruff again.'

'The old bear is sometimes an old goose as well, and torments himself in the silliest way. Tell him so, if ever he begins to behave badly.

Isn't it account-book morning?'

'Yes. I'll come to you at eleven.'

'And if we have a nice, quiet, comfortable week, I'll take you to the Crystal Palace concert next Sat.u.r.day.'

Monica nodded cheerfully, and went off to look after her housekeeping.

The week was in all respects what Widdowson desired. Not a soul came to the house; Monica went to see no one. Save on two days, it rained, sleeted, drizzled, fogged; on those two afternoons they had an hour's walk. Sat.u.r.day brought no improvement of the atmosphere, but Widdowson was in his happiest mood; he cheerfully kept his promise about the concert. As they sat together at night, his contentment overflowed in tenderness like that of the first days of marriage.

'Now, why can't we always live like this? What have we to do with other people? Let us be everything to each other, and forget that any one else exists.'

'I can't help thinking that's a mistake,' Monica ventured to reply.

'For one thing, if we saw more people, we should have so much more to talk about when we are alone.'

'It's better to talk about ourselves. I shouldn't care if I never again saw any living creature but you. You see, the old bear loves his little girl better than she loves him.'

Monica was silent.

'Isn't it true? You don't feel that my company would be enough for you?'

'Would it be right if I ceased to care for every one else? There are my sisters. I ought to have asked Virginia to come to-morrow; I'm sure she thinks I neglect her, and it must be dreadful living all alone like she does.'