The Odd Women Part 43

'Am I never to advise?' asked her husband, baffled, and even awed, by this extraordinary revelation of a woman he had supposed himself to know thoroughly.

'Oh, that's a very different thing from forbidding and commanding!' she laughed. 'There was that novel this morning. Of course I know as well as you do that "Guy Mannering" is better; but that doesn't say I am not to form my opinion of other books. You mustn't be afraid to leave me the same freedom you have yourself.'

The result of it all was that Widdowson felt his pa.s.sionate love glow with new fire. For a moment he thought himself capable of accepting this change in their relations. The marvellous thought of equality between man and wife, that gospel which in far-off days will refashion the world, for an instant smote his imagination and exalted him above his native level.

Monica paid for the energy she had put forth by a day of suffering. Her head ached intolerably; she had feverish symptoms, and could hardly raise herself from the bed. It pa.s.sed, and she was once more eager to go forth under the blue sky that followed the tempest.

'Will you go with me to Mrs. Cosgrove's this evening?' she asked of her husband.

He consented, and after dinner they sought the hotel where their acquaintance was staying. Widdowson was in extreme discomfort, partly due to the fact that he had no dress clothes to put on; for far from antic.i.p.ating or desiring any such intercourse in Guernsey, he had never thought of packing an evening suit. Had he known Mrs. Cosgrave this uneasiness would have been spared him. That lady was in revolt against far graver inst.i.tutions than the swallow-tail; she cared not a b.u.t.ton in what garb her visitors came to her. On their arrival, they found, to Widdowson's horror, a room full of women. With the hostess was that younger lady they had seen on the quay, Mrs. Cosgrove's unmarried sister; Miss Knott's health had demanded this retreat from the London winter. The guests were four--a Mrs. Bevis and her three daughters--all invalidish persons, the mother somewhat lackadaisical, the girls with a look of unwilling spinsterhood.

Monica, noteworthy among the gathering for her sweet, bright prettiness, and the finish of her dress, soon made herself at home; she chatted gaily with the girls--wondering indeed at her own air of maturity, which came to her for the first time. Mrs. Cosgrove, an easy woman of the world when circ.u.mstances required it, did her best to get something out of Widdowson who presently thawed a little.

Then Miss Knott sat down to the piano, and played more than tolerably well; and the youngest Miss Bevis sang a song of Schubert, with pa.s.sable voice but in very distressing German--the sole person distressed by it being the hostess.

Meanwhile Monica had been captured by Mrs. Bevis, who discoursed to her on a subject painfully familiar to all the old lady's friends.

'Do you know my son, Mrs. Widdowson? Oh, I thought you had perhaps met him. You will do so this evening, I hope. He is over here on a fortnight's holiday.'

'Do you live in Guernsey?' Monica inquired.

'_I_ practically live here, and one of my daughters is always with me.

The other two live with their brother in a flat in Bayswater. Do you care for flats, Mrs. Widdowson?'

Monica could only say that she had no experience of that inst.i.tution.

'I do think them such a boon,' pursued Mrs. Bevis. 'They are expensive but the advantages and comforts are so many. My son wouldn't on any consideration give up his flat. As I was saying, he always has two of his sisters to keep house for him. He is quite a young man, not yet thirty, but--would you believe it?--we are all dependent upon him! My son has supported the _whole_ of the family for the last six or seven years, and that by his own work. It sounds incredible, doesn't it? But for him we should be quite unable to live. The dear girls have very delicate health; simply impossible for them to exert themselves in any way. My son has made extraordinary sacrifices on our account. His desire was to be a professional musician, and every one thinks he would have become eminent; myself, I am convinced of it--perhaps that is only natural. But when our circ.u.mstances began to grow very doubtful, and we really didn't know what was before us, my son consented to follow a business career--that of wine merchant, with which his father was connected. And he exerted himself so n.o.bly, and gave proof of such ability, that very soon all our fears were at an end; and now, before he is thirty, his position is quite a.s.sured. We have no longer a care.

I live here very economically--really sweet lodgings on the road to St.

Martin's; I _do_ hope you will come and see me. And the girls go backwards and forwards. You see we are _all_ here at present. When my son returns to London he will take the eldest and the youngest with him. The middle girl, dear Grace--she is thought very clever in water-colours, and I am quite sure, if it were necessary, she could pursue the arts in a professional spirit.'

Mr. Bevis entered the room, and Monica recognized the sprightly young man whom she had seen on the quay. The hostess presented him to her new friends, and he got into talk with Widdowson. Requested to make music for the company, he sang a gay little piece, which, to Monica at all events, seemed one of the most delightful things she had ever heard.

'His own composition,' whispered Miss Grace Bevis, then sitting by Mrs.

Widdowson.

That increased her delight. Foolish as Mrs. Bevis undoubtedly was, she perchance had not praised her son beyond his merits. He looked the best of good fellows; so kind and merry and spirited; such a capable man, too. It struck Monica as a very hard fate that he should have this family on his hands. What they must cost him! Probably he could not think of marrying, just on their account.

Mr. Bevis came and took a place by her side.

'Thank you so very much,' she said, 'for that charming song. Is it published?'

'Oh dear, no!' He laughed and shook his thick hair about. 'It's one of two or three that I somehow struck out when I was studying in Germany, ages ago. You play, I hope?'

Monica gave a sad negative.

'Oh, what does it matter? There are hosts of people who will always be overjoyed to play when you ask them. It would be a capital thing if only those children were allowed to learn an instrument who showed genuine talent for music.'

'In that case,' said Monica, 'there certainly wouldn't be hosts of people ready to play for me.'

'No.' His merry laugh was repeated. 'You mustn't mind when I contradict myself; it's one of my habits. Are you here for the whole winter?'

'Only a few weeks, unfortunately.'

'And do you dread the voyage back?'

'To tell the truth, I do. I had a very unpleasant time coming.'

'As for myself, how I ever undertake the thing I really don't know. One of these times I shall die; there's not a shadow of doubt of that. The girls always have to carry me ash.o.r.e, one holding me by the hair and one by the boots. Happily, I am so emanc.i.p.ated that my weight doesn't distress them. I pick up flesh in a day or two, and then my health is stupendous--as at present. You see how marvellously _fit_ I look.'

'Yes, you look very well,' replied Monica, glancing at the fair, comely face.

'It's deceptive. All our family have wretched const.i.tutions. If I go to work regularly for a couple of months without a holiday, I sink into absolute decrepitude. An office-chair has been specially made for me, to hold me up at the desk.--I beg your pardon for this clowning, Mrs.

Widdowson,' he suddenly added in another voice. 'The air puts me in such spirits. What air it is! Speaking quite seriously, my mother was saved by coming to live here. We believed her to be dying, and now I have hopes that she will live ever so many years longer.'

He spoke of his mother with evident affection, glancing kindly towards her with his blue eyes.

Only once or twice had Monica ventured to exchange a glance with her husband. It satisfied her that he managed to converse; what his mood really was could not be determined until afterwards. When they were about to leave she saw him, to her surprise, speaking quite pleasantly with Mr. Bevis. A carriage was procured to convey them home, and as soon as they had started, Monica asked her husband, with a merry look, how he had enjoyed himself.

'There is not much harm in it,' he replied dryly.

'Harm? How like you, Edmund, to put it that way! Now confess you will be glad to go again.'

'I shall go if you wish.'

'Unsatisfactory man! You can't bring yourself to admit that it was pleasant to be among new people. I believe, in your heart, you think all enjoyment is wrong. The music was nice, wasn't it?'

'I didn't think much of the girl's singing, but that fellow Bevis wasn't bad.'

Monica examined him as he spoke, and seemed to suppress a laugh.

'No, he wasn't at all bad. I saw you talking with Mrs. Bevis. Did she tell you anything about her wonderful son?'

'Nothing particular.'

'Oh, then I must tell you the whole story.'

And she did so, in a tone half of jest, half of serious approval.

'I don't see that he has done anything more than his duty,' remarked Widdowson at the end. 'But he isn't a bad fellow.'

For private reasons, Monica contrasted this att.i.tude towards Bevis with the disfavour her husband had shown to Mr. Barfoot, and was secretly much amused.

Two or three days after they went to spend the morning at Pet.i.t Bot Bay, and there encountered with Bevis and his three sisters. The result was an invitation to go back and have lunch at Mrs. Bevis's lodgings; they accepted it, and remained with their acquaintances till dusk. The young man's holiday was at an end; next morning he would face the voyage which he had depicted so grotesquely.

'And alone!' he lamented to Monica. 'Only think of it. The girls are all rather below par just now; they had better stay here for the present.'

'And in London you will be alone too?'