The Odd Women Part 48

'I suspected it. I felt sure it was coming. He asked you to marry him?'

'No, he didn't,' replied Rhoda in purposely ambiguous phrase.

'You wouldn't allow him to?'

'At all events, it didn't come to that. I should be glad if you would let me know what I asked.'

Miss Barfoot deliberated, but finally told the story of Amy Drake. Her hands supporting one knee, her head bent, Rhoda listened without comment, and, to judge from her features, without any emotion of any kind.

'That,' said her friend at the close, 'is the story as it was understood at the time--disgraceful to him in every particular. He knew what was said of him, and offered not a word of contradiction. But not very long ago he asked me one evening if you had been informed of this scandal. I told him that you knew he had done something which I thought very base. Everard was hurt, and thereupon he declared that neither I nor any other of his acquaintances knew the truth--that he had been maligned. He refused to say more, and what am I to believe?'

Rhoda was listening with livelier attention.

'He declared that he wasn't to blame?'

'I suppose he meant that. But it is difficult to see--'

'Of course the truth can never be known,' said Rhoda, with sudden indifference. 'And it doesn't matter. Thank you for satisfying my curiosity.'

Miss Barfoot waited a moment, then laughed.

'Some day, Rhoda, you shall satisfy mine.'

'Yes--if we live long enough.'

What degree of blame might have attached to Barfoot, Rhoda did not care to ask herself; she thought no more of the story. Of course there must have been other such incidents in his career; morally he was neither better nor worse than men in general. She viewed with contempt the women who furnished such opportunities; in her judgment of the male offenders she was more lenient, more philosophical, than formerly.

She had gained her wish, had enjoyed her triumph. A raising of the finger and Everard Barfoot would marry her. a.s.sured of that, she felt a new contentment in life; at times when she was occupied with things as far as possible from this experience, a rush of joy would suddenly fill her heart, and make her cheek glow. She moved among people with a conscious dignity quite unlike that which had only satisfied her need of distinction. She spoke more softly, exercised more patience, smiled where she had been wont to scoff. Miss Nunn was altogether a more amiable person.

Yet, she convinced herself, essentially quite unchanged. She pursued the aim of her life with less bitterness, in a larger spirit, that was all. But pursued it, and without fear of being diverted from the generous path.

CHAPTER XVIII

A REINFORCEMENT

Throughout January, Barfoot was endeavouring to persuade his brother Tom to leave London, where the invalid's health perceptibly grew worse.

Doctors were urgent to the same end, but ineffectually; for Mrs.

Thomas, though she professed to be amazed at her husband's folly in remaining where he could not hope for recovery, herself refused to accompany him any whither. This pair had no children. The lady always spoke of herself as a sad sufferer from mysterious infirmities, and had, in fact, a tendency to hysteria, which confused itself inextricably with the results of evil nurture and the impulses of a disposition originally base; nevertheless she made a figure in a certain sphere of vulgar wealth, and even gave opportunity to scandalous tongues. Her husband, whatever his secret thought, would hear nothing against her; his temper, like Everard's, was marked with stubbornness, and after a good deal of wrangling he forbade his brother to address him again on the subject of their disagreement.

'Tom is dying,' wrote Everard, early in February, to his cousin in Queen's Road. 'Dr. Swain a.s.sures me that unless he be removed he cannot last more than a month or two. This morning I saw the woman'--it was thus he always referred to his sister-in-law--'and talked to her in what was probably the plainest language she ever had the privilege of hearing. It was a tremendous scene, brought to a close only by her flinging herself on the sofa with shrieks which terrified the whole household. My idea is that we must carry the poor fellow away by force.

His infatuation makes me rage and curse, but I am bent on trying to save his life. Will you come and give your help?'

A week later they succeeded in carrying the invalid back to Torquay.

Mrs. Barfoot had abandoned him to his doctors, nurses, and angry relatives; she declared herself driven out of the house, and went to live at a fashionable hotel. Everard remained in Devon for more than a month, devoting himself with affection, which the trial of his temper seemed only to increase, to his brother's welfare. Thomas improved a little; once more there was hope. Then on a sudden frantic impulse, after writing fifty letters which elicited no reply, he travelled in pursuit of his wife; and three days after his arrival in London he was dead.

By a will, executed at Torquay, he bequeathed to Everard about a quarter of his wealth. All the rest went to Mrs. Barfoot, who had declared herself too ill to attend the funeral, but in a fortnight was sufficiently recovered to visit one of her friends in the country.

Everard could now count upon an income of not much less than fifteen hundred a year. That his brother's death would enrich him he had always foreseen, but no man could have exerted himself with more ardent energy to postpone that advantage. The widow charged him, wherever she happened to be, with deliberate fratricide; she vilified his reputation, by word of mouth or by letter, to all who knew him, and protested that his furious wrath at not having profited more largely by the will put her in fear of her life. This last remarkable statement was made in a long and violent epistle to Miss Barfoot, which the recipient showed to her cousin on the first opportunity. Everard had called one Sunday morning--it was the end of March--to say good-bye on his departure for a few weeks' travel. Having read the letter, he laughed with a peculiar fierceness.

'This kind of thing,' said Miss Barfoot, 'may necessitate your prosecuting her. There is a limit, you know, even to a woman's licence.'

'I am far more likely,' he replied, 'to purchase a very nice little cane, and give her an exemplary thrashing.'

'Oh! Oh!'

'Upon my word, I see no reason against it! That's how I should deal with a man who talked about me in this way, and none the less if he were a puny creature quite unable to protect himself. In that furious scene before we got Tom away I felt most terribly tempted to beat her.

There's a great deal to be said for woman-beating. I am quite sure that many a labouring man who pommels his wife is doing exactly the right thing; no other measure would have the least result. You see what comes of impunity. If this woman saw the possibility that I should give her a public caning she would be far more careful how she behaved herself.

Let us ask Miss Nunn's opinion.'

Rhoda had that moment entered the room. She offered her hand frankly, and asked what the subject was.

'Glance over this letter,' said Barfoot. 'Oh, you have seen it. I propose to get a light, supple, dandyish cane, and to give Mrs. Thomas Barfoot half a dozen smart cuts across the back in her own drawing-room, some afternoon when people were present. What have you to say to it?'

He spoke with such show of angry seriousness that Rhoda paused before replying.

'I sympathized with you,' she said at length, 'but I don't think I would go to that extremity.'

Everard repeated the argument he had used to his cousin.

'You are quite right,' Rhoda a.s.sented. 'I think many women deserve to be beaten, and ought to be beaten. But public Opinion would be so much against _you_.'

'What do I care? So is public opinion against you.'

'Very well. Do as you like. Miss Barfoot and I will come to the police court and give strong evidence in your favour.'

'Now there's a woman!' exclaimed Everard, not all in jest, for Rhoda's appearance had made his nerves thrill and his pulse beat. 'Look at her, Mary. Do you wonder that I would walk the diameter of the globe to win her love?'

Rhoda flushed scarlet, and Miss Barfoot was much embarra.s.sed. Neither could have antic.i.p.ated such an utterance as this. 'That's the simple truth,' went on Everard recklessly, 'and she knows it, and yet won't listen to me. Well, good-bye to you both! Now that I have so grossly misbehaved myself, she has a good excuse for refusing even to enter the room when I am here. But do speak a word for me whilst I am away, Mary.'

He shook hands with them, scarcely looking at their faces, and abruptly departed.

The women stood for a moments at a distance from each other. Then Miss Barfoot glanced at her friend and laughed.

'Really my poor cousin is not very discreet.'

'Anything but,' Rhoda answered, resting on the back of a chair, her eyes cast down. 'Do you think he will really cane his sister-in-law?'

'How can you ask such a question?'

'It would be amusing. I should think better of him for it.'

'Well, make it a condition. We know the story of the lady and her glove. I can see you sympathize with her.'

Rhoda laughed and went away, leaving Miss Barfoot with the impression that she had revealed a genuine impulse. It seemed not impossible that Rhoda might wish to say to her lover: 'Face this monstrous scandal and I am yours.