The Odd Women Part 50

Their eyes met. Barfoot bent forward from his place opposite Monica.

'To me the most interesting of all faces,' he said softly.

His companion blushed with surprise and pleasure.

'Does it seem strange to you, Mrs. Widdowson?'

'Oh--why? Not at all.'

All at once she had brightened astonishingly. This subject was not pursued, but for the rest of the time they talked with a new appearance of mutual confidence and interest, Monica retaining her pretty, half-bashful smile. And when Barfoot alighted at Bayswater they shook hands with an especial friendliness, both seeming to suggest a wish that they might soon meet again.

They did so not later than the following Monday. Remembering what Mrs.

Widdowson had said of her intention to visit Burlington House, Barfoot went there in the afternoon. If he chanced to encounter the pretty little woman it would not be disagreeable. Perhaps her husband might be with her, and in that case he could judge of the terms on which they stood. A surly fellow, Widdowson; very likely to play the tyrant, he thought. If he were not mistaken, she had wearied of him and regretted her bondage--the old story. Thinking thus, and strolling through the rooms with casual glances at a picture, he discovered his acquaintance, catalogue in hand, alone for the present. Her pensive face again answered to his smile. They drew back from the pictures and sat down.

'I dined with our friends at Chelsea on Sat.u.r.day evening,' said Barfoot.

'On Sat.u.r.day? You didn't tell me you were going back again.'

'I wasn't thinking of it just at the time.'

Monica hinted an amused surprise.

'You see,' he went on, 'I expected nothing, and happy for me that it was so. Miss Nunn was in her severest mood; I think she didn't smile once through the evening. I will confess to you I wrote her a letter whilst I was abroad, and it offended her, I suppose.'

'I don't think you can always judge of her thoughts by her face.'

'Perhaps not. But I have studied her face so often and so closely. For all that, she is more a mystery to me than any woman I have ever known.

That, of course, is partly the reason of her power over me. I feel that if ever--if ever she should disclose herself to me, it would be the strangest revelation. Every woman wears a mask, except to one man; but Rhoda's--Miss Nunn's--is, I fancy, a far completer disguise than I ever tried to pierce.'

Monica had a sense of something perilous in this conversation. It arose from a secret trouble in her own heart, which she might, involuntarily, be led to betray. She had never talked thus confidentially with any man; not, in truth, with her husband. There was no fear whatever of her conceiving an undue interest in Barfoot; certain reasons a.s.sured her of that; but talk that was at all sentimental gravely threatened her peace--what little remained to her. It would have been better to discourage this man's confidences; yet they flattered her so pleasantly, and afforded such a fruitful subject for speculation, that she could not obey the prompting of prudence.

'Do you mean,' she said, 'that Miss Nunn seems to disguise her feelings?'

'It is supposed to be wrong--isn't it?--for a man to ask one woman her opinion of another.'

'I can't be treacherous if I wished,' Monica replied. 'I don't feel that I understand her.'

Barfoot wondered how much intelligence he might attribute to Mrs.

Widdowson. Obviously her level was much below that of Rhoda. Yet she seemed to possess delicate sensibilities, and a refinement of thought not often met with in women of her position. Seriously desiring her aid, he looked at her with a grave smile, and asked,--

'Do you believe her capable of falling in love?'

Monica showed a painful confusion. She overcame it, however, and soon answered.

'She would perhaps try not--not to acknowledge it to herself.'

'When, in fact, it had happened?'

'She thinks it so much n.o.bler to disregard such feelings.'

'I know. She is to be an inspiring example to the women who cannot hope to marry.' He laughed silently. 'And I suppose it is quite possible that mere shame would withhold her from taking the opposite course.'

'I think she is very strong. But--'

'But?'

He looked eagerly into her face.

'I can't tell. I don't really know her. A woman may be as much a mystery to another woman as she is to a man.'

'On the whole, I am glad to hear you say that. I believe it. It is only the vulgar that hold a different opinion.'

'Shall we look at the pictures, Mr. Barfoot?'

'Oh, I am so sorry. I have been wasting your time--'

Nervously disclaiming any such thought, Monica, rose and drew near to the canvases. They walked on together for some ten minutes, until Barfoot, who had turned to look at a pa.s.sing figure, said in his ordinary voice--

'I think that is Mr. Widdowson on the other side of the room.'

Monica looked quickly round, and saw her husband, as if occupied with the pictures, glancing in her direction.

CHAPTER XIX

THE CLANK OF THE CHAINS

Since Sat.u.r.day evening Monica and her husband had not been on speaking terms. A visit she paid to Mildred Vesper, after her call at Miss Barfoot's, prolonged itself so that she did not reach home until the dinner-hour was long past. On arriving, she was met with an outburst of tremendous wrath, to which she opposed a resolute and haughty silence; and since then the two had kept as much apart as possible.

Widdowson knew that Monica was going to the Academy. He allowed her to set forth alone, and even tried to persuade himself that he was indifferent as to the hour of her return; but she had not long been gone before he followed. Insufferable misery possessed him. His married life threatened to terminate in utter wreck, and he had the anguish of recognizing that to a great extent this catastrophe would be his own fault. Resolve as he might, he found it impossible to repress the impulses of jealousy which, as soon as peace had been declared between them, brought about a new misunderstanding. Terrible thoughts smouldered in his mind; he felt himself to be one of those men who are driven by pa.s.sion into crime. Deliberately he had brooded over a tragic close to the wretchedness of his existence; he would kill himself, and Monica should perish with him. But an hour of contentment sufficed to banish such visions as sheer frenzy. He saw once more how harmless, how natural, were Monica's demands, and how peacefully he might live with her but for the curse of suspicion from which he could not free himself. Any other man would deem her a model wifely virtue. Her care of the house was all that reason could desire. In her behaviour he had never detected the slightest impropriety. He believed her chaste as any woman living She asked only to be trusted, and that, in spite of all, was beyond his power.

In no woman on earth could he have put perfect confidence. He regarded them as born to perpetual pupilage. Not that their inclinations were necessarily wanton; they were simply incapable of attaining maturity, remained throughout their life imperfect beings, at the mercy of craft, ever liable to be misled by childish misconceptions. Of course he was right; he himself represented the guardian male, the wife-proprietor, who from the dawn of civilization has taken abundant care that woman shall not outgrow her nonage. The bitterness of his situation lay in the fact that he had wedded a woman who irresistibly proved to him her claims as a human being. Reason and tradition contended in him, to his ceaseless torment.

And again, he feared that Monica did not love him. Had she ever loved him? There was too much ground for suspecting that she had only yielded to the persistence of his entreaties, with just liking enough to permit a semblance of tenderness, and glad to exchange her prospect of distasteful work for a comfortable married life. Her liking he might have fostered; during those first happy weeks, a.s.suredly he had done so, for no woman could be insensible to the pa.s.sionate worship manifest in his every look, his every word. Later, he took the wrong path, seeking to oppose her instincts, to reform her mind, eventually to become her lord and master. Could he not even now retrace his steps?

Supposing her incapable of bowing before him, of kissing his feet, could he not be content to make of her a loyal friend, a delightful companion?

In that mood he hastened towards Burlington House. Seeking Monica through the galleries, he saw her at length--sitting side by side with that man Barfoot. They were in closest colloquy. Barfoot bent towards her as if speaking in an undertone, a smile on his face. Monica looked at once pleased and troubled.

The blood boiled in his veins. His first impulse was to walk straight up to Monica and bid her follow him. But the ecstasy of jealous suffering kept him an observer. He watched the pair until he was descried.

There was no help for it. Though his brain whirled, and his flesh was stabbed, he had no choice but to take the hand Barfoot offered him.

Smile he could not, nor speak a word.

'So you have come after all?' Monica was saying to him.