The Odd Women Part 70

The queerest affair--and maddening in its issues! Rhoda was raging with jealousy. Well, he too would rage. And without affectation. It was strange that he felt almost glad of a ground of quarrel with Rhoda. All day he had been in an irritable temper, and so far as he could understand himself it was due to resentment of his last night's defeat.

He though of Rhoda as ardently as ever, but an element that was very like brutality had intruded into his emotions; that was his reason from refraining from caresses this morning; he could not trust himself.

He would endure no absurdities. If Rhoda did not choose to accept his simple a.s.surance--let her take the consequences. Even now, perhaps, he would bring her to her knees before him. Let her wrong him by baseless accusation! Then it would no longer be _he_ who sued for favour. He would whistle her down the wind, and await her penitent reappearance.

Sooner or later his pride and hers, the obstinacy in their natures, must battle it out; better that it should be now, before the irrevocable step had been taken.

He ate his dinner with savage appet.i.te, and drank a good deal more wine than of wont. Then he smoked until the last minute of delay that his engagement allowed. Of course she had sent the letter to the hotel because he might be unable to read it in twilight. Wise precaution. And he was glad to have been able to think the matter over, to work himself into reasonable wrath. If ever man did well to be angry--!

There she was, down by the edge of the waves. She would not turn to see if he were coming; he felt sure of that. Whether she heard his footsteps he could not tell. When quite close to her, he exclaimed,--

'Well, Rhoda?' She must have known of his approach, for she gave no start.

She faced slowly to him. No trace of tears on her countenance; no, Rhoda was above that. Gravity of the sternest--that was all.

'Well,' he continued, 'what have you to say to me?'

'I? Nothing.'

'You mean that it is my business to explain what Mary has told you. I can't, so there's an end of it.'

'What do you mean by that?' she asked in clear, distant tones.

'Precisely what I say, Rhoda. And I am obliged to ask what _you_ mean by this odd way of speaking to me. What has happened since we parted this morning?'

Rhoda could not suppress her astonishment; she gazed fixedly at him.

'If you can't explain this letter, who can?'

'I suppose Mrs. Widdowson would be able to account for her doings. I certainly am not able to. And it seems to me that you are strangely forgetful of something that pa.s.sed between us yesterday.'

'Of what?' she asked coldly, her face, which was held proudly up, turning towards the sea.

'Evidently you accuse me of concealing something from you. Please to remember a certain plain question you asked me, and the equally plain answer I gave.'

He detected the beginning of a smile about her rigid lips.

'I remember,' she said.

'And you can still behave to me with indignation? Surely the indignation should be on my side. You are telling me that I deceived you.'

For a moment Rhoda lost her self-control.

'How can I help thinking so?' she exclaimed, with a gesture of misery.

'What can this letter mean? Why should she go to your rooms?'

'I simply don't know, Rhoda.'

He preserved the show of calmness just because he saw that it provoked her to anger.

'She has never been there before?'

'Never to my knowledge.'

Rhoda watched his face with greedy attention. She seemed to find there a confirmation of her doubts. Indeed, it was impossible for her to credit his denials after what she had observed in London, and the circ.u.mstances which, even before Mary's letter, had made her suspicious.

'When did you last see Mrs. Widdowson?'

'No, I shan't consent to be cross-examined,' replied Everard, with a disdainful smile. 'As soon as you refuse to accept my word it's folly to ask further questions. You don't believe me. Say it honestly and let us understand each other.'

'I have good reason for thinking that you could explain Mrs.

Widdowson's behaviour if you chose.'

'Exactly. There's no misunderstanding _that_. And if I get angry I am an unpardonable brute. Come now, you can't be offended if I treat you as simply my equal, Rhoda. Let me test your sincerity. Suppose I had seen you talking somewhere with some man who seemed to interest you very much, and then--to-day, let us say--I heard that he had called upon you when you were alone. I turn with a savage face and accuse you of grossly deceiving me--in the worst sense. What would your answer be?'

'These are idle suppositions,' she exclaimed scornfully.

'But the case is possible, you must admit. I want you to realize what I am feeling. In such a case as that, you could only turn from me with contempt. How else can I behave to _you_--conscious of my innocence, yet in the nature of things unable to prove it?'

'Appearances are very strongly against you.'

'That's an accident--to me quite unaccountable. If I charged you with dishonour you would only have your word to offer in reply. So it is with me. And my word is bluntly rejected. You try me rather severely.'

Rhoda kept silence.

'I know what you are thinking. My character was previously none of the best. There is a prejudice against me in such a matter for your good.

My record is not immaculate; nor, I believe, is any as this. Well, you shall hear some more plain speech, altogether man's. I have gone here and there, and have had my adventures like other men. One of them you have heard about--the story of that girl Amy Drake--the subject of Mrs.

Goodall's righteous wrath. You shall know the truth, and if it offends your ears I can't help it. The girl simply threw herself into my arms, on a railway journey, when we met by pure chance.'

'I don't care to hear that,' said Rhoda, turning away.

'But you _shall_ hear it. That story has predisposed you to believe the worst things of me. If I hold you by force, you shall hear every word of it. Mary seems to have given you mere dark hints--'

'No; she has told me the details. I know it all.'

'From their point of view. Very well; that saves me a lot of narrative.

What those good people didn't understand was the girl's character. They thought her a helpless innocent; she was a--I'll spare you the word.

She simply planned to get me into her power--thought I should be forced to marry her. It's the kind of thing that happens far oftener than you would suppose; that's the reason why men so often smile in what you would call a brutal way when certain stories are told to other men's discredit. You will have to take this into account, Rhoda, before you reach satisfactory results on the questions that have occupied you so much. I was not in the least responsible for Amy Drake's desertion of creditable paths. At the worst I behaved foolishly; and knowing I had done so, knowing how thankless it was to try and clear myself at her expense, I let people say what they would; it didn't matter. And you don't believe me; I can see you don't. s.e.xual pride won't let you believe me. In such a case the man must necessarily be the villain.'

'What you mean by saying you only behaved "foolishly," I can't understand.'

'Perhaps not, and I can't explain as I once did in telling the story to a man, a friend of mine. But however strict your moral ideas, you will admit that a girl of thoroughly bad character isn't a subject for the outcry that was raised about Miss Amy Drake. By taking a little trouble I could have brought things to light which would have given worthy Mrs.

Goodall and cousin Mary a great shock. Well, that's enough. I have never pretended to sanct.i.ty; but, on the other hand, I have never behaved like a scoundrel. You charge me, deliberately, with being a scoundrel, and I defend myself as best I can. You argue that the man who would mislead an innocent girl and then cast her off is more likely than not to be guilty in a case like this of Mrs. Widdowson, when appearances are decidedly against him. There is only my word in each instance. The question is--Will you accept my word?'

For a wonder, their privacy was threatened by the approach of two men who were walking this way from Seascale. Voices in conversation caused Rhoda to look round; Barfoot had already observed the strangers.

'Let us go up on to the higher sand,' he said.

Without reply Rhoda accompanied him, and for several minutes they exchanged no word. The men, talking and laughing loudly, went by; they seemed to be tourists of a kind that do not often trouble this quiet spot on the coast; their cigars glowed in the dusk.

'After all this, what have you to say to me, Rhoda?'