The Odd Women Part 75

'Oh, she was very, very distant,' lamented Virginia. 'I don't quite know why she sent for me. She said there would be no use in her coming to see you--and I don't think she ever will. I told her that there was no truth in--'

'But how did she look?' asked Monica impatiently.

'Not at all well, I thought. She had been away for her holiday, but it doesn't seem to have done her much good.'

'He went there and told them everything?'

'Yes--just after it happened. But he hasn't seen them since that. I could see they believed him. It was no use all that I said. She looked so stern and--'

'Did you ask anything about Mr. Barfoot?'

'My dear, I didn't venture to. It was impossible. But I feel quite sure that they must have broken off all intercourse with him. Whatever he may have said, they evidently didn't believe it. Miss Barfoot is away now.

'And what did you tell her about me?'

'Everything that you said I might, dear.'

'Nothing else--you are sure?'

Virginia coloured, but made a.s.severation that nothing else had pa.s.sed her lips.

'It wouldn't have mattered if you had,' said Monica indifferently. 'I don't care.'

The sister, struggling with shame, was irritated by the needlessness of her falsehood.

'Then why were you so particular to forbid me, Monica?'

'It was better--but I don't care. I don't care for anything. Let them believe and say what they like--'

'Monica, if I find out at last that you have deceived me--'

'Oh, do, do, do be quiet!' cried the other wretchedly. 'I shall go somewhere and live alone--or die alone. You worry me--I'm tired of it.'

'You are not very grateful, Monica.'

'I can't be grateful! You must expect nothing from me. If you keep talking and questioning I shall go away. I don't care what becomes of me. The sooner I die the better.'

Scenes such as this had been frequent lately. The sisters were a great trial to each other's nerves. Tedium and pain drove Monica to the relief of altercation, and Virginia, through her secret vice, was losing all self-control. They wrangled, wailed, talked of parting, and only became quiet when their emotions had exhausted them. Yet no ill-feeling resulted from these disputes. Virginia had a rooted faith in her sister's innocence; when angry, she only tried to provoke Monica into a full explanation of the mystery, so insoluble by unaided conjecture. And Monica, say what she might, repaid this confidence with profound grat.i.tude. Strangely, she had come to view herself as not only innocent of the specific charge brought against her, but as a woman in every sense maligned. So utterly void of significance, from her present point of view, was all that had pa.s.sed between her and Bevis. One reason for this lay in the circ.u.mstance that, when exchanging declarations with her lover, she was ignorant of a fact which, had she known it, would have made their meetings impossible. Her husband she could never regard but as a cruel enemy; none the less, nature had set a seal upon their marriage against which the revolt of her heart was powerless. If she lived to bear a child, that child would be his.

Widdowson, when he heard of her condition, would declare it the final proof of infidelity; and this injustice it was that exclusively occupied her mind. On this account she could think only of the accusation which connected her name with Barfoot's--all else was triviality. Had there been no slightest ground for imputation upon her conduct, she could not have resented more vigorously her husband's refusal to acquit her of dishonour.

On the following day, after their early dinner, Monica unexpectedly declared that she must go out.

'Come with me. We'll go into the town.'

'But you refused to go out this morning when it was fine,' complained Virginia. 'And now you can see it will rain.'

'Then I shall go alone.'

The sister at once started up.

'No, no; I'm quite ready. Where do you wish--'

'Anywhere out of this dead place. We'll go by train, and walk from Victoria--anywhere. To the Abbey, if you like.'

'You must be very careful not to catch cold. After all this time that you haven't left the house--'

Monica cut short the admonition and dressed herself with feverish impatience. As they set forth, drops of rain had begun to fall, but Monica would not hear of waiting. The journey by train made her nervous, but affected her spirits favourably. At Victoria it rained so heavily that they could not go out into the street.

'It doesn't matter. There's plenty to see here. Let us walk about and look at things. We'll buy something at the bookstall to take back.'

As they turned again towards the platform, Monica was confronted by a face which she at once recognized, though it had changed noticeably in the eighteen months since she last saw it. The person was Miss Eade, her old acquaintance at the shop. But the girl no longer dressed as in those days; cheap finery of the 'loudest' description arrayed her form, and it needed little scrutiny to perceive that her thin cheeks were artificially reddened. The surprise of the meeting was not Monica's only reason for evincing embarra.s.sment. Seeing that Miss Eade was uncertain whether to make a sign of acquaintance, she felt it would be wiser to go by. But this was not permitted. As they were pa.s.sing each other the girl bent her head and whispered--

'I want to speak to you--just a minute.'

Virginia perceived the communication, and looked in surprise at her sister.

'It's one of the girls from Walworth Road,' said Monica. 'Just walk on; I'll meet you at the bookstall.'

'But, my dear, she doesn't look respectable--'

'Go on; I won't be a minute.'

Monica motioned to Miss Eade, who followed her towards a more retired spot.

'You have left the shop?'

'Left--I should think so. Nearly a year ago. I told you I shouldn't stand it much longer. Are you married?'

'Yes.'

Monica did not understand why the girl should eye her so suspiciously.

'You are?' said Miss Eade. 'n.o.body that I know, I suppose?'

'Quite a stranger to you.'

The other made an unpleasant click with her tongue, and looked vaguely about her. Then she remarked inconsequently that she was waiting the arrival of her brother by train.

'He's a traveller for a West-end shop; makes five hundred a year. I keep house for him, because of course he's a widower.'

The 'of course' puzzled Monica for a moment, but she remembered that it was an unmeaning expletive much used by people of Miss Eade's education. However, the story did not win her credence; by this time her disagreeable surmises had too much support.

'Was there anything you wished particularly to speak about?'

'You haven't seen nothing of Mr. Bullivant?'

To what a remote period of her life this name seemed to recall Monica!

She glanced quickly at the speaker, and again detected suspicion in her eyes.