The Odd Women Part 81

'Oh, if you could give me some of _your_ strength! I have never been able to look at life as you do. I should never have married him if I hadn't been tempted by the thoughts of living easily--and I feared so--that I might always be alone--My sisters are so miserable; it terrified me to think of struggling on through life as they do--'

'Your mistake was in looking only at the weak women. You had other examples before you--girls like Miss Vesper and Miss Haven, who live bravely and work hard and are proud of their place in the world. But it's idle to talk of the past, and just as foolish to speak as if you were sorrowing without hope. How old are you, Monica?'

'Two-and-twenty.'

'Well, I am two-and-thirty--and I don't call myself old. When you have reached my age I prophesy you will smile at your despair of ten years ago. At your age one talks so readily of "wrecked life" and "hopeless future," and all that kind of thing. My dear girl, you may live to be one of the most contented and most useful women in England. Your life isn't wrecked at all--nonsense! You have gone through a storm, that's true; but more likely than not you will be all the better for it. Don't talk or think about _sins_; simply make up your mind that you won't be beaten by trials and hardships. There cannot--can there?--be the least doubt as to how you ought to live through these next coming months.

Your duty is perfectly clear. Strengthen yourself in body and mind. You _have_ a mind, which is more than can be said of a great many women.

Think bravely and n.o.bly of yourself! Say to yourself: This and that it is in me to do, and I will do it!'

Monica bent suddenly forward and took one of her friend's hands, and clung to it.

'I knew you could say something that would help me. You have a way of speaking. But it isn't only now. I shall be so far away, and so lonely, all through the dark winter. Will you write to me?'

'Gladly. And tell you all we are doing.'

Rhoda's voice sank for a moment; her eyes wandered; but she recovered the air of confidence.

'We seemed to have lost you; but before long you will be one of us again. I mean, you will be one of the women who are fighting in woman's cause. You will prove by your life that we can be responsible human beings--trustworthy, conscious of purpose.'

'Tell me--do you think it right for me to live with my husband when I can't even regard him as a friend?'

'In that I dare not counsel you. If you _can_ think of him as a friend, in time to come, surely it will be better. But here you must guide yourself. You seem to have made a very sensible arrangement, and before long you will see many things more clearly. Try to recover health--health; that is what you need. Drink in the air of the Severn Sea; it will be a cordial to you after this stifling London. Next summer I shall--I hope I shall be at Cheddar, and then I shall come over to Clevedon--and we shall laugh and talk as if we had never known a care.'

'Ah, if that time were come! But you have done me good. I shall try--'

She rose.

'I mustn't forget,' said Rhoda, without looking at her, 'that I owe you thanks. You have done what you felt was right in spite of all it cost you; and you have very greatly relieved my mind. Of course it is all a secret between us. If I make it understood that a doubt is no longer troubling me I shall never say how it was removed.'

'How I wish I had come before.'

'For your own sake, if I have really helped you, I wish you had. But as for anything else--it is much better as it is.'

And Rhoda stood with erect head, smiling her smile of liberty. Monica did not dare to ask any question. She moved up to her friend, holding out both hands timidly.

'Good-bye!'

'Till next summer.'

They embraced, and kissed each other, Monica, when she had withdrawn her hot lips, again murmuring words of grat.i.tude. Then in silence they went together to the house-door, and in silence parted.

CHAPTER x.x.x

RETREAT WITH HONOUR

Alighting, on his return to London, at the Savoy Hotel, Barfoot insensibly prolonged his stay there. For the present he had no need of a more private dwelling; he could not see more than a few days ahead; his next decisive step was as uncertain as it had been during the first few months after his coming back from the East.

Meantime, he led a sufficiently agreeable life. The Brissendens were not in town, but his growing intimacy with that family had extended his social outlook, and in a direction correspondent with the change in his own circ.u.mstances. He was making friends in the world with which he had a natural affinity; that of wealthy and cultured people who seek no prominence, who shrink from contact with the circles known as 'smart,'

who possess their souls in quiet freedom. It is a small cla.s.s, especially distinguished by the charm of its women. Everard had not adapted himself without difficulty to this new atmosphere; from the first he recognized its soothing and bracing quality, but his experiences had accustomed him to an air more rudely vigorous; it was only after those weeks spent abroad in frequent intercourse with the Brissendens that he came to understand the full extent of his sympathy with the social principles these men and women represented.

In the houses where his welcome was now a.s.sured he met some three of four women among whom it would have been difficult to a.s.sign the precedence for grace of manner and of mind. These persons were not in declared revolt against the order of things, religious, ethical, or social; that is to say, they did not think it worthwhile to identify themselves with any 'movement'; they were content with the unopposed right of liberal criticism. They lived placidly; refraining from much that the larger world enjoined, but never aggressive. Everard admired them with increasing fervour. With one exception they were married, and suitably married; that member of the charming group who kept her maiden freedom was Agnes Brissenden, and it seemed to Barfoot that, if preference were at all justified, Agnes should receive the palm. His view of her had greatly changed since the early days of their acquaintance; in fact, he perceived that till of late he had not known her at all. His quick a.s.sumption that Agnes was at his disposal if he chose to woo her had been mere fatuity; he misread her perfect simplicity of demeanour, the unconstraint of her intellectual sympathies. What might now be her personal att.i.tude to him he felt altogether uncertain, and the result was a genuine humility such as he had never known. Nor was it Agnes only that subdued his masculine self-a.s.sertiveness; her sisters in grace had scarcely less dominion over him; and at times, as he sat conversing in one of these drawing-rooms, he broke off to marvel at himself, to appreciate the perfection of his own suavity, the vast advance he had been making in polished humanism.

Towards the end of November he learnt that the Brissendens were at their town house, and a week later he received an invitation to dine with them.

Over his luncheon at the hotel Everard reflected with some gravity, for, if he were not mistaken, the hour had come when he must make up his mind on a point too long in suspense. What was Rhoda Nunn doing? He had heard nothing whatever of her. His cousin Mary wrote to him, whilst he was at Ostend, in a kind and friendly tone, informing him that his simple a.s.surance with regard to a certain disagreeable matter was all she had desired, and hoping that he would come and see her as usual when he found himself in London. But he had kept away from the house in Queen's Road, and it was probable that Mary did not even know his address. As the result of meditation he went to his sitting-room, and with an air of reluctance sat down to write a letter. It was a request that Mary would let him see her somewhere or other--not at her house.

Couldn't they have a talk at the place in Great Portland Street, when no one else was there?

Miss Barfoot answered with brief a.s.sent. If he liked to come to Great Portland Street at three o'clock on Sat.u.r.day she would be awaiting him.

On arriving, he inspected the rooms with curiosity.

'I have often wished to come here, Mary. Show me over the premises, will you?'

'That was your purpose--?'

'No, not altogether. But you know how your work interests me.'

Mary complied, and freely answered his various questions. Then they sat down on hard chairs by the fire, and Everard, leaning forward as if to warm his hands, lost no more time in coming to the point.

'I want to hear about Miss Nunn.'

'To hear about her? Pray, what do you wish to hear?'

'Is she well?'

'Very well indeed.'

'I'm very glad of that. Does she ever speak of me?'

'Let me see--I don't think she has referred to you lately.'

Everard looked up.

'Don't let us play a comedy, Mary. I want to talk very seriously. Shall I tell you what happened when I went to Seascale?'

'Ah, you went to Seascale, did you?'

'Didn't you know that?' he asked, unable to decide the question from his cousin's face, which was quite friendly, but inscrutable.

'You went when Miss Nunn was there?'

'Of course. You must have known I was going, when I asked you for her Seascale address.'

'And what did happen? I shall be glad to hear--if you feel at liberty to tell me.'