A SOCIAL ADVANCE
A week’s notice to her employers would release Monica from the
engagement in Walworth Road. Such notice must be given on Monday, so
that, if she could at once make up her mind to accept Miss Barfoot’s
offer, the coming week would be her last of slavery behind the counter.
On the way home from Queen’s Road, Alice and Virginia pressed for
immediate decision; they were unable to comprehend how Monica could
hesitate for another moment. The question of her place of abode had
already been discussed. One of Miss Barfoot’s young women, who lived at
a convenient distance from Great Portland Street, would gladly accept a
partner in her lodging—an arrangement to be recommended for its
economy. Yet Monica shrank from speaking the final word.
“I don’t know whether it’s worth while,” she said, after a long
silence, as they drew near to York Road Station, whence they were to
take train for Clapham Junction.
“Not worth while?” exclaimed Virginia. “You don’t think it would be an
improvement?”
“Yes, I suppose it would. I shall see how I feel about it to-morrow
morning.”
She spent the evening at Lavender Hill, but without change in the mood
thus indicated. A strange inquietude appeared in her behaviour. It was
as though she were being urged to undertake something hard and
repugnant.
On her return to Walworth Road, just as she came within sight of the
shop, she observed a man’s figure some twenty yards distant, which
instantly held her attention. The dim gaslight occasioned some
uncertainty, but she believed the figure was that of Widdowson. He was
walking on the other side of the street, and away from her. When the
man was exactly opposite Scotcher’s establishment he gazed in that
direction, but without stopping. Monica hastened, fearing to be seen
and approached. Already she had reached the door, when Widdowson—yes,
he it was—turned abruptly to walk back again. His eye was at once upon
her; but whether he recognized her or not Monica could not know. At
that moment she opened the door and passed in.
A fit of trembling seized her, as if she had barely escaped some peril.
In the passage she stood motionless, listening with the intensity of
dread. She could hear footsteps on the pavement; she expected a ring at
the door-bell. If he were so thoughtless as to come to the door, she
would on no account see him.
But there was no ring, and after a few minutes’ waiting she recovered
her self-command. She had not made a mistake; even his features had
been discernible as he turned towards her. Was this the first time that
he had come to look at the place where she lived—possibly to spy upon
her? She resented this behaviour, yet the feeling was confused with a
certain satisfaction.
From one of the dormitories there was a view of Walworth Road. She ran
upstairs, softly opened the door of that room, and peeped in. The low
burning gas showed her that only one bed had an occupant, who appeared
to be asleep. Softly she went to the window, drew the blind aside, and
looked down into the street. But Widdowson had disappeared. He might of
course be on this side of the way.
“Who’s that?” suddenly asked a voice from the occupied bed.
The speaker was Miss Eade. Monica looked at her, and nodded.
“You? What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see if some one was standing outside.”
“You mean _him_?”
The other nodded.
“I’ve got a beastly headache. I couldn’t hold myself up, and I had to
come home at eight o’clock. There’s such pains all down my back too. I
shan’t stay at this beastly place much longer. I don’t want to get ill,
like Miss Radford. Somebody went to see her at the hospital this
afternoon, and she’s awfully bad. Well, have you seen him?”
“He’s gone. Good-night.”
And Monica left the room.
Next day she notified her intention of leaving her employment. No
questions were asked; she was of no particular importance; fifty, or,
for the matter of that, five score, young women equally capable could
be found to fill her place.
On Tuesday morning there came a letter from Virginia—a few lines
requesting her to meet her sisters, as soon as possible after closing
time that evening, in front of the shop. “We have something _very
delightful_ to tell you. We _do hope_ you gave notice to-day, as things
are getting so bright in every direction.”
At a quarter to ten she was able to run out, and close at hand were the
two eagerly awaiting her.
“Mrs. Darby has found a place for Alice,” began Virginia. “We heard by
the afternoon post yesterday. A lady at Yatton wants a governess for
two young children. Isn’t it fortunate?”
“So delightfully convenient for what we were thinking of,” put in the
eldest, with her croaking voice. “Nothing could have been better.”
“You mean about the school?” said Monica dreamily.
“Yes, the school,” Virginia replied, with trembling earnestness.
“Yatton is convenient both for Clevedon and Weston. Alice will be able
to run over to both places and make enquiries, and ascertain where the
best opening would be.”
Miss Nunn’s suggestion, hitherto but timidly discussed, had taken hold
upon their minds as soon as Alice received the practical call to her
native region. Both were enthusiastic for the undertaking. It afforded
them a novel subject of conversation, and inspirited them by seeming to
restore their self-respect. After all, they might have a mission, a
task in the world. They pictured themselves the heads of a respectable
and thriving establishment, with subordinate teachers, with pleasant
social relations; they felt young again, and capable of indefinite
activity. Why had they not thought of this long ago? and thereupon they
reverted to antistrophic laudation of Rhoda Nunn.
“Is it a good place?” their younger sister inquired.
“Oh, pretty good. Only twelve pounds a year, but nice people, Mrs.
Darby says. They want me at once, and it is very likely that in a few
weeks I shall go with them to the seaside.”
“What _could_ have been better?” cried Virginia. “Her health will be
established, and in half a year, or less, we shall be able to come to a
decision about the great step. Oh, and have you given notice, darling?”
“Yes, I have.”
Both clapped their hands like children. It was an odd little scene on
the London pavement at ten o’clock at night; so intimately domestic
amid surroundings the very antithesis of domesticity. Only a few yards
away, a girl, to whom the pavement was a place of commerce, stood
laughing with two men. The sound of her voice hinted to Monica the
advisability of walking as they conversed, and they moved towards
Walworth Road Station.
“We thought at first,” said Virginia, “that when Alice had gone you
might like to share my room; but then the distance from Great Portland
Street would be a decided objection. I might move, but we doubt whether
that would be worth while. It is so comfortable with Mrs. Conisbee, and
for the short remaining time—Christmas, I should think, would be a
very good time for opening. If it were possible to decide upon dear old
Clevedon, of course we should prefer it; but perhaps Weston will offer
more scope. Alice will weigh all the arguments on the spot. Don’t you
envy her, Monica? Think of being _there_ in this summer weather!”
“Why don’t you go as well?” Monica asked.
“I? And take lodgings, you mean? We never thought of that. But we still
have to consider expenditure very seriously, you know. If possible, I
must find employment for the rest of the year. Remember how very likely
it is that Miss Nunn will have something to suggest for me. And when I
think it will be of so much practical use for me to see her frequently
for a few weeks. Already I have learnt so much from her and from Miss
Barfoot. Their conversation is so encouraging. I feel that it is a
training of the mind to be in contact with them.”
“Yes, I quite share that view,” said Alice, with tremulous earnestness.
“Virginia can reap much profit from intercourse with them. They have
the new ideas in education, and it would be so good if our school began
with the advantage of quite a modern system.”
Monica became silent. When her sisters had talked in the same strain
for a quarter of an hour, she said absently,—
“I wrote to Miss Barfoot last night, so I suppose I shall be able to
move to those lodgings next Sunday.”
It was eleven o’clock before they parted. Having taken leave of her
sisters near the station, Monica turned to walk quickly home. She had
gone about half the way, when her name was spoken just behind her, in
Widdowson’s voice. She stopped, and there stood the man, offering his
hand.
“Why are you here at this time?” she asked in an unsteady voice.
“Not by chance. I had a hope that I might see you.”
He was gloomy, and looked at her searchingly.
“I mustn’t wait to talk now, Mr. Widdowson. It’s very late.”
“Very late indeed. It surprised me to see you.”
“Surprised you? Why should it?”
“I mean that it seemed so very unlikely—at this hour.”
“Then how could you have hoped to see me?”
Monica walked on, with an air of displeasure, and Widdowson kept beside
her, incessantly eyeing her countenance.
“No, I didn’t really think of seeing you, Miss Madden. I wished to be
near the place where you were, that was all.”
“You saw me come out I dare say.”
“No.”
“If you had done, you would have known that I came to meet two ladies,
my sisters. I walked with them to the station, and now I am going home.
You seem to think an explanation necessary—”
“Do forgive me! What right have I to ask anything of the kind? But I
have been very restless since Sunday. I wished so to meet you, if only
for a few minutes. Only an hour or two ago I posted a letter to you.”
Monica said nothing.
“It was to ask you to meet me next Sunday, as we arranged. Shall you be
able to do so?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. At the end of this week I leave my place here, and
on Sunday I shall be moving to another part of London.”
“You are leaving? You have decided to make the change you spoke of?”
“Yes.”
“And will you tell me where you are going to live?”
“In lodgings near Great Portland Street. I must say good-night, Mr.
Widdowson. I must, indeed.”
“Please—do give me one moment!”
“I can’t stay—I can’t—good-night!”
It was impossible for him to detain her. Ungracefully he caught at his
hat, made the salute, and moved away with rapid, uneven strides. In
less than half an hour he was back again at this spot. He walked past
the shop many times without pausing; his eyes devoured the front of the
building, and noted those windows in which there was a glimmer of
light. He saw girls enter by the private door, but Monica did not again
show herself. Some time after midnight, when the house had long been
dark and perfectly quiet, the uneasy man took a last look, and then
sought a cab to convey him home.
The letter of which he had spoken reached Monica’s hands next morning.
It was a very respectful invitation to accompany the writer on a drive
in Surrey. Widdowson proposed to meet her at Herne Hill railway
station, where his vehicle would be waiting. “In passing, I shall be
able to point out to you the house which has been my home for about a
year.”
As circumstances were, it would be hardly possible to accept this
invitation without exciting curiosity in her sisters. The Sunday
morning would be occupied, probably, in going to the new lodgings and
making the acquaintance of her future companion there; in the
afternoon, her sisters were to pay her a visit, as Alice had decided
to start for Somerset on the Monday. She must write a refusal, but it
was by no means her wish to discourage Widdowson altogether. The note
which at length satisfied her ran thus:
“DEAR MR. WIDDOWSON—I am very sorry that it will be impossible for me
to see you next Sunday. All day I shall be occupied. My eldest sister
is leaving London, and Sunday will be my last day with her, perhaps for
a long time. Please do not think that I make light of your kindness.
When I am settled in my new life, I hope to be able to let you know how
it suits me.—Sincerely yours,
MONICA MADDEN.”
In a postscript she mentioned her new address. It was written in very
small characters—perhaps an unpurposed indication of the misgiving
with which she allowed herself to pen the words.
Two days went by, and again a letter from Widdowson was delivered,
“DEAR MISS MADDEN—My chief purpose in writing again so soon is to
apologize sincerely for my behaviour on Tuesday evening. It was quite
unjustifiable. The best way of confessing my fault is to own that I had
a foolish dislike of your walking in the streets unaccompanied at so
late an hour. I believe that any man who had newly made your
acquaintance, and had thought as much about you as I have, would have
experienced the same feeling. The life which made it impossible for you
to see friends at any other time of the day was so evidently unsuited
to one of your refinement that I was made angry by the thought of it.
Happily it is coming to an end, and I shall be greatly relieved when I
know that you have left the house of business.
“You remember that we are to be friends. I should be much less than
your friend if I did not desire for you a position very different from
that which necessity forced upon you. Thank you very much for the
promise to tell me how you like the new employment and your new
friends. Shall you not henceforth be at leisure on other days besides
Sunday? As you will now be near Regent’s Park, perhaps I may hope to
meet you there some evening before long. I would go any distance to see
you and speak with you for only a few minutes.
“Do forgive my impertinence, and believe me, dear Miss Madden.— Ever
yours,
EDMUND WIDDOWSON.”
Now this undoubtedly might be considered a love-letter, and it was the
first of its kind that Monica had ever received. No man had ever
written to her that he was willing to go “any distance” for the reward
of looking on her face. She read the composition many times, and with
many thoughts. It did not enchant her; presently she felt it to be dull
and prosy—anything but the ideal of a love-letter, even at this early
stage.
The remarks concerning Widdowson made in the bedroom by the girl who
fancied her asleep had greatly disturbed her conception of him. He was
old, and looked still older to a casual eye. He had a stiff dry way,
and already had begun to show how precise and exacting he could be. A
year or two ago the image of such a man would have repelled her. She
did not think it possible to regard him with warm feelings; yet, if he
asked her to marry him—and that seemed likely to happen very
soon—almost certainly her answer would be yes. Provided, of course,
that all he had told her about himself could be in some satisfactory
way confirmed.
Her acquaintance with him was an extraordinary thing. With what
amazement and rapture would any one of her shop companions listen to
the advances of a man who had six hundred a year! Yet Monica did not
doubt his truthfulness and the honesty of his intentions. His
life-story sounded credible enough, and the very dryness of his manner
inspired confidence. As things went in the marriage war, she might
esteem herself a most fortunate young woman. It seemed that he had
really fallen in love with her; he might prove a devoted husband. She
felt no love in return; but between the prospect of a marriage of
esteem and that of no marriage at all there was little room for
hesitation. The chances were that she might never again receive an
offer from a man whose social standing she could respect.
In the meantime there had come a civil little note from the girl whose
rooms she was to share. “Miss Barfoot has spoken of you so favourably
that I did not think it necessary to see you before consenting to what
she suggested. Perhaps she has told you that I have my own furniture;
it is very plain, but, I think, comfortable. For the two rooms, with
attendance, I pay eight and sixpence a week; my landlady will ask
eleven shillings when there are two of us, so that your share would be
five and six. I hope you won’t think this is too much. I am a quiet and
I think a very reasonable person.” The signature was “Mildred H.
Vesper.”
The day of release arrived. As it poured with rain all the morning,
Monica the less regretted that she had been obliged to postpone her
meeting with Widdowson. At breakfast-time she said good-bye to the
three or four girls in whom she had any interest. Miss Eade was
delighted to see her go. This rival finally out of the way, Mr.
Bullivant might perchance turn his attention to the faithful admirer
who remained.
She went by train to Great Portland Street, and thence by cab, with her
two boxes, to Rutland Street, Hampstead Road—an uphill little street
of small houses. When the cab stopped, the door of the house she sought
at once opened, and on the threshold appeared a short, prim,
plain-featured girl, who smiled a welcome.
“You are Miss Vesper?” Monica said, approaching her.
“Yes—very pleased to see you, Miss Madden. As London cabmen have a
narrow view of their duties, I’ll help you to get the boxes in.”
Monica liked the girl at once. Jehu condescending to hand down the
luggage, they transferred it to the foot of the staircase, then, the
fare having been paid, went up to the second floor, which was the top
of the house. Miss Vesper’s two rooms were very humble, but homely. She
looked at Monica to remark the impression produced by them.
“Will it do?”
“Oh, very nicely indeed. After my quarters in Walworth Road! But I feel
ashamed to intrude upon you.”
“I have been trying to find someone to share my rent,” said the other,
with a simple frankness that was very agreeable. “Miss Barfoot was full
of your praises—and indeed I think we may suit each other.”
“I shall try to be as little disturbance to you as possible.”
“And I to you. The street is a very quiet one. Up above here is
Cumberland Market; a hay and straw market. Quite pleasant
odours—country odours—reach us on market day. I am country-bred;
that’s why I speak of such a trifle.”
“So am I,” said Monica. “I come from Somerset.”
“And I from Hampshire. Do you know, I have a strong suspicion that all
the really nice girls in London _are_ country girls.”
Monica had to look at the speaker to be sure that this was said in
pleasantry. Miss Vesper was fond of making dry little jokes in the
gravest tone; only a twinkle of her eyes and a movement of her tight
little lips betrayed her.
“Shall I ask the landlady to help me up with the luggage?”
“You are rather pale, Miss Madden. Better let me see to that. I have to
go down to remind Mrs. Hocking to put salt into the saucepan with the
potatoes. She cooks for me only on Sunday, and if I didn’t remind her
every week she would boil the potatoes without salt. Such a state of
mind is curious, but one ends by accepting it as a fact in nature.”
They joined in merry laughter. When Miss Vesper gave way to open mirth,
she enjoyed it so thoroughly that it was a delight to look at her.
By the time dinner was over they were on excellent terms, and had
exchanged a great deal of personal information. Mildred Vesper seemed
to be one of the most contented of young women. She had sisters and
brothers, whom she loved, all scattered about England in pursuit of a
livelihood; it was rare for any two of them to see each other, but she
spoke of this as quite in the order of things. For Miss Barfoot her
respect was unbounded.
“She had made more of me than any one else could have done. When I
first met her, three years ago, I was a simpleton; I thought myself
ill-used because I had to work hard for next to no payment and live in
solitude. Now I should be ashamed to complain of what falls to the lot
of thousands of girls.”
“Do you like Miss Nunn?” asked Monica.
“Not so well as Miss Barfoot, but I think very highly of her. Her zeal
makes her exaggerate a little now and then, but then the zeal is so
splendid. I haven’t it myself—not in that form.”
“You mean—”
“I mean that I feel a shameful delight when I hear of a girl getting
married. It’s very weak, no doubt; perhaps I shall improve as I grow
older. But I have half a suspicion, do you know, that Miss Barfoot is
not without the same weakness.”
Monica laughed, and spoke of something else. She was in good spirits;
already her companion’s view of life began to have an effect upon her;
she thought of people and things in a more lightsome way, and was less
disposed to commiserate herself.
The bedroom which both were to occupy might with advantage have been
larger, but they knew that many girls of instinct no less delicate than
their own had to endure far worse accommodation in London—where
poverty pays for its sheltered breathing-space at so much a square
foot. It was only of late that Miss Vesper had been able to buy
furniture (four sovereigns it cost in all), and thus to allow herself
the luxury of two rooms at the rent she previously paid for one. Miss
Barfoot did not remunerate her workers on a philanthropic scale, but
strictly in accordance with market prices; common sense dictated this
principle. In talking over their arrangements, Monica decided to expend
a few shillings on the purchase of a chair-bedstead for her own use.
“I often have nightmares,” she remarked, “and kick a great deal. It
wouldn’t be nice to give you bruises.”
A week passed. Alice had written from Yatton, and in a cheerful tone.
Virginia, chronically excited, had made calls at Rutland Street and at
Queen’s Road; she talked like one who had suddenly received a great
illumination, and her zeal in the cause of independent womanhood
rivalled Miss Nunn’s. Without enthusiasm, but seemingly contented,
Monica worked at the typewriting machine, and had begun certain studies
which her friends judged to be useful. She experienced a growth of
self-respect. It was much to have risen above the status of shop-girl,
and the change of moral atmosphere had a very beneficial effect upon
her.
Mildred Vesper was a studious little person, after a fashion of her
own. She possessed four volumes of Maunder’s “Treasuries,” and to one
or other of these she applied herself for at least an hour every
evening.
“By nature,” she said, when Monica sought an explanation of this study,
“my mind is frivolous. What I need is a store of solid information, to
reflect upon. No one could possibly have a worse memory, but by
persevering I manage to learn one or two facts a day.”
Monica glanced at the books now and then, but had no desire to
cultivate Maunder’s acquaintance. Instead of reading, she meditated the
problems of her own life.
Edmund Widdowson, of course, wrote to her at the new address. In her
reply she again postponed their meeting. Whenever she went out in the
evening, it was with expectation of seeing him somewhere in the
neighbourhood; she felt assured that he had long ago come to look at
the house, and more likely than not his eyes had several times been
upon her. That did not matter; her life was innocent, and Widdowson
might watch her coming and going as much as he would.
At length, about nine o’clock one evening, she came face to face with
him. It was in Hampstead Road; she had been buying at a draper’s, and
carried the little parcel. At the moment of recognition, Widdowson’s
face so flushed and brightened that Monica could not help a sympathetic
feeling of pleasure.
“Why are you so cruel to me?” he said in a low voice, as she gave her
hand. “What a time since I saw you!”
“Is that really true?” she replied, with an air more resembling
coquetry than any he had yet seen in her.
“Since I spoke to you, then.”
“When did you see me?”
“Three evenings ago. You were walking in Tottenham Court Road with a
young lady.”
“Miss Vesper, the friend I live with.”
“Will you give me a few minutes now?” he asked humbly. “Is it too late?”
For reply Monica moved slowly on. They turned up one of the ways
parallel with Rutland Street, and so came into the quiet district that
skirts Regent’s Park, Widdowson talking all the way in a strain of all
but avowed tenderness, his head bent towards her and his voice so much
subdued that occasionally she lost a few words.
“I can’t live without seeing you,” he said at length. “If you refuse to
meet me, I have no choice but to come wandering about the places where
you are. Don’t, pray don’t think I spy upon you. Indeed, it is only
just to see your face or your form as you walk along. When I have had
my journey in vain I go back in misery. You are never out of my
thoughts—never.”
“I am sorry for that, Mr. Widdowson.”
“Sorry? Are you really sorry? Do you think of me with less friendliness
than when we had our evening on the river?”
“Oh, not with less friendliness. But if I only make you unhappy—”
“In one way unhappy, but as no one else ever had the power to. If you
would let me meet you at certain times my restlessness would be at an
end. The summer is going so quickly. Won’t you come for that drive with
me next Sunday? I will be waiting for you at any place you like to
appoint. If you could imagine what joy it would give me!”
Presently Monica assented. If it were fine, she would be by the
south-east entrance to Regent’s Park at two o’clock. He thanked her with
words of the most submissive gratitude, and then they parted.
The day proved doubtful, but she kept her appointment. Widdowson was on
the spot with horse and trap. These were not, as he presently informed
Monica, his own property, but hired from a livery stable, according to
his custom.
“It won’t rain,” he exclaimed, gazing at the sky. “It _shan’t_ rain!
These few hours are too precious to me.”
“It would be very awkward if it _did_,” Monica replied, in merry
humour, as they drove along.
The sky threatened till sundown, but Widdowson was able to keep
declaring that rain would not come. He took a south-westward course,
crossed Waterloo Bridge, and thence by the highways made for Herne
Hill. Monica observed that he made a short detour to avoid Walworth
Road. She asked his reason.
“I hate the road!” Widdowson answered, with vehemence.
“You hate it?”
“Because you slaved and suffered there. If I had the power, I would
destroy it—every house. Many a time,” he added, in a lower voice,
“when you were lying asleep, I walked up and down there in horrible
misery.”
“Just because I had to stand at a counter?”
“Not only that. It wasn’t fit for you to work in that way—but the
people about you! I hated every face of man or woman that passed along
the street.”
“I didn’t like the society.”
“I should hope not. Of course, I know you didn’t. Why did you ever come
to such a place?”
There was severity rather than sympathy in his look.
“I was tired of the dull country life,” Monica replied frankly. “And
then I didn’t know what the shops and the people were like.”
“Do you need a life of excitement?” he asked, with a sidelong glance.
“Excitement? No, but one must have change.”
When they reached Herne Hill, Widdowson became silent, and presently he
allowed the horse to walk.
“That is my house, Miss Madden—the right-hand one.”
Monica looked, and saw two little villas, built together with stone
facings, porches at the doors and ornamented gables.
“I only wanted to show it you,” he added quickly. “There’s nothing
pretty or noticeable about it, and it isn’t at all grandly furnished.
My old housekeeper and one servant manage to keep it in order.”
They passed, and Monica did not allow herself to look back.
“I think it’s a nice house,” she said presently.
“All my life I have wished to have a house of my own, but I didn’t dare
to hope I ever should. Men in general don’t seem to care so long as
they have lodgings that suit them—I mean unmarried men. But I always
wanted to live alone—without strangers, that is to say. I told you
that I am not very sociable. When I got my house, I was like a child
with a toy; I couldn’t sleep for satisfaction. I used to walk all over
it, day after day, before it was furnished. There was something that
delighted me in the sound of my footsteps on the staircases and the
bare floors. Here I shall live and die, I kept saying to myself. Not in
solitude, I hoped. Perhaps I might meet some one—”
Monica interrupted him to ask a question about some object in the
landscape. He answered her very briefly, and for a long time neither
spoke. Then the girl, glancing at him with a smile of apology, said in
a gentle tone—
“You were telling me how the house pleased you. Have you still the same
pleasure in living there?”
“Yes. But lately I have been hoping—I daren’t say more. You will
interrupt me again.”
“Which way are we going now, Mr. Widdowson?”
“To Streatham, then on to Carshalton. At five o’clock we will use our
right as travellers, and get some innkeeper to make tea for us. Look,
the sun is trying to break through; we shall have a fine evening yet.
May I, without rudeness, say that you look better since you left that
abominable place.”
“Oh, I feel better.”
After keeping his look fixed for a long time on the horse’s ears,
Widdowson turned gravely to his companion.
“I told you about my sister-in-law. Would you be willing to make her
acquaintance?”
“I don’t feel able to do that, Mr. Widdowson,” Monica answered with
decision.
Prepared for this reply, he began a long and urgent persuasion. It was
useless; Monica listened quietly, but without sign of yielding. The
subject dropped, and they talked of indifferent things.
On the homeward drive, when the dull sky grew dusk about them, and the
suburban street-lamps began to show themselves in long glimmering
lines, Widdowson returned with shamefaced courage to the subject which
for some hours had been in abeyance.
“I can’t part from you this evening without a word of hope to remember.
You know that I want you to be my wife. Will you tell me if there is
anything I can say or do to make your consent possible? Have you any
doubt of me?”
“No doubt whatever of your sincerity.”
“In one sense, I am still a stranger to you. Will you give me the
opportunity of making things between us more regular? Will you allow me
to meet some friend of yours whom you trust?”
“I had rather you didn’t yet.”
“You wish to know still more of me, personally?”
“Yes—I think I must know you much better before I can consent to any
step of that kind.”
“But,” he urged, “if we became acquaintances in the ordinary way, and
knew each other’s friends, wouldn’t that be most satisfactory to you?”
“It might be. But you forget that so much would have to be explained. I
have behaved very strangely. If I told everything to my friends I
should leave myself no choice.”
“Oh, why not? You would be absolutely free. I could no more than try to
recommend myself to you. If I am so unhappy as to fail, how would you
be anything but quite free?”
“But surely you must understand me. In this position, I must either not
speak of you at all, or make it known that I am engaged to you. I can’t
have it taken for granted that I am engaged to you when I don’t wish to
be.”
Widdowson’s head drooped; he set his lips in a hard gloomy expression.
“I have behaved very imprudently,” continued the girl. But I don’t
see—I can’t see—what else I could have done. Things are so badly
arranged. It wasn’t possible for us to be introduced by any one who
knew us both, so I had either to break off your acquaintance after that
first conversation, or conduct myself as I have been doing. I think
it’s a very hard position. My sisters would call me an immodest girl,
but I don’t think it is true. I may perhaps come to feel you as a girl
ought to when she marries, and how else can I tell unless I meet you
and talk with you? And your position is just the same. I don’t blame
you for a moment; I think it would be ridiculous to blame you. Yet we
have gone against the ordinary rule, and people would make us suffer
for it—or me, at all events.
Her voice at the close was uncertain. Widdowson looked at her with eyes
of passionate admiration.
“Thank you for saying that—for putting it so well, and so kindly for
me. Let us disregard people, then. Let us go on seeing each other. I
love you with all my soul”—he choked a little at this first utterance
of the solemn word—“and your rules shall be mine. Give me a chance of
winning you. Tell me if I offend you in anything—if there’s anything
you dislike in me.”
“Will you cease coming to look for me when I don’t know of it?”
“I promise you. I will never come again. And you will meet me a little
oftener?”
“I will see you once every week. But I must still be perfectly free.”
“Perfectly! I will only try to win you as any man may who loves a
woman.”
The tired horse clattered upon the hard highway and clouds gathered for
a night of storm.