MOTIVES MEETING
When Barfoot made his next evening call Rhoda did not appear. He sat
for some time in pleasant talk with his cousin, no reference whatever
being made to Miss Nunn; then at length, beginning to fear that he
would not see her, he inquired after her health. Miss Nunn was very
well, answered the hostess, smiling.
“Not at home this evening?”
“Busy with some kind of study, I think.”
Plainly, the difference between these women had come to a happy end, as
Barfoot foresaw that it would. He thought it better to make no mention
of his meeting with Rhoda in the gardens.
“That was a very unpleasant affair that I saw your name connected with
last week,” he said presently.
“It made me very miserable—ill indeed for a day or two.”
“That was why you couldn’t see me?”
“Yes.”
“But in your reply to my note you made no mention of the circumstances.”
Miss Barfoot kept silence; frowning slightly, she looked at the fire
near which they were both sitting, for the weather had become very cold.
“No doubt,” pursued Everard, glancing at her, “you refrained out of
delicacy—on my account, I mean.”
“Need we talk of it?”
“For a moment, please. You are very friendly with me nowadays, but I
suppose your estimate of my character remains very much the same as
years ago?”
“What is the use of such questions?”
“I ask for a distinct purpose. You can’t regard me with any respect?”
“To tell you the truth, Everard, I know nothing about you. I have no
wish to revive disagreeable memories, and I think it quite possible
that you may be worthy of respect.”
“So far so good. Now, in justice, please answer me another question.
How have you spoken of me to Miss Nunn?”
“How can it matter?”
“It matters a good deal. Have you told her any scandal about me?”
“Yes, I have.”
Everard looked at her with surprise.
“I spoke to Miss Nunn about you,” she continued, “before I thought of
your coming here. Frankly, I used you as an illustration of the evils I
abominate.”
“You are a courageous and plain-spoken woman, cousin Mary,” said
Everard, laughing a little. “Couldn’t you have found some other
example?”
There was no reply.
“So,” he proceeded, “Miss Nunn regards me as a proved scoundrel?”
“I never told her the story. I made known the general grounds of my
dissatisfaction with you, that was all.”
“Come, that’s something. I’m glad you didn’t amuse her with that
unedifying bit of fiction.”
“Fiction?”
“Yes, fiction,” said Everard bluntly. “I am not going into details; the
thing’s over and done with, and I chose my course at the time. But it’s
as well to let you know that my behaviour was grossly misrepresented.
In using me to point a moral you were grievously astray. I shall say no
more. If you can believe me, do; if you can’t, dismiss the matter from
your mind.”
There followed a silence of some moments. Then, with a perfectly calm
manner, Miss Barfoot began to speak of a new subject. Everard followed
her lead. He did not stay much longer, and on leaving asked to be
remembered to Miss Nunn.
A week later he again found his cousin alone. He now felt sure that
Miss Nunn was keeping out of his way. Her parting from him in the
gardens had been decidedly abrupt, and possibly it signified more
serious offence than at the time he attributed to her. It was so
difficult to be sure of anything in regard to Miss Nunn. If another
woman had acted thus he would have judged it coquetry. But perhaps
Rhoda was quite incapable of anything of that kind. Perhaps she took
herself so very seriously that the mere suspicion of banter in his talk
had moved her to grave resentment. Or again, she might be half ashamed
to meet him after confessing her disagreement with Miss Barfoot; on
recovery from ill-temper (unmistakable ill-temper it was), she had seen
her behaviour in an embarrassing light. Between these various
conjectures he wavered whilst talking with Mary. But he did not so much
as mention Miss Nunn’s name.
Some ten days went by, and he paid a call at the hour sanctioned by
society, five in the afternoon; it being Saturday. One of his reasons
for coming at this time was the hope that he might meet other callers,
for he felt curious to see what sort of people visited the house. And
this wish was gratified. On entering the drawing-room, whither he was
led by the servant straightway, after the manner of the world, he found
not only his cousin and her friend, but two strangers, ladies. A glance
informed him that both of these were young and good-looking, one being
a type that particularly pleased him—dark, pale, with very bright eyes.
Miss Barfoot received him as any hostess would have done. She was her
cheerful self once more, and in a moment introduced him to the lady
with whom she had been talking—the dark one, by name Mrs. Widdowson.
Rhoda Nunn, sitting apart with the second lady, gave him her hand, but
at once resumed her conversation.
With Mrs. Widdowson he was soon chatting in his easy and graceful way,
Miss Barfoot putting in a word now and then. He saw that she had not
long been married; a pleasant diffidence and the maidenly glance of her
bright eyes indicated this. She was dressed very prettily, and seemed
aware of it.
“We went to hear the new opera at the Savoy last night,” she said to
Miss Barfoot, with a smile of remembered enjoyment.
“Did you? Miss Nunn and I were there.”
Everard gazed at his cousin with humorous incredulity.
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed. “You were at the Savoy?”
“Where is the impossibility? Why shouldn’t Miss Nunn and I go to the
theatre?”
“I appeal to Mrs. Widdowson. She also was astonished.”
“Yes, indeed I was, Miss Barfoot!” exclaimed the younger lady, with a
merry little laugh. “I hesitated before speaking of such a frivolous
entertainment.”
Lowering her voice, and casting a smile in Rhoda’s direction, Miss
Barfoot replied,—
“I have to make a concession occasionally on Miss Nunn’s account. It
would be unkind never to allow her a little recreation.”
The two at a distance were talking earnestly, with grave countenances.
In a few moments they rose, and the visitor came towards Miss Barfoot
to take her leave. Thereupon Everard crossed to Miss Nunn.
“Is there anything very good in the new Gilbert and Sullivan opera?” he
asked.
“Many good things. You really haven’t been yet?”
“No—I’m ashamed to say.”
“Do go this evening, if you can get a seat. Which part of the theatre
do you prefer?”
His eye rested on her, but he could detect no irony.
“I’m a poor man, you know. I have to be content with the cheap places.
Which do you like best, the Savoy operas or the burlesques at the
Gaiety?”
A few more such questions and answers, of laboured commonplace or
strained flippancy, and Everard, after searching his companion’s face,
broke off with a laugh.
“There now,” he said, “we have talked in the approved five o’clock way.
Precisely the dialogue I heard in a drawing-room yesterday. It goes on
day after day, year after year, through the whole of people’s lives.”
“You are on friendly terms with such people?”
“I am on friendly terms with people of every kind.” He added, in an
undertone, “I hope I may include you, Miss Nunn?”
But to this she paid no attention. She was looking at Monica and Miss
Barfoot, who had just risen from their seats. They approached, and
presently Barfoot found himself alone with the familiar pair.
“Another cup of tea, Everard?” asked his cousin.
“Thank you. Who was the young lady you didn’t introduce me to?”
“Miss Haven—one of our pupils.”
“Does she think of going into business?”
“She has just got a place in the publishing department of a weekly
paper.”
“But really—from the few words of her talk that fell upon my ear I
should have thought her a highly educated girl.”
“So she is,” replied Miss Barfoot. “What is your objection?”
“Why doesn’t she aim at some better position?”
Miss Barfoot and Rhoda exchanged smiles.
“But nothing could be better for her. Some day she hopes to start a
paper of her own, and to learn all the details of such business is just
what she wants. Oh, you are still very conventional, Everard. You meant
she ought to take up something graceful and pretty—something ladylike.”
“No, no. It’s all right. I thoroughly approve. And when Miss Haven
starts her paper, Miss Nunn will write for it.”
“I hope so,” assented his cousin.
“You make me feel that I am in touch with the great movements of our
time. It’s delightful to know you. But come now, isn’t there any way in
which I could help?”
Mary laughed.
“None whatever, I’m afraid.”
“Well,—“They also serve who only stand and wait.””
If Everard had pleased himself he would have visited the house in
Queen’s Road every other day. As this might not be, he spent a good
deal of his time in other society, not caring to read much, or
otherwise occupy his solitude. Starting with one or two acquaintances
in London, people of means and position, he easily extended his social
sphere. Had he cared to marry, he might, notwithstanding his poverty,
have wooed with fair chance in a certain wealthy family, where two
daughters, the sole children, plain but well-instructed girls, waited
for the men of brains who should appreciate them. So rare in society,
these men of brains, and, alas! so frequently deserted by their wisdom
when it comes to choosing a wife. It being his principle to reflect on
every possibility, Barfoot of course asked himself whether it would not
be reasonable to approach one or other of these young women—the Miss
Brissendens. He needed a larger income; he wanted to travel in a more
satisfactory way than during his late absence. Agnes Brissenden struck
him as a very calm and sensible girl; not at all likely to marry any
one but the man who would be a suitable companion for her, and probably
disposed to look on marriage as a permanent friendship, which must not
be endangered by feminine follies. She had no beauty, but mental powers
above the average—superior, certainly, to her sister’s.
It was worth thinking about, but in the meantime he wanted to see much
more of Rhoda Nunn. Rhoda he was beginning to class with women who are
attractive both physically and mentally. Strange how her face had
altered to his perception since the first meeting. He smiled now when
he beheld it—smiled as a man does when his senses are pleasantly
affected. He was getting to know it so well, to be prepared for its
constant changes, to watch for certain movements of brows or lips when
he had said certain things. That forcible holding of her hand had
marked a stage in progressive appreciation; since then he felt a desire
to repeat the experiment.
“Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Imprison her soft hand, and
let her rave—”
The lines occurred to his memory, and he understood them better than
heretofore. It would delight him to enrage Rhoda, and then to detain
her by strength, to overcome her senses, to watch her long lashes droop
over the eloquent eyes. But this was something very like being in love,
and he by no means wished to be seriously in love with Miss Nunn.
It was another three weeks before he had an opportunity of private talk
with her. Trying a Sunday afternoon, about four, he found Rhoda alone
in the drawing-room; Miss Barfoot was out of town. Rhoda’s greeting had
a frank friendliness which she had not bestowed upon him for a long
time; not, indeed, since they met on her return from Cheddar. She
looked very well, readily laughed, and seemed altogether in a coming-on
disposition. Barfoot noticed that the piano was open.
“Do you play?” he inquired. “Strange that I should still have to ask
the question.”
“Oh, only a hymn on Sunday,” she answered off-hand.
“A hymn?”
“Why not? I like some of the old tunes very much. They remind me of the
golden age.”
“In your own life, you mean?”
She nodded.
“You have once or twice spoken of that time as if you were not quite
happy in the present.”
“Of course I am not quite happy. What woman is? I mean, what woman
above the level of a petted pussy-cat?”
Everard was leaning towards her on the head of the couch where he sat.
He gazed into her face fixedly.
“I wish it were in my power to remove some of your discontents. I
would, more gladly than I can tell you.”
“You abound in good nature, Mr. Barfoot,” she replied laughing. “But
unfortunately you can’t change the world.”
“Not the world at large. But might I not change your views of it—in
some respects?”
“Indeed I don’t see how you could. I think I had rather have my own
view than any you might wish to substitute for it.”
In this humour she seemed more than ever a challenge to his manhood.
She was armed at all points. She feared nothing that he might say. No
flush of apprehension; no nervous tremor; no weak self-consciousness.
Yet he saw her as a woman, and desirable.
“My views are not ignoble,” he murmured.
“I hope not. But they are the views of a man.”
“Man and woman ought to see life with much the same eyes.”
“Ought they? Perhaps so. I am not sure. But they never will in our
time.”
“Individuals may. The man and woman who have thrown away prejudice and
superstition. You and I, for instance.”
“Oh, those words have such different meanings. In your judgment I
should seem full of idle prejudice.”
She liked this conversation; he read pleasure in her face, saw in her
eyes a glint of merry defiance. And his pulses throbbed the quicker for
it.
“You have a prejudice against _me_, for instance.”
“Pray, did you go to the Savoy?” inquired Rhoda absently.
“I have no intention of talking about the Savoy, Miss Nunn. It is
teacup time, but as yet we have the room to ourselves.”
Rhoda went and rang the bell.
“The teacups shall come at once.”
He laughed slightly, and looked at her from beneath drooping lids.
Rhoda went on with talk of trifles, until the tea was brought and she
had given a cup. Having emptied it at two draughts, he resumed his
former leaning position.
“Well, you were saying that you had a prejudice against me. Of course
my cousin Mary is accountable for that. Mary has used me rather ill.
Before ever you saw me, I represented to your mind something very
disagreeable indeed. That was too bad of my cousin.”
Rhoda, sipping her tea, had a cold, uninterested expression.
“I didn’t know of this,” he proceeded, “when we met that day in the
gardens, and when I made you so angry.”
“I wasn’t disposed to jest about what had happened.”
“But neither was I. You quite misunderstood me. Will you tell me how
that unpleasantness came to an end?”
“Oh yes. I admitted that I had been ill-mannered and obstinate.”
“How delightful! Obstinate? I have a great deal of that in my
character. All the active part of my life was one long fit of
obstinacy. As a lad I determined on a certain career, and I stuck to it
in spite of conscious unfitness, in spite of a great deal of suffering,
out of sheer obstinacy. I wonder whether Mary ever told you that.”
“She mentioned something of the kind once.”
“You could hardly believe it, I dare say? I am a far more reasonable
being now. I have changed in so many respects that I hardly know my old
self when I look back on it. Above all, in my thoughts about women. If
I had married during my twenties I should have chosen, as the average
man does, some simpleton—with unpleasant results. If I marry now, it
will be a woman of character and brains. Marry in the legal sense I
never shall. My companion must be as independent of forms as I am
myself.”
Rhoda looked into her teacup for a second or two, then said with a
smile,—
“You also are a reformer?”
“In that direction.”
He had difficulty in suppressing signs of nervousness. The bold
declaration had come without forethought, and Rhoda’s calm acceptance
of it delighted him.
“Questions of marriage,” she went on to say, “don’t interest me much;
but this particular reform doesn’t seem very practical. It is trying to
bring about an ideal state of things whilst we are yet struggling with
elementary obstacles.”
“I don’t advocate this liberty for all mankind. Only for those who are
worthy of it.”
“And what”—she laughed a little—“are the sure signs of worthiness? I
think it would be very needful to know them.”
Everard kept a grave face.
“True. But a free union presupposes equality of position. No honest man
would propose it, for instance, to a woman incapable of understanding
all it involved, or incapable of resuming her separate life if that
became desirable. I admit all the difficulties. One must consider those
of feeling, as well as the material. If my wife should declare that she
must be released, I might suffer grievously, but being a man of some
intelligence, I should admit that the suffering couldn’t be helped; the
brutality of enforced marriage doesn’t seem to me an alternative worth
considering. It wouldn’t seem so to any woman of the kind I mean.”
Would she have the courage to urge one grave difficulty that he left
aside? No. He fancied her about to speak, but she ended by offering him
another cup of tea.
“After all, that is _not_ your ideal?” he said.
“I haven’t to do with the subject at all,” Rhoda answered, with perhaps
a trace of impatience. “My work and thought are for the women who do
not marry—the “odd women” I call them. They alone interest me. One
mustn’t undertake too much.”
“And you resolutely class yourself with them?”
“Of course I do.”
“And therefore you have certain views of life which I should like to
change. You are doing good work, but I had rather see any other woman
in the world devote her life to it. I am selfish enough to wish—”
The door opened, and the servant announced,—
“Mr. and Mrs. Widdowson.”
With perfect self-command Miss Nunn rose and stepped forward. Barfoot,
rising more slowly, looked with curiosity at the husband of the pretty,
black-browed woman whom he had already met. Widdowson surprised and
amused him. How had this stiff, stern fellow with the grizzled beard
won such a wife? Not that Mrs. Widdowson seemed a remarkable person,
but certainly it was an ill-assorted union.
She came and shook hands. As he spoke a few natural words, Everard
chanced to notice that the husband’s eye was upon him, and with what a
look! If ever a man declared in his countenance the worst species of
jealous temper, Mr. Widdowson did so. His fixed smile became sardonic.
Presently Barfoot and he were introduced. They had nothing to say to
each other, but Everard maintained a brief conversation just to observe
the man. Turning at length, he began to talk with Mrs. Widdowson, and,
because he was conscious of the jealous eye, assumed an especial
sprightliness, an air of familiar pleasantry, to which the lady
responded, but with a nervous hesitation.
The arrival of these people was an intense annoyance to him. Another
quarter of an hour and things would have come to an exciting pass
between Rhoda and himself; he would have heard how she received a
declaration of love. Rhoda’s self-possession notwithstanding, he
believed that he was not without power over her. She liked to talk with
him, enjoyed the freedom he allowed himself in choice of subject.
Perhaps no man before had ever shown an appreciation of her qualities
as woman. But she would not yield, was in no real danger from his
love-making. Nay, the danger was to his own peace. He felt that
resistance would intensify the ardour of his wooing, and possibly end
by making him a victim of genuine passion. Well, let her enjoy that
triumph, if she were capable of winning it.
He had made up his mind to outstay the Widdowsons, who clearly would
not make a long call. But the fates were against him. Another visitor
arrived, a lady named Cosgrove, who settled herself as if for at least
an hour. Worse than that, he heard her say to Rhoda,—
“Oh, then do come and dine with us. Do, I beg!”
“I will, with pleasure,” was Miss Nunn’s reply. “Can you wait and take
me with you?”
Useless to stay longer. As soon as the Widdowsons had departed he went
up to Rhoda and silently offered his hand. She scarcely looked at him,
and did not in the least return his pressure.
Rhoda dined at Mrs. Cosgrove’s, and was home again at eleven o’clock.
When the house was locked up, and the servants had gone to bed, she sat
in the library, turning over a book that she had brought from her
friend’s house. It was a volume of essays, one of which dealt with the
relations between the sexes in a very modern spirit, treating the
subject as a perfectly open one, and arriving at unorthodox
conclusions. Mrs. Cosgrove had spoken of this dissertation with lively
interest. Rhoda perused it very carefully, pausing now and then to
reflect.
In this reading of her mind, Barfoot came near the truth.
No man had ever made love to her; no man, to her knowledge, had ever
been tempted to do so. In certain moods she derived satisfaction from
this thought, using it to strengthen her life’s purpose; having passed
her thirtieth year, she might take it as a settled thing that she would
never be sought in marriage, and so could shut the doors on every
instinct tending to trouble her intellectual decisions. But these
instincts sometimes refused to be thus treated. As Miss Barfoot told
her, she was very young for her years, young in physique, young in
emotion. As a girl she had dreamt passionately, and the fires of her
nature, though hidden beneath aggregations of moral and mental
attainment, were not yet smothered. An hour of lassitude filled her
with despondency, none the less real because she was ashamed of it. If
only she had once been loved, like other women—if she had listened to
an offer of devotion, and rejected it—her heart would be more securely
at peace. So she thought. Secretly she deemed it a hard thing never to
have known that common triumph of her sex. And, moreover, it took away
from the merit of her position as a leader and encourager of women
living independently. There might be some who said, or thought, that
she made a virtue of necessity.
Everard Barfoot’s advances surprised her not a little. Judging him as a
man wholly without principle, she supposed at first that this was
merely his way with all women, and resented it as impertinence. But
even then she did not dislike the show of homage; what her mind
regarded with disdain, her heart was all but willing to feed upon,
after its long hunger. Barfoot interested her, and not the less because
of his evil reputation. Here was one of the men for whom
women—doubtless more than one—had sacrificed themselves; she could
not but regard him with sexual curiosity. And her interest grew, her
curiosity was more haunting, as their acquaintance became a sort of
friendship; she found that her moral disapprobation wavered, or was
altogether forgotten. Perhaps it was to compensate for this that she
went the length of outraging Miss Barfoot’s feelings on the death of
Bella Royston.
Certainly she thought with much frequency of Barfoot, and looked
forward to his coming. Never had she wished so much to see him again as
after their encounter in Chelsea Gardens, and on that account she
forced herself to hold aloof when he came. It was not love, nor the
beginning of love; she judged it something less possible to avow. The
man’s presence affected her with a perturbation which she had no
difficulty in concealing at the time, though afterwards it distressed
and shamed her. She took refuge in the undeniable fact that the quality
of his mind made an impression upon her, that his talk was sympathetic.
Miss Barfoot submitted to this influence; she confessed that her
cousin’s talk had always had a charm for her.
Could it be that this man reciprocated, and more than reciprocated, her
complex feeling? To-day only accident had prevented him from making an
avowal of love—unless she strangely mistook him. All the evening she
had dwelt on this thought; it grew more and more astonishing. Was he
worse than she had imagined? Under cover of independent thought, of
serious moral theories, did he conceal mere profligacy and
heartlessness? It was an extraordinary thing to have to ask such
questions in relation to herself. It made her feel as if she had to
learn herself anew, to form a fresh conception of her personality. She
the object of a man’s passion!
And the thought was exultant. Even thus late, then, the satisfaction of
vanity had been granted her—nay, not of vanity alone.
He must be sincere. What motive could he possibly have for playing a
part? Might it not be true that he was a changed man in certain
respects, and that a genuine emotion at length had control of him? If
so, she had only to wait for his next speech with her in private; she
could not misjudge a lover’s pleading.
The interest would only be that of comedy. She did not love Everard
Barfoot, and saw no likelihood of ever doing so; on the whole, a
subject for thankfulness. Nor could he seriously anticipate an assent
to his proposal for a free union; in declaring that legal marriage was
out of the question for him, he had removed his love-making to the
region of mere ideal sentiment. But, if he loved her, these theories
would sooner or later be swept aside; he would plead with her to become
his legal wife.
To that point she desired to bring him. Offer what he might, she would
not accept it; but the secret chagrin that was upon her would be
removed. Love would no longer be the privilege of other women. To
reject a lover in so many respects desirable, whom so many women might
envy her, would fortify her self-esteem, and enable her to go forward
in the chosen path with firmer tread.
It was one o’clock; the fire had died out and she began to shiver with
cold. But a trembling of joy at the same time went through her limbs;
again she had the sense of exultation, of triumph. She would not
dismiss him peremptorily. He should prove the quality of his love, if
love it were. Coming so late, the experience must yield her all it had
to yield of delight and contentment.