THE UNIDEAL TESTED
And neither was content.
Barfoot, over his cigar and glass of whisky at the hotel, fell into a
mood of chagrin. The woman he loved would be his, and there was matter
enough for ardent imagination in the indulgence of that thought; but
his temper disturbed him. After all, he had not triumphed. As usual the
woman had her way. She played upon his senses, and made him her
obedient slave. To prolong the conflict would have availed nothing;
Rhoda, doubtless, was in part actuated by the desire to conquer, and
she knew her power over him. So it was a mere repetition of the old
story—a marriage like any other. And how would it result?
She had great qualities; but was there not much in her that he must
subdue, reform, if they were really to spend their lives together? Her
energy of domination perhaps excelled his. Such a woman might be unable
to concede him the liberty in marriage which theoretically she granted
to be just. Perhaps she would torment him with restless jealousies,
suspecting on every trivial occasion an infringement of her right. From
that point of view it would have been far wiser to persist in rejecting
legal marriage, that her dependence upon him might be more complete.
Later, if all went well, the concession could have been made—if, for
instance, she became a mother. But then returned the exasperating
thought that Rhoda had overcome his will. Was not that a beginning of
evil augury?
To be sure, after marriage their relations would be different. He would
not then be at the mercy of his senses. But how miserable to anticipate
a long, perhaps bitter, struggle for predominance. After all, that
could hardly come about. The commencement of any such discord would be
the signal for separation. His wealth assured his freedom. He was not
like the poor devils who must perforce live with an intolerable woman
because they cannot support themselves and their families in different
places. Need he entertain that worst of fears—the dread that his
independence might fail him, subdued by his wife’s will?
Free as he boasted himself from lover’s silliness, he had magnified
Rhoda’s image. She was not the glorious rebel he had pictured. Like any
other woman, she mistrusted her love without the sanction of society.
Well, that was something relinquished, lost. Marriage would after all
be a compromise. He had not found his ideal—though in these days it
assuredly existed.
* * *
And Rhoda, sitting late in the little lodging-house parlour, visited
her soul with questionings no less troublesome. Everard was not
satisfied with her. He had yielded, perhaps more than half
contemptuously, to what he thought a feminine weakness. In going with
her to the registrar’s office he would feel himself to be acting an
ignoble part. Was it not a bad beginning to rule him against his
conscience?
She had triumphed splendidly. In the world’s eye this marriage of hers
was far better than any she could reasonably have hoped, and her heart
approved it with rapture. At a stage in life when she had sternly
reconciled herself never to know a man’s love, this love had sought her
with passionate persistency of which even a beautiful young girl might
feel proud. She had no beauty; she was loved for her mind, her very
self. But must not Everard’s conception of her have suffered? In
winning her had he obtained the woman of his desire?
Why was she not more politic? Would it not have been possible to
gratify him, and yet to gain his consent to legal marriage? By first of
all complying she would have seemed to confirm all he believed of her;
and then, his ardour at height, how simple to point out to him—without
entreaty, without show of much concern—that by neglecting formalities
they gained absolutely nothing. Artifice of that kind was perhaps
demanded by the mere circumstances. Possibly he himself would have
welcomed it—after the grateful sense of inspiring such complete
devotion. It is the woman’s part to exercise tact; she had proved
herself lamentably deficient in that quality.
To-morrow she must study his manner. If she discerned any serious
change, any grave indication of disappointment—
What was her life to be? At first they would travel together; but
before long it might be necessary to have a settled home, and what then
would be her social position, her duties and pleasures? Housekeeping,
mere domesticities, could never occupy her for more than the smallest
possible part of each day. Having lost one purpose in life, dignified,
absorbing, likely to extend its sphere as time went on, what other
could she hope to substitute for it?
Love of husband—perhaps of child. There must be more than that. Rhoda
did not deceive herself as to the requirements of her nature. Practical
activity in some intellectual undertaking; a share—nay, leadership—in
some “movement;” contact with the revolutionary life of her time—the
impulses of her heart once satisfied, these things would again claim
her. But how if Everard resisted such tendencies? Was he in truth
capable of respecting her individuality? Or would his strong instinct
of lordship urge him to direct his wife as a dependent, to impose upon
her his own view of things? She doubted whether he had much genuine
sympathy with woman’s emancipation as she understood it. Yet in no
particular had her convictions changed; nor would they change. She
herself was no longer one of the “odd women”; fortune had—or seemed to
have—been kind to her; none the less her sense of a mission remained.
No longer an example of perfect female independence, and unable
therefore to use the same language as before, she might illustrate
woman’s claim of equality in marriage.—If her experience proved no
obstacle.
* * *
Next morning, as had been agreed, they met at some distance from
Seascale, and spent two or three hours together. There was little
danger in observation unless by a casual peasant; for the most part
their privacy could not have been more secure in a locked chamber. Lest
curiosity should be excited by his making inquiries at the hotel,
Barfoot proposed to walk over to Gosforth, the nearest town, this
afternoon, and learn where the registrar for the locality of Seascale
might be found. By neither was allusion made to their difference of
last evening, but Rhoda distressed herself by imagining a diminished
fervour in her companion; he seemed unusually silent and meditative,
and was content to hold her hand now and then.
“Shall you stay here all the week?” she inquired.
“If you wish me to.”
“You will find it wearisome.”
“Impossible, with you here. But if I run up to London for a day or two
it might be better. There are preparations. We shall go first of all to
my rooms—”
“I would rather not have stayed in London.”
“I thought you might wish to make purchases.”
“Let us go to some other town, and spend a few days there before
leaving England.”
“Very well. Manchester or Birmingham.”
“You speak rather impatiently,” said Rhoda, looking at him with an
uneasy smile. “Let it be London if you prefer—”
“On no account. It’s all indifferent to me so long as we get safely
away together. Every man is impatient of these preliminaries. Yes, in
that case I must of course go up to London. To-morrow, and back on
Saturday?”
A shower of rain caused them some discomfort. Through the afternoon it
still rained at intervals whilst Barfoot was discharging his business
at Gosforth. He was to see Rhoda again at eight o’clock, and as the
time threatened to hang heavily on his hands he returned by a long
detour, reaching the Seascale hotel about half-past six. No sooner had
he entered than there was delivered to him a letter, brought by
messenger an hour or two ago. It surprised him to recognize Rhoda’s
writing on the envelope, which seemed to contain at least two sheets of
notepaper. What now? Some whimsey? Agitated and annoyed by the
anticipation of trouble, he went apart and broke the letter open.
First appeared an enclosure—a letter in his cousin Mary’s writing. He
turned to the other sheet and read these lines,—
“I send you something that has come by post this afternoon. Please to
bring it with you when you meet me at eight o’clock—if you still care
to do so.”
His face flushed with anger. What contemptible woman’s folly was this?
“If you still care to do so”—and written in a hand that shook. If this
was to be his experience of matrimonial engagement—What rubbish had
Mary been communicating?
“My DEAR RHODA,—I have just gone through a very painful scene, and I
feel bound to let you know of it without delay, as it _may_ concern
you. This evening (Monday), when I came home from Great Portland
Street, Emma told me that Mr. Widdowson had called, that he wished to
see me as soon as possible, and would be here again at six o’clock. He
came, and his appearance alarmed me, he was looking so dreadfully ill.
Without preface, he said, “My wife has left me; she has gone to her
sister, and refuses to return.” This was astonishing in itself, and I
wondered still more why he should come and tell _me_ about it in so
strange a way. The explanation followed very promptly, and you may
judge how I heard it. Mr. Widdowson said that his wife had been
behaving very badly of late; that he had discovered several falsehoods
she had told him as to her employment during absences from home, in
daytime and evening. Having cause for suspecting the worst, he last
Saturday engaged a private detective to follow Mrs. Widdowson wherever
she went. This man saw her go to the flats in Bayswater where Everard
lives and knock at _his_ door. As no one replied, she went away for a
time and returned, but again found no one at home. This being at once
reported to Mr. Widdowson he asked his wife where she had been that
afternoon. The answer was false; she said she had been here, with me.
Thereupon he lost command of himself, and charged her with infidelity.
She refused to offer any kind of explanation, but denied that she was
guilty and at once left the house. Since, she has utterly refused to
see him. Her sister can only report that Monica is very ill, and that
she charges her husband with accusing her falsely.
“He had come to me, he said, in unspeakable anguish and helplessness,
to ask me whether I had seen anything suspicious in the relations
between Monica and my cousin when they met at this house or elsewhere.
A nice question! Of course I could only reply that it had never even
occurred to me to observe them—that to my knowledge they had met so
rarely—and that I should never have dreamt of suspecting Monica. “Yet
you see she _must_ be guilty,” he kept on repeating. I said no, that I
thought her visit _might_ have an innocent significance, though I
couldn’t suggest why she had told falsehoods. Then he inquired what I
knew about Everard’s present movements. I answered that I had every
reason to think that he was out of town, but didn’t know when he went,
or when he might be expected to return. The poor man was grievously
dissatisfied; he looked at me as if I were in a base plot against him.
It was an immense relief when he went away, after begging me to respect
his confidence.
“I write very hurriedly, as you see. That I _ought_ to write is, I
think, clear—though I may be doing lamentable mischief. I cannot
credit this charge against Mrs. Widdowson; there must surely be some
explanation. If you have already left Seascale, no doubt this letter
will be forwarded.—Ever yours, dear Rhoda,
MARY BARFOOT.”
Everard laughed bitterly. The completeness of the case against him in
Rhoda’s eyes must be so overwhelming, and his absolute innocence made
it exasperating to have to defend himself. How, indeed, was he to
defend himself?
The story was strange enough. Could he be right in the interpretation
which at once suggested itself to his mind—or perhaps to his vanity?
He remembered the meeting with Mrs. Widdowson near his abode on Friday.
He recollected, moreover, the signs of interest in himself which, as he
now thought, she had shown on previous occasions. Had the poor little
woman—doubtless miserable with her husband—actually let herself fall
in love with him? But, even in that case, what a reckless thing to
do—to come to his rooms! Why, she must have been driven by a despair
that blinded her to all sense of delicacy! Perhaps, had he been at
home, she would have made a pretence of wishing to speak about Rhoda
Nunn. That was imprudent behaviour of his, making such a person his
confidante. But he was tempted by his liking for her.
“By Jove!” he muttered, overcome by the thought. “I’m glad I was _not_
at home!”
But then—he had told her that he was going away on Saturday. How could
she expect to find him? The hour of her visit was not stated; probably
she hoped to catch him before he left. And was her appearance in the
neighbourhood on Friday—her troubled aspect—to be explained as an
abortive attempt to have a private interview with him?
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 assurance—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 appetite, 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 passed 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
circumstances 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 as this. Well,
you shall hear some more plain speech, altogether for your good. My record
is not immaculate; nor, I believe, is any mans. 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. Sexual 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 sanctity; 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?”
“Will you please to give me your cousin’s letter?” she said coldly.
“Here it is. Now you will go back to your lodgings, and sit with that
letter open before you half through the night. You will make yourself
unutterably wretched, and all for what?”
He felt himself once more in danger of weakness. Rhoda, in her haughty,
resentful mood, was very attractive to him. He was tempted to take her
in his arms, and kiss her until she softened, pleaded with him. He
wished to see her shed tears. But the voice in which she now spoke to
him was far enough from tearfulness.
“You must prove to me that you have been wrongly suspected.”
Ah, that was to be her line of conduct. She believed her power over him
was absolute. She stood on her dignity, would bring him to
supplication, would give him all the trouble she could before she
professed herself satisfied.
“How am I to prove it?” he asked bluntly.
“If there was nothing wrong between you and Mrs. Widdowson, there must
be some very simple explanation of her coming to your rooms and being
so anxious to see you.”
“And is it my business to discover that explanation?”
“Can it be mine?”
“It must either be yours, Rhoda, or no one’s. I shall take no single
step in the matter.”
The battle was declared. Each stood at full height, pertinacious,
resolved on victory.
“You are putting yourself wildly in the wrong,” Everard continued. “By
refusing to take my word you make it impossible for me to hope that we
could live together as we imagined.”
The words fell upon her heart like a crushing weight. But she could not
yield. Last night she had suffered in his opinion by urging what he
thought a weak, womanly scruple; she had condescended to plead tenderly
with him, and had won her cause. Now she would prevail in another way.
If he were telling the truth, he should acknowledge that natural
suspicion made it incumbent upon him to clear so strange a case of its
difficulties. If he were guilty of deception, as she still believed,
though willing to admit to herself that Monica might be most at fault,
that there might have been no actual wrongdoing between them—he should
confess with humblest penitence, and beseech pardon. Impossible to take
any other attitude. Impossible to marry him with this doubt in her
mind—equally out of the question to seek Monica, and humiliate herself
by making inquiries on such a subject. Guilty or not, Monica would
regard her with secret disdain, with woman’s malice. Were she _able_ to
believe him, that indeed would be a grand consummation of their love,
an ideal union of heart and soul. Listening to him, she had tried to
put faith in his indignant words. But it was useless. The incredulity
she could not help must either part them for ever, or be to her an
occasion of new triumph.
“I don’t refuse to take your word,” she said, with conscious quibbling.
“I only say that your name must be cleared from suspicion. Mr.
Widdowson is sure to tell his story to other people. Why has his wife
left him?”
“I neither know nor care.”
“You must prove to me that you are not the cause of it.”
“I shall not make the slightest effort to do so.”
Rhoda began to move away from him. As he kept silence, she walked on in
the Seascale direction. He followed at a distance of a few yards,
watching her movements. When they had gone so far that five minutes
more must bring them within sight of the hotel, Everard spoke.
“Rhoda!”
She paused and awaited him.
“You remember that I was going to London to-morrow. It seems that I had
better go and not trouble to return.”
“That is for you to decide.”
“For you rather.”
“I have said all that I _can_ say.”
“And so have I. But surely you must be unconscious how grossly you are
insulting me.”
“I want only to understand what purpose Mrs. Widdowson had in going to
your rooms.”
“Then why not ask her? You are friends. She would doubtless tell you
the truth.”
“If she comes to me voluntarily to make an explanation, I will hear it.
But I shall not ask her.”
“Your view of the fitness of things is that I should request her to
wait upon you for that purpose?”
“There are others who can act for you.”
“Very well. Then we are at a deadlock. It seems to me that we had
better shake hands like sensible people, and say good-bye.”
“Much better—if it seems so to you.”
The time for emotional help was past. In very truth they had nothing
more to say to each other, being now hardened in obstinacy. Each
suffered from the other’s coldness, each felt angry with the other’s
stubborn refusal to concede a point of dignity. Everard put out his
hand.
“When you are ready to say that you have used me very ill, I shall
remember only yesterday. Till then—good-bye, Rhoda.”
She made a show of taking his hand, but said nothing. And so they
parted.
* * *
At eight o’clock next morning Barfoot was seated in the southward
train. He rejoiced that his strength of will had thus far asserted
itself. Of final farewell to Rhoda he had no thought whatever. Her
curiosity would, of course, compel her to see Monica; one way or
another she would learn that he was blameless. His part was to keep
aloof from her, and to wait for her inevitable submission.
Violent rain was beating upon the carriage windows; it drove from the
mountains, themselves invisible, though dense low clouds marked their
position. Poor Rhoda! She would not have a very cheerful day at
Seascale. Perhaps she would follow him by a later train. Certain it was
that she must be suffering intensely—and that certainly rejoiced him.
The keener her suffering the sooner her submission. Oh, but the
submission should be perfect! He had seen her in many moods, but not
yet in the anguish of broken pride. She must shed tears before him,
declare her spirit worn and subjugated by torment of jealousy and fear.
Then he would raise her, and seat her in the place of honour, and fall
down at her feet, and fill her soul with rapture.
Many times between Seascale and London he smiled in anticipation of
that hour.