CONFESSION AND COUNSEL
The sisters did not exchange a word until morning, but both of them lay
long awake. Monica was the first to lose consciousness; she slept for
about an hour, then the pains of a horrid dream disturbed her, and
again she took up the burden of thought. Such waking after brief,
broken sleep, when mind and body are beset by weariness, yet cannot
rest, when night with its awful hush and its mysterious movements makes
a strange, dread habitation for the spirit—such waking is a grim trial
of human fortitude. The blood flows sluggishly, yet subject to sudden
tremors that chill the veins and for an instant choke the heart.
Purpose is idle, the will impure; over the past hangs a shadow of
remorse, and life that must yet be lived shows lurid, a steep pathway
to the hopeless grave. Of this cup Monica drank deeply.
A fear of death compassed her about. Night after night it had thus
haunted her. In the daytime she could think of death with resignation,
as a refuge from miseries of which she saw no other end; but this hour
of silent darkness shook her with terrors. Reason availed nothing; its
exercise seemed criminal. The old faiths, never abandoned, though
modified by the breath of intellectual freedom that had just touched
her, reasserted all their power. She saw herself as a wicked woman, in
the eye of truth not less wicked than her husband declared her. A
sinner stubborn in impenitence, defending herself by a paltry ambiguity
that had all the evil of a direct lie. Her soul trembled in its
nakedness.
What redemption could there be for her? What path of spiritual health
was discoverable? She could not command herself to love the father of
her child; the repugnance with which she regarded him seemed to her a
sin against nature, yet how was she responsible for it? Would it profit
her to make confession and be humbled before him? The confession must
some day be made, if only for her child’s sake; but she foresaw in it
no relief of mind. Of all human beings her husband was the one least
fitted to console and strengthen her. She cared nothing for his pardon;
from his love she shrank. But if there were some one to whom she could
utter her thoughts with the certainty of being understood—
Her sisters had not the sympathetic intelligence necessary for aiding
her; Virginia was weaker than she herself, and Alice dealt only in
sorrowful commonplaces, profitable perhaps to her own heart, but
powerless over the trouble of another’s. Among the few people she had
called her friends there was one strong woman—strong of brain, and
capable, it might be, of speaking the words that go from soul to soul;
this woman she had deeply offended, yet owing to mere mischance.
Whether or no Rhoda Nunn had lent ear to Barfoot’s wooing she must be
gravely offended; she had given proof of it in the interview reported
by Virginia. The scandal spread abroad by Widdowson might even have
been fatal to a happiness of which she had dreamt. To Rhoda Nunn some
form of reparation was owing. And might not an avowal of the whole
truth elicit from her counsel of gratitude—some solace, some guidance?
Amid the tremors of night Monica felt able to take this step, for the
mere chance of comfort that it offered. But when day came the
resolution had vanished; shame and pride again compelled her to silence.
And this morning she had new troubles to think about. Virginia was
keeping her room; would admit no one; answered every whisper of appeal
with brief, vague words that signified anything or nothing. The others
breakfasted in gloom that harmonized only too well with the heavy,
dripping sky visible from their windows. Only at midday did Alice
succeed in obtaining speech with her remorseful sister. They were
closeted together for more than an hour, and the elder woman came forth
at last with red, tear-swollen eyes.
“We must leave her alone to-day,” she said to Monica. “She won’t take
any meal. Oh, the wretched state she is in! If only I could have known
of this before!”
“Has it been going on for very long?”
“It began soon after she went to live at Mrs. Conisbee’s. She has told
me all about it—poor girl, poor thing! Whether she can ever break
herself of it, who knows? She says that she will take the pledge of
total abstinence, and I encouraged her to do so; it may be some use,
don’t you think?”
“Perhaps—I don’t know—”
“But I have no faith in her reforming unless she goes away from London.
She thinks herself that only a new life in a new place will give her
the strength. My dear, at Mrs. Conisbee’s she starved herself to have
money to buy spirits; she went without any food but dry bread day after
day.”
“Of course that made it worse. She must have craved for support.”
“Of course. And your husband knows about it. He came once when she was
in that state—when you were away—”
Monica nodded sullenly, her eyes averted.
“Her life has been so dreadfully unhealthy. She seems to have become
weak-minded. All her old interests have gone; she reads nothing but
novels, day after day.”
“I have noticed that.”
“How can we help her, Monica? Won’t you make a sacrifice for the poor
girl’s sake? Cannot I persuade you, dear? Your position has a bad
influence on her; I can see it has. She worries so about you, and then
tries to forget the trouble—you know how.”
Not that day, nor the next, could Monica listen to these entreaties.
But her sister at length prevailed. It was late in the evening;
Virginia had gone to bed, and the others sat silently, without
occupation. Miss Madden, after several vain efforts to speak, bent
forward and said in a low, grave voice,—
“Monica—you are deceiving us all. You are guilty.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I know it. I have watched you. You betray yourself when you are
thinking.”
The other sat with brows knitted, with hard, defiant lips.
“All your natural affection is dead, and only guilt could have caused
that. You don’t care what becomes of your sister. Only the fear, or the
evil pride, that comes of guilt could make you refuse what we ask of
you. You are afraid to let your husband know of your condition.”
Alice could not have spoken thus had she not believed what she said.
The conviction had become irresistible to her mind. Her voice quivered
with intensity of painful emotion.
“That last is true,” said her sister, when there had been silence for a
minute.
“You confess it? O Monica—”
“I don’t confess what you think,” went on the younger, with more
calmness than she had yet commanded in these discussions.
“Of that I am _not_ guilty. I am afraid of his knowing, because he will
never believe me. I have a proof which would convince anyone else; but,
even if I produced it, it would be no use. I don’t think it is possible
to persuade him—when once he knows—”
“If you were innocent you would disregard that.”
“Listen to me, Alice. If I were guilty I should not be living here at
his expense. I only consented to do that when I knew what my condition
was. But for this thing I should have refused to accept another penny
from him. I should have drawn upon my own money until I was able to
earn my own living again. If you won’t believe this it shows you know
nothing of me. Your reading of my face is all foolishness.”
“I would to God I were sure of what you say!” moaned Miss Madden, with
vehemence which seemed extraordinary in such a feeble, flabby person.
“You know that I told my husband lies,” exclaimed Monica, “so you think
I am never to be trusted. I did tell him lies; I can’t deny it, and I
am ashamed of it. But I am not a deceitful woman—I can say that
boldly. I love the truth better than falsehood. If it weren’t for that
I should never have left home. A deceitful woman, in my
circumstances—you don’t understand them—would have cheated her
husband into forgiving her—such a husband as mine. She would have
calculated the most profitable course. I left my husband because it was
hateful to me to be with a man for whom I had lost every trace of
affection. In keeping away from him I am acting honestly. But I have
told you that I am also afraid of his making a discovery. I want him to
believe—when the time comes—”
She broke off.
“Then, Monica, you ought to make known to him what you have been
concealing. If you are telling the truth, that confession can’t be
anything very dreadful.”
“Alice, I am willing to make an agreement. If my husband will promise
never to come near Clevedon until I send for him I will go and live
there with you and Virgie.”
“He has promised that, darling,” cried Miss Madden delightedly.
“Not to me. He has only said that he will make his home in London for a
time: that means he would come whenever he wished, if it were only to
speak to you and Virgie. But he must undertake never to come near until
I give him permission. If he will promise this, and keep his word, I
pledge myself to let him know the whole truth in less than a year.
Whether I live or die, he shall be told the truth in less than a year.”
Before going to bed Alice wrote and dispatched a few lines to
Widdowson, requesting an interview with him as soon as possible. She
would come to his house at any hour he liked to appoint. The next
afternoon brought a reply, and that same evening Miss Madden went to
Herne Hill. As a result of what passed there, a day or two saw the
beginning of the long-contemplated removal to Clevedon. Widdowson found
a lodging in the neighbourhood of his old home; he had engaged never to
cross the bounds of Somerset until he received his wife’s permission.
As soon as this compact was established Monica wrote to Miss Nunn. A
short submissive letter. “I am about to leave London, and before I go I
very much wish to see you. Will you allow me to call at some hour when
I could speak to you in private? There is something I must make known
to you, and I cannot write it.” After a day’s interval came the reply,
which was still briefer. Miss Nunn would be at home at half-past eight
this or the next evening.
Monica’s announcement that she must go out alone after nightfall
alarmed her sisters. When told that her visit was to Rhoda Nunn they
were somewhat relieved, but Alice begged to be permitted to accompany
her.
“It will be lost trouble,” Monica declared. “More likely than not there
is a spy waiting to follow me wherever I go. Your assurance that I
really went to Miss Barfoot’s won’t be needed.”
When the others still opposed her purpose she passed from irony into
anger.
“Have you undertaken to save him the expense of private detectives?
Have you promised never to let me go out of your sight?”
“Certainly I have not,” said Alice.
“Nor I, dear,” protested Virginia. “He has never asked anything of the
kind.”
“Then you may be sure that the spies are still watching me. Let them
have something to do, poor creatures. I shall go alone, so you needn’t
say any more.”
She took train to York Road Station, and thence, as the night was fine,
walked to Chelsea. This semblance of freedom, together with the sense
of having taken a courageous resolve, raised her spirits. She hoped
that a detective might be tracking her; the futility of such measures
afforded her a contemptuous satisfaction. Not to arrive before the
appointed hour she loitered on Chelsea Embankment, and it gave her
pleasure to reflect that in doing this she was outraging the
proprieties. Her mind was in a strange tumult of rebellious and
distrustful thought. She had determined on making a confession to
Rhoda; but would she benefit by it? Was Rhoda generous enough to
appreciate her motives? It did not matter much. She would have
discharged a duty at the expense of such shame, and this fact alone
might strengthen her to face the miseries beyond.
As she stood at Miss Barfoot’s door her heart quailed. To the servant
who opened she could only speak Miss Nunn’s name; fortunately
instructions had been given, and she was straightway led to the
library. Here she waited for nearly five minutes. Was Rhoda doing this
on purpose? Her face, when at length she entered, made it seem
probable; a cold dignity, only not offensive haughtiness, appeared in
her bearing. She did not offer to shake hands, and used no form of
civility beyond requesting her visitor to be seated.
“I am going away,” Monica began, when silence compelled her to speak.
“Yes, so you told me.”
“I can see that you can’t understand why I have come.”
“Your note only said that you wished to see me.”
Their eyes met, and Monica knew in the moment that succeeded that she
was being examined from head to foot. It seemed to her that she had
undertaken something beyond her strength; her impulse was to invent a
subject of brief conversation and escape into the darkness. But Miss
Nunn spoke again.
“Is it possible that I can be of any service to you?”
“Yes. You might be. But—I find it is very difficult to say what I—”
Rhoda waited, offering no help whatever, not even that of a look
expressing interest.
“Will you tell me, Miss Nunn, why you behave so coldly to me?”
“Surely that doesn’t need any explanation, Mrs. Widdowson?”
“You mean that you believe everything Mr. Widdowson has said?”
“Mr. Widdowson has said nothing to me. But I have seen your sister, and
there seemed no reason to doubt what she told me.”
“She couldn’t tell you the truth, because she doesn’t know it.”
“I presume she at least told no untruth.”
“What did Virginia say? I think I have a right to ask that.”
Rhoda appeared to doubt it. She turned her eyes to the nearest
bookcase, and for a moment reflected.
“Your affairs don’t really concern me, Mrs. Widdowson,” she said at
length. “They have been forced upon my attention, and perhaps I regard
them from a wrong point of view. Unless you have come to defend
yourself against a false accusation, is there any profit in our talking
of these things?”
“I _have_ come for that.”
“Then I am not so unjust as to refuse to hear you.”
“My name has been spoken of together with Mr. Barfoot’s. This is wrong.
It began from a mistake.”
Monica could not shape her phrases. Hastening to utter the statement
that would relieve her from Miss Nunn’s personal displeasure, she used
the first simple words that rose to her lips.
“When I went to Bayswater that day I had no thought of seeing Mr.
Barfoot. I wished to see someone else.”
The listener manifested more attention. She could not mistake the signs
of sincerity in Monica’s look and speech.
“Some one,” she asked coldly, “who was living with Mr. Barfoot?”
“No. Some one in the same building; in another flat. When I knocked at
Mr. Barfoot’s door, I knew—or I felt sure—no one would answer. I knew
Mr. Barfoot was going away that day—going into Cumberland.”
Rhoda’s look was fixed on the speaker’s countenance.
“You knew he was going to Cumberland?” she asked in a slow, careful
voice.
“He told me so. I met him, quite by chance, the day before.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Near the flats,” Monica answered, colouring. “He had just come out—I
saw him come out. I had an appointment there that afternoon, and I
walked a short way with him, so that he shouldn’t—”
Her voice failed. She saw that Rhoda had begun to mistrust her, to
think that she was elaborating falsehoods. The burdensome silence was
broken by Miss Nunn’s saying repellently,—
“I haven’t asked for your confidence, remember.”
“No—and if you try to imagine what it means for me to be speaking like
this—I am not shameless. I have suffered a great deal before I could
bring myself to come here and tell you. If you were more human—if you
tried to believe—”
The agitation which found utterance in these words had its effect upon
Rhoda. In spite of herself she was touched by the note of womanly
distress.
“Why have you come? Why do you tell me this?”
“Because it isn’t only that I have been falsely accused. I felt I must
tell you that Mr. Barfoot had never—that there was nothing between us.
What has he said? How did he meet the charge Mr. Widdowson made against
him?”
“Simply by denying it.”
“Hasn’t he wished to appeal to _me_?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard of his expressing such a wish. I can’t
see that you are called upon to take any trouble about Mr. Barfoot. He
ought to be able to protect his own reputation.”
“Has he done so?” Monica asked eagerly. “Did you believe him when he
denied—”
“But what does it matter whether I believed him or not?”
“He would think it mattered a great deal.”
“Mr. Barfoot would think so? Why?”
“He told me how much he wished to have your good opinion That is what
we used to talk about. I don’t know why he took me into his confidence.
It happened first of all when we were going by train—the same train,
by chance—after we had both been calling here. He asked me many
questions about you, and at last said—that he loved you—or something
that meant the same.”
Rhoda’s eyes had fallen.
“After that,” pursued Monica, “we several times spoke of you. We did so
when we happened to meet near his rooms—as I have told you. He told me
he was going to Cumberland with the hope of seeing you; and I
understood him to mean he wished to ask you—”
The sudden and great change in Miss Nunn’s expression checked the
speaker. Scornful austerity had given place to a smile, stern indeed,
but exultant. There was warmth upon her face; her lips moved and
relaxed; she altered her position in the chair as if inclined for more
intimate colloquy.
“There was never more than that between us,” pursued Monica with
earnestness. “My interest in Mr. Barfoot was only on your account. I
hoped he might be successful. And I have come to you because I feared
you would believe my husband—as I see you have done.”
Rhoda, though she thought it very unlikely that all this should be
admirable acting, showed that the explanation had by no means fully
satisfied her. Unwilling to put the crucial question, she waited, with
gravity which had none of the former harshness, for what else Mrs.
Widdowson might choose to say. A look of suffering appeal obliged her
to break the silence.
“I am very sorry you have laid this task upon yourself—”
Still Monica looked at her, and at length murmured,—
“If only I could know that I had done any good—”
“But,” said Rhoda, with a searching glance, “you don’t wish me to
repeat what you have said?”
“It was only for you. I thought—if you felt able to let Mr. Barfoot
know that you had no longer any—”
A flash of stern intelligence shot from the listener’s eyes.
“You have seen him then?” she asked with abrupt directness.
“Not since.”
“He has written to you?”—still in the same voice.
“Indeed he has not. Mr. Barfoot never wrote to me. I know nothing
whatever about him. No one asked me to come to you—don’t think that.
No one knows of what I have been telling you.”
Again Rhoda was oppressed by the difficulty of determining how much
credit was due to such assertions. Monica understood her look.
“As I have said so much I must tell you all. It would be dreadful after
this to go away uncertain whether you believed me or not.”
Human feeling prompted the listener to declare that she had no doubts
left. Yet she could not give utterance to the words. She knew they
would sound forced, insincere. Shame at inflicting shame caused her to
bend her head. Already she had been silent too long.
“I will tell you everything,” Monica was saying in low, tremulous
tones. “If no one else believes me, you at all events shall. I have not
done what—”
“No—I can’t hear this,” Rhoda broke in, the speaker’s voice affecting
her too powerfully. “I will believe you without this.”
Monica broke into sobbing. The strain of this last effort had overtaxed
her strength.
“We won’t talk any more of it,” said Rhoda, with an endeavour to speak
kindly. “You have done all that could be asked of you. I am grateful to
you for coming on my account.”
The other controlled herself.
“Will you hear what I have to say, Miss Nunn? Will you hear it as a
friend? I want to put myself right in your thoughts. I have told no one
else; I shall be easier in mind if you will hear me. My husband will
know everything before very long—but perhaps I shall not be alive—”
Something in Miss Nunn’s face suggested to Monica that her meaning was
understood. Perhaps, notwithstanding her denial, Virginia had told more
when she was here than she had permission to make known.
“Why should you wish to tell _me_?” asked Rhoda uneasily.
“Because you are so strong. You will say something that will help me. I
know you think that I have committed a sin which it is a shame to speak
of. That isn’t true. If it were true I should never consent to go and
live in my husband’s house.”
“You are returning to him?”
“I forgot that I haven’t told you.”
And Monica related the agreement that had been arrived at. When she
spoke of the time that must elapse before she would make a confession
to her husband, it again seemed to her that Miss Nunn understood.
“There is a reason why I consent to be supported by him,” she
continued. “If it were true that I had sinned as he suspects I would
rather kill myself than pretend still to be his wife. The day before he
had me watched I thought I had left him forever. I thought that if I
went back to the house again it would only be to get a few things that
I needed. It was some one who lived in the same building as Mr.
Barfoot. You have met him—”
She raised her eyes for an instant, and they encountered the
listener’s. Rhoda was at no loss to supply the omitted name; she saw at
once how plain things were becoming.
“He has left England,” pursued Monica in a hurried but clear voice. “I
thought then that I should go away with him. But—it was impossible. I
loved him—or thought I loved him; but I was guiltless of anything more
than consenting to leave my husband. Will you believe me?”
“Yes, Monica, I do believe you.”
“If you have any doubt, I can show you a letter he wrote to me from
abroad, which will prove—”
“I believe you absolutely.”
“But let me tell you more. I must explain how the misunderstanding—”
Rapidly she recounted the incidents of that fatal Saturday afternoon.
At the conclusion her self-command was again overcome; she shed tears,
and murmured broken entreaties for kindness.
“What shall I do, Miss Nunn? How can I live until—? I know it’s only
for a short time. My wretched life will soon be at an end—”
“Monica—there is one thing you must remember.”
The voice was so gentle, though firm—so unlike what she had expected
to hear—that the sufferer looked up with grateful attention.
“Tell me—give me what help you can.”
“Life seems so bitter to you that you are in despair. Yet isn’t it your
duty to live as though some hope were before you?”
Monica gazed in uncertainty.
“You mean—” she faltered.
“I think you will understand. I am not speaking of your husband.
Whether you have duties to him or not I can’t say; that is for your own
mind and heart to determine. But isn’t it true that your health has a
graver importance than if you yourself only were concerned?”
“Yes—you have understood me—”
“Isn’t it your duty to remember at every moment that your thoughts,
your actions, may affect another life—that by heedlessness, by
abandoning yourself to despair, you may be the cause of suffering it
was in your power to avert?”
Herself strongly moved, Rhoda had never spoken so impressively, had
never given counsel of such earnest significance. She felt her power in
quite a new way, without touch of vanity, without posing or any trivial
self-consciousness. When she least expected it an opportunity had come
for exerting the moral influence on which she prided herself, and which
she hoped to make the ennobling element of her life. All the better
that the case was one calling for courage, for contempt of vulgar
reticences; the combative soul in her became stronger when faced by
such conditions. Seeing that her words were not in vain, she came
nearer to Monica and spoke yet more kindly.
“Why do you encourage that fear of your life coming to an end?”
“It’s more a hope than a fear—at most times. I can see nothing before
me. I don’t wish to live.”
“That’s morbid. It isn’t yourself that speaks, but your trouble. You
are young and strong, and in a year’s time very much of this
unhappiness will have passed.”
“I have felt it like a certainty—as if it had been foretold to
me—ever since I knew—”
“I think it very likely that young wives have often the same dread. It
is physical, Monica, and in your case there is so little relief from
dark brooding. But again you must think of your responsibility. You
will live, because the poor little life will need your care.”
Monica turned her head away and moaned.
“I shall not love my child.”
“Yes, you will. And that love, that duty, is the life to which you must
look forward. You have suffered a great deal, but after such sorrow as
yours there comes quietness and resignation. Nature will help you.”
“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 nobly 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 gratitude. Then in silence they
went together to the house-door, and in silence parted.