The Odd Women Part 31

'Only because you seem rather sad.'

'One is sometimes.'

'I like to see you with that look. May I remind you that you promised me some flowers from Cheddar?'

'Oh, so I did,' exclaimed the other in a tone of natural recollection.

'I have brought them, scientifically pressed between blotting-paper.

I'll fetch them.'

When she returned it was together with Miss Barfoot, and the conversation became livelier.

A day or two after this Everard left town, and was away for three weeks, part of the time in Ireland.

'I left London for a while,' he wrote from Killarney to his cousin, 'partly because I was afraid I had begun to bore you and Miss Nunn.

Don't you regret giving me permission to call upon you? The fact is, I can't live without intelligent female society; talking with women, as I talk with you two, is one of my chief enjoyments. I hope you won't get tired of my visits; in fact, they are all but a necessity to me, as I have discovered since coming away. But it was fair that you should have a rest.'

'Don't be afraid,' Miss Barfoot replied to this part of his letter. 'We are not at all weary of your conversation. The truth is, I like it much better than in the old days. You seem to me to have a healthier mind, and I am quite sure that the society of intelligent women (we affect no foolish self-depreciation, Miss Nunn and I) is a good thing for you.

Come back to us as soon as you like; I shall welcome you.'

It happened that his return to England was almost simultaneous with the arrival from Madeira of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Barfoot. Everard at once went to see his brother, who for the present was staying at Torquay.

Ill-health dictated his choice of residence; Thomas was still suffering from the results of his accident; his wife had left him at a hotel, and was visiting relatives in different parts of England. The brothers exhibited much affectionate feeling after their long separation; they spent a week together, and planned for another meeting when Mrs. Thomas should have returned to her husband.

An engagement called Everard back to town. He was to be present at the wedding of his friend Micklethwaite, now actually on the point of taking place. The mathematician had found a suitable house, very small and of very low rental, out at South Tottenham, and thither was transferred the furniture which had been in his bride's possession since the death of her parents; Micklethwaite bought only a few new things. By discreet inquiry, Barfoot had discovered that 'f.a.n.n.y,'

though musically inclined, would not possess a piano, her old instrument being quite worn out and not worth the cost of conveyance; thus it came to pa.s.s that, a day or two before the wedding, Micklethwaite was astonished by the arrival of an instrument of the Cottage species, mysteriously addressed to a person not yet in existence, Mrs. Micklethwaite.

'You scoundrel!' he cried, when, on the next day, Barfoot presented himself at the house. 'This is _your_ doing. What the deuce do you mean? A man who complains of poverty! Well, it's the greatest kindness I ever received, that's all. f.a.n.n.y will be devoted to you. With music in the house, our blind sister will lead quite a different life.

Confound it! I want to begin crying. Why, man, I'm not accustomed to receive presents, even as a proxy; I haven't had one since I was a schoolboy.'

'That's an audacious statement. When you told me that Miss Wheatley never allowed your birthday to pa.s.s without sending something.'

'Oh, f.a.n.n.y! But I have never thought of f.a.n.n.y as a separate person.

Upon my word, now I think of it, I never have. f.a.n.n.y and I have been one for ages.'

That evening the sisters arrived from their country home. Micklethwaite gave up the house to them, and went to a lodging.

It was with no little curiosity that, on the appointed morning, Barfoot repaired to South Tottenham. He had seen a photograph of Miss Wheatley, but it dated from seventeen years ago. Standing in her presence, he was moved with compa.s.sion, and with another feeling more rarely excited in him by a women's face, that of reverential tenderness. Impossible to recognize in this countenance the features known to him from the portrait. At three-and-twenty she had possessed a sweet, simple comeliness on which any man's eye would have rested with pleasure; at forty she was wrinkled, hollow-cheeked, sallow, indelible weariness stamped upon her brow and lips. She looked much older than Mary Barfoot, though they were just of an age. And all this for want of a little money. The life of a pure, gentle, tender-hearted woman worn away in hopeless longing and in hard struggle for daily bread. As she took his hand and thanked him with an exquisite modesty for the present she had received, Everard felt a lump rise in his throat. He was ashamed to notice that the years had dealt so unkindly with her; fixing his look upon her eyes, he gladdened at the gladness which shone in them, at the soft light which they could still shed forth.

Micklethwaite was probably unconscious of the poor woman's faded appearance. He had seen her from time to time, and always with the love which idealizes. In his own pathetic phrase, she was simply a part of himself; he no more thought of criticizing her features than of standing before the gla.s.s to mark and comment upon his own. It was enough to glance at him as he took his place beside her, the proudest and happiest of men. A miracle had been wrought for him; kind fate, in giving her to his arms, had blotted out those long years of sorrow, and to-day f.a.n.n.y was the betrothed of his youth, beautiful in his sight as when first he looked upon her.

Her sister, younger by five years, had more regular lineaments, but she too was worn with suffering, and her sightless eyes made it more distressing to contemplate her. She spoke cheerfully, however, and laughed with joy in f.a.n.n.y's happiness. Barfoot pressed both her hands with the friendliest warmth.

One vehicle conveyed them all to the church, and in half an hour the lady to whom the piano was addressed had come into being. The simplest of transformations; no bridal gown, no veil, no wreath; only the gold ring for symbol of union. And it might have happened nigh a score of years ago; nigh a score of years lost from the span of human life--all for want of a little money.

'I will say good-bye to you here,' muttered Everard to his friend at the church door.

The married man gripped him by the arm.

'You will do nothing of the kind.--f.a.n.n.y, he wants to be off at once!--You won't go until you have heard my wife play something on that blessed instrument.'

So all entered a cab again and drove back to the house. A servant who had come with f.a.n.n.y from the country, a girl of fifteen, opened the door to them, smiling and curtseying. And all sat together in happy talk, the blind woman gayest among them; she wished to have the clergyman described to her, and the appearance of the church. Then Mrs.

Micklethwaite placed herself at the piano, and played simple, old-fas.h.i.+oned music, neither well nor badly, but to the infinite delight of two of her hearers.

'Mr. Barfoot,' said the sister at length, 'I have known your name for a long time, but I little thought to meet you on such a day as this, and to owe you such endless thanks. So long as I can have music I forget that I can't see.

'Barfoot is the finest fellow on earth,' exclaimed Micklethwaite. 'At least, he would be if he understood Trilinear Co-ordinates.'

'Are _you_ strong in mathematics, Mrs. Micklethwaite?' asked Everard.

'I? Oh dear, no! I never got much past the Rule of Three. But Tom has forgiven me that long ago.'

'I don't despair of getting you into plane trigonometry, f.a.n.n.y. We will gossip about sines and co-sines before we die.'

It was said half-seriously, and Everard could not but burst into laughter.

He sat down with them to their plain midday meal, and early in the afternoon took his leave. He had no inclination to go home, if the empty fiat could be dignified with such a name. After reading the papers at his club, he walked aimlessly about the streets until it was time to return to the same place for dinner. Then he sat with a cigar, dreaming, and at half-past eight went to the Royal Oak Station, and journeyed to Chelsea.

CHAPTER XIII

DISCORD OF LEADERS

A disappointment awaited him. Miss Barfoot was not well enough to see any one. Had she been suffering long? he inquired. No; it was only this evening; she had not dined, and was gone to her room. Miss Nunn could not receive him.

He went home, and wrote to his cousin.

The next morning he came upon a pa.s.sage in the newspaper which seemed to suggest a cause for Miss Barfoot's indisposition. It was the report of an inquest. A girl named Bella Royston had poisoned herself. She was living alone, without occupation, and received visits only from one lady. This lady, her name Miss Barfoot, had been supplying her with money, and had just found her a situation in a house of business; but the girl appeared to have gone through troubles which had so disturbed her mind that she could not make the effort required of her. She left a few lines addressed to her benefactress, just saying that she chose death rather than the struggle to recover her position.

It was Sat.u.r.day. He decided to call in the afternoon and see whether Mary had recovered.

Again a disappointment. Miss Barfoot was better, and had been away since breakfast; Miss Nunn was also absent.

Everard sauntered about the neighbourhood, and presently found himself in the gardens of Chelsea Hospital. It was a warm afternoon, and so still that he heard the fall of yellow leaves as he walked hither and thither along the alleys. His failure to obtain an interview with Miss Nunn annoyed him; but for her presence in the house he would not have got into this habit of going there. As far as ever from harbouring any serious thoughts concerning Rhoda, he felt himself impelled along the way which he had jokingly indicated in talk with Micklethwaite; he was tempted to make love to her as an interesting pastime, to observe how so strong-minded a woman would conduct herself under such circ.u.mstances. Had she or not a vein of sentiment in her character? Was it impossible to move her as other women are moved? Meditating thus, he looked up and saw the subject of his thoughts. She was seated a few yards away, and seemingly had not yet become aware of him, her eyes were on the ground, and troubled reverie appeared in her countenance.

'I have just called at the house, Miss Nunn. How is my cousin to-day?'

She had looked up only a moment before he spoke, and seemed vexed at being thus discovered.

'I believe Miss Barfoot is quite well,' she answered coldly, as they shook hands.

'But yesterday she was not so.'

'A headache, or something of the kind.'

He was astonished. Rhoda spoke with a cold indifference. She has risen, and showed her wish to move from the spot.

'She had to attend an inquest yesterday. Perhaps it rather upset her?'