The Odd Women Part 45

'How about your new algebra?'

'Alas! My dear boy, the temptation is so frightful--when I get back home. Remember that I have never known what it was to sit and talk through the evening with ordinary friends, let alone--It's too much for me just yet. And, you know, I don't venture to work on Sundays. That will come; all in good time. I must grant myself half a year of luxury after such a life as mine has been.'

'Of course you must. Let algebra wait.'

'I think it over, of course, at odd moments. Church on Sunday morning is a good opportunity.'

Barfoot could not stay to see the old year out, but good wishes were none the less heartily exchanged before he went. Micklethwaite walked with him to the railway station; at a few paces' distance from his house he stood and pointed back to it.

'That little place, Barfoot, is one of the sacred spots of the earth.

Strange to think that the house has been waiting for me there through all the years of my hopelessness. I feel that a mysterious light ought to s.h.i.+ne about it. It oughtn't to look just like common houses.'

On his way home Everard thought over what he had seen and heard, smiling good-naturedly. Well, that was one ideal of marriage. Not _his_ ideal; but very beautiful amid the vulgarities and vileness of ordinary experience. It was the old fas.h.i.+on in its purest presentment; the consecrated form of domestic happiness, removed beyond reach of satire, only to be touched, if touched at all, with the very gentlest irony.

A life by no means for him. If he tried it, even with a woman so perfect, he would perish of _ennui_. For him marriage must not mean repose, inevitably tending to drowsiness, but the mutual incitement of vigorous minds. Pa.s.sion--yes, there must be pa.s.sion, at all events to begin with; pa.s.sion not impossible of revival in days subsequent to its first indulgence. Beauty in the academic sense he no longer demanded; enough that the face spoke eloquently, that the limbs were vigorous.

Let beauty perish if it cannot ally itself with mind; be a woman what else she may, let her have brains and the power of using them! In that demand the maturity of his manhood expressed itself. For casual amour the odalisque could still prevail with him; but for the life of wedlock, the durable companions.h.i.+p of man and woman, intellect was his first requirement.

A woman with man's capability of understanding and reasoning; free from superst.i.tion, religious or social; far above the ign.o.ble weaknesses which men have been base enough to idealize in her s.e.x. A woman who would scorn the vulgarism of jealousy, and yet know what it is to love.

This was asking much of nature and civilization; did he grossly deceive himself in thinking he had found the paragon?

For thus far had he advanced in his thoughts of Rhoda Nunn. If the phrase had any meaning, he was in love with her; yet, strange complex of emotions, he was still only half serious in his desire to take her for a wife, wis.h.i.+ng rather to amuse and flatter himself by merely inspiring her with pa.s.sion. Therefore he refused to entertain a thought of formal marriage. To obtain her consent to marriage would mean nothing at all; it would afford him no satisfaction. But so to play upon her emotions that the proud, intellectual, earnest woman was willing to defy society for his sake--ah! that would be an end worth achieving.

Ever since the dialogue in which he frankly explained his position, and all but declared love, he had not once seen Rhoda in private. She shunned him purposely beyond a doubt, and did not that denote a fear of him justified by her inclination? The postponement of what must necessarily come to pa.s.s between them began to try his patience, as a.s.suredly it inflamed his ardour. If no other resource offered, he would be obliged to make his cousin an accomplice by requesting her beforehand to leave him alone with Rhoda some evening when he had called upon them.

But it was time that chance favoured him, and his interview with Miss Nunn came about in a way he could not have foreseen.

At the end of the first week of January he was invited to dine at Miss Barfoot's. The afternoon had been foggy, and when he set forth there seemed to be some likelihood of a plague of choking darkness such as would obstruct traffic. As usual, he went by train to Sloane Square, purposing (for it was dry under foot, and he could not disregard small economies) to walk the short distance from there to Queen's Road. On coming out from the station he found the fog so dense that it was doubtful whether he could reach his journey's end. Cabs were not to be had; he must either explore the gloom, with risk of getting nowhere at all, or give it up and take a train back. But he longed too ardently for the sight of Rhoda to abandon his evening without an effort. Having with difficulty made his way into King's Road, he found progress easier on account of the shop illuminations; the fog, however, was growing every moment more fearsome, and when he had to turn out of the highway his case appeared desperate. Literally he groped along, feeling the fronts of the houses. As under ordinary circ.u.mstances he would have had only just time enough to reach his cousin's punctually, he must be very late: perhaps they would conclude that he had not ventured out on such a night, and were already dining without him. No matter; as well go one way as another now. After abandoning hope several times, and all but asphyxiated, he found by inquiry of a man with whom he collided that he was actually within a few doors of his destination. Another effort and he rang a joyous peal at the bell.

A mistake. It was the wrong house, and he had to go two doors farther on.

This time he procured admittance to the familiar little hall. The servant smiled at him, but said nothing. He was led to the drawing-room, and there found Rhoda Nunn alone. This fact did not so much surprise him as Rhoda's appearance. For the first time since he had known her, her dress was not uniform black; she wore a red silk blouse with a black skirt, and so admirable was the effect of this costume that he scarcely refrained from a delighted exclamation.

Some concern was visible in her face.

'I am sorry to say,' were her first words, 'that Miss Barfoot will not be here in time for dinner. She went to Faversham this morning, and ought to have been back about half-past seven. But a telegram came some time ago. A thick fog caused her to miss the train, and the next doesn't reach Victoria till ten minutes past ten.'

It was now half-past eight; dinner had been appointed for the hour.

Barfoot explained his lateness in arriving.

'Is it so bad as that? I didn't know.'

The situation embarra.s.sed both of them. Barfoot suspected a hope on Miss Nunn's part that he would relieve her of his company, but, even had there been no external hindrance, he could not have relinquished the happy occasion. To use frankness was best.

'Out of the question for me to leave the house,' he said, meeting her eyes and smiling. 'You won't be hard upon a starving man?'

At once Rhoda made a pretence of having felt no hesitation.

'Oh, of course we will dine immediately.' She rang the bell. 'Miss Barfoot took it for granted that I would represent her. Look, the fog is penetrating even to our fireside.'

'Cheerful, very. What is Mary doing at Faversham?'

'Some one she has been corresponding with for some time begged her to go down and give an address to a number of ladies on--a certain subject.'

'Ah! Mary is on the way to become a celebrity.'

'Quite against her will, as you know.'

They went to dinner, and Barfoot, thoroughly enjoying the abnormal state of things, continued to talk of his cousin.

'It seems to me that she can't logically refuse to put herself forward.

Work of her kind can't be done in a corner. It isn't a case of "Oh teach the orphan girl to sew."'

'I have used the same argument to her,' said Rhoda.

Her place at the head of the table had its full effect upon Everard's imagination. Why should he hold by a resolve of which he did not absolutely approve the motive? Why not ask her simply to be his wife, and so remove one element of difficulty from his pursuit? True, he was wretchedly poor. Marrying on such an income, he would at once find his freedom restricted in every direction. But then, more likely than not, Rhoda had determined against marriage, and of him, especially, never thought for a moment as a possible husband. Well, that was what he wanted to ascertain.

They conversed naturally enough till the meal was over. Then their embarra.s.sment revived, but this time it was Rhoda who took the initiative.

'Shall I leave you to your meditations?' she asked, moving a few inches from the table.

'I should much prefer your society, if you will grant it me for a little longer.'

Without speaking, she rose and led the way to the drawingroom. There, sitting at a formal distance from each other, they talked--of the fog.

Would Miss Barfoot be able to get back at all?

'_A propos_,' said Everard, 'did you ever read "The City of Dreadful Night"?'

'Yes, I have read it.'

'Without sympathy, of course?'

'Why "of course"? Do I seem to you a shallow optimist?'

'No. A vigorous and rational optimist--such as I myself aim at being.'

'Do you? But optimism of that kind must be proved by some effort on behalf of society.'

'Precisely the effort I am making. If a man works at developing and fortifying the best things in his own character, he is surely doing society a service.'

She smiled sceptically.

'Yes, no doubt. But how do you develop and fortify yourself?'

She was meeting him half-way, thought Everard. Foreseeing the inevitable, she wished to have it over and done with. Or else--

'I live very quietly,' was his reply, 'thinking of grave problems most of my time. You know I am a great deal alone.'

'Naturally.'