The Odd Women Part 49

A week pa.s.sed and there arrived a letter, with a foreign stamp, addressed to Miss Nunn. Happening to receive it before Miss Barfoot had come down to breakfast, she put in away in a drawer till evening leisure, and made no mention of its arrival. Exhilaration appeared in her behaviour through the day. After dinner she disappeared, shutting herself up to read the letter.

'DEAR MISS NUNN,--I am sitting at a little marble table outside a cafe on the Cannibiere. Does that name convey anything to you? The Cannibiere is the princ.i.p.al street of Ma.r.s.eilles, street of gorgeous cafe's and restaurants, just now blazing with electric light. You, no doubt, are s.h.i.+vering by the fireside; here it is like an evening of summer. I have dined luxuriously, and I am taking my coffee whilst I write. At a table near to me sit two girls, engaged in the liveliest possible conversation, of which I catch a few words now and then, pretty French phrases that caress the ear. One of them is so strikingly beautiful that I cannot take my eyes from her when they have been tempted to that quarter. She speaks with indescribable grace and animation, has the sweetest eyes and lips--

'And all the time I am thinking of some one else. Ah, if _you_ were here! How we would enjoy ourselves among these southern scenes! Alone, it is delightful; but with you for a companion, with you to talk about everything in your splendidly frank way! This French girl's talk is of course only silly chatter; it makes me long to hear a few words from your lips--strong, brave, intelligent.

'I dream of the ideal possibility. Suppose I were to look up and see you standing just in front of me, there on the pavement. You have come in a few hours straight from London. Your eyes glow with delight.

To-morrow we shall travel on to Genoa, you and I, more than friends, and infinitely more than the common husband and wife! We have bidden the world go round for _our_ amus.e.m.e.nt; henceforth it is our occupation to observe and discuss and make merry.

'Is it all in vain? Rhoda, if you never love me, my life will be poor to what it might have been; and you, you also, will lose something. In imagination I kiss your hands and your lips.

EVERARD BARFOOT.'

There was an address at the head of this letter, but certainly Barfoot expected no reply, and Rhoda had no thought of sending one. Every night, however, she unfolded the sheet of thin foreign paper, and read, more than once, what was written upon it. Read it with external calm, with a brow of meditation, and afterwards sat for some time in absent mood.

Would he write again? Her daily question was answered in rather more than a fortnight. This time the letter came from Italy; it was lying on the hall table when Rhoda returned from Great Portland Street, and Miss Barfoot was the first to read the address. They exchanged no remark. On breaking the envelope--she did so at once--Rhoda found a little bunch of violets crushed but fragrant.

'These in return for your Cheddar pinks,' began the informal note accompanying the flowers. 'I had them an hour ago from a pretty girl in the streets of Parma. I didn't care to buy, and walked on, but the pretty girl ran by me, and with gentle force fixed the flowers in my b.u.t.ton-hole, so that I had no choice but to stroke her velvety cheek and give her a lira. How hungry I am for the sight of your face! Think of me sometimes, dear friend.'

She laughed, and laid the letter and its violets away with the other.

'I must depend on you, it seems, for news of Everard,' said Miss Barfoot after dinner.

'I can only tell you,' Rhoda answered lightly, 'that he has travelled from the south of France to the north of Italy, with much observation of female countenances.'

'He informs you of that?'

'Very naturally. It is his chief interest. One likes people to tell the truth.'

Barfoot was away until the end of April, but after that note from Parma he did not write. One bright afternoon in May, a Sat.u.r.day, he presented himself at his cousin's house, and found two or three callers in the drawing-room, ladies as usual; one of them was Miss Winifred Haven, another was Mrs. Widdowson. Mary received him without effusiveness, and after a few minutes' talk with her he took a place by Mrs. Widdowson, who, it struck him, looked by no means in such good spirits as during the early days of her marriage. As soon as she began to converse, his impression of a change in her was confirmed; the girlishness so pleasantly noticeable when first he knew her had disappeared, and the gravity subst.i.tuted for it was suggestive of disillusion, of trouble.

She asked him if he knew some people named Bevis, who occupied a flat just above his own.

'Bevis? I have seen the name on the index at the foot of the stairs; but I don't know them personally.'

'That was how I came to know that _you_ live there,' said Monica. 'My husband took me to call upon the Bevises, and there we saw your name.

At least, we supposed it was you, and Miss Barfoot tells me we were right.'

'Oh yes; I live there all alone, a gloomy bachelor. How delightful if you knocked at my door some day, when you and Mr. Widdowson are again calling on your friends.'

Monica smiled, and her eyes wandered restlessly.

'You have been away--out of England?' she next said.

'Yes; in Italy.'

'I envy you.'

'You have never been there?'

'No--not yet.'

He talked a little of the agreeables and disagreeables of life in that country. But Mrs. Widdowson had become irresponsive; he doubted at length whether she was listening to him, so, as Miss Haven stepped this way, he took an opportunity of a word aside with his cousin.

'Miss Nunn not at home?'

'No. Won't be till dinner-time.'

'Quite well?'

'Never was better. Would you care to come back and dine with us at half-past seven?'

'Of course I should.'

With this pleasant prospect he took his leave. The afternoon being sunny, instead of walking straight to the station, to return home, he went out on to the Embankment, and sauntered round by Chelsea Bridge Road. As he entered Sloane Square he saw Mrs. Widdowson, who was coming towards the railway; she walked rather wearily, with her eyes on the ground, and did not become aware of him until he addressed her.

'Are we travelling the same way?' he asked. 'Westward?'

'Yes. I am going all the way round to Portland Road.'

They entered the station, Barfoot chatting humorously. And, so intent was he on the expression of his companion's downcast face, that he allowed an acquaintance to pa.s.s close by him un.o.bserved. It was Rhoda Nunn, returning sooner than Miss Barfoot had expected. She saw the pair, regarded them with a moment's keen attentiveness, and went on, out into the street.

In the first-cla.s.s carriage which they entered there was no other pa.s.senger as far as Barfoot's station. He could not resist the temptation to use rather an intimate tone, though one that was quite conventional, in the hope that he might discover something of Mrs.

Widdowson's mind. He began by asking whether she thought it a good Academy this year. She had not yet visited it, but hoped to do so on Monday. Did she herself do any kind of artistic work? Oh, nothing whatever; she was a very useless and idle person. He believed she had been a pupil of Miss Barfoot's at one time? Yes, for a very short time indeed, just before her marriage. Was she not an intimate friend of Miss Nunn? Hardly intimate. They knew each other a few years ago, but Miss Nunn did not care much about her now.

'Probably because I married,' she added with a smile.

'Is Miss Nunn really such a determined enemy of marriage?'

'She thinks it pardonable in very weak people. In my case she was indulgent enough to come to the wedding.'

This piece of news surprised Barfoot.

'She came to your wedding? And wore a wedding garment?'

'Oh yes. And looked very nice.'

'Do describe it to me. Can you remember?'

Seeing that no woman ever forgot the details of another's dress, on however trivial an occasion, and at whatever distance of time, Monica was of course able to satisfy the inquirer. Her curiosity excited, she ventured in turn upon one or two insidious questions.

'You couldn't imagine Miss Nunn in such a costume?'

'I should very much like to have seen her.'

'She has a very striking face--don't you think so?'

'Indeed I do. A wonderful face.'