The Odd Women Part 53

'I have promised to go into the town. I'm very sorry.'

'It doesn't matter.'

This was his latest mode of appealing to her--with an air of pained resignation.

'For a day or two I haven't felt at all well,' he continued gloomily.

'I thought a drive might do me good.'

'Certainly. I hope it will. When would you like to have dinner?'

'I never care to alter the hours. Of course I shall be back at the usual time. Shall _you_ be?'

'Oh yes--long before dinner.'

So she got away without any explanation. At a quarter to four she reached the block of flats in which the Bevises (and Everard Barfoot) resided. With a fluttering of the heart, she went very quietly upstairs, as if anxious that her footsteps should not be heard; her knock at the door was timid.

Bevis in person opened to her.

'Delighted! I thought it _might_ be--'

She entered, and walked into the first room, where she had been once before. But to her surprise it was vacant. She looked round and saw Bevis's countenance gleaming with satisfaction.

'My sisters will be here in a few minutes,' he said. 'A few minutes at most. Will you take this chair, Mrs. Widdowson? How delighted I am that you were able to come!'

So perfectly natural was his manner, that Monica, after the first moment of consternation, tried to forget that there was anything irregular in her presence here under these circ.u.mstances. As regards social propriety, a flat differs in many respects from a house. In an ordinary drawing-room, it could scarcely have mattered if Bevis entertained her for a short s.p.a.ce until his sisters' arrival; but in this little set of rooms it was doubtfully permissible for her to sit _tete-a-tete_ with a young man, under any excuse. And the fact of his opening the front door himself seemed to suggest that not even a servant was in the flat. A tremor grew upon her as she talked, due in part to the consciousness that she was glad to be thus alone with Bevis.

'A place like this must seem to you to be very unhomelike,' he was saying, as he lounged on a low chair not very far from her. 'The girls didn't like it at all at first. I suppose it's a retrograde step in civilization. Servants are decidedly of that opinion; we have a great difficulty in getting them to stay here. The reason seems to me that they miss the congenial gossip of the area door. At this moment we are without a domestic. I found she compensated herself for disadvantages by stealing my tobacco and cigars. She went to work with such a lack of discretion--abstracting half a pound of honeydew at a time--that I couldn't find any sympathy for her. Moreover, when charged with the delinquency, she became abusive, so very abusive that we were obliged to insist upon her immediate departure.'

'Do you think she smoked?' asked Monica laughingly.

'We have debated that point with much interest. She was a person of advanced ideas, as you see; practically a communist. But I doubt whether honeydew had any charms for her personally. It seems more probable that some milkman, or baker's a.s.sistant, or even metropolitan policeman, benefited by her communism.'

Indifferent to the progress of time, Bevis talked on with his usual jocoseness, now and then shaking his tawny hair in a fit of laughter the most contagious.

'But I have something to tell you,' he said at length more seriously.

'I am going to leave England. They want me to live at Bordeaux for a tune, two or three years perhaps. It's a great bore, but I shall have to go. I am not my own master.'

'Then your sisters will go to Guernsey?'

'Yes. I dare say I shall leave about the end of July.'

He became silent, looking at Monica with humorous sadness.

'Do you think your sisters will soon be here, Mr. Bevis?' Monica asked, with a glance round the room.

'I think so. Do you know, I did a very silly thing. I wanted your visit (if you came) to be a surprise for them, and so--in fact, I said nothing about it. When I got here from business, a little before three, they were just going out. I asked them if they were sure they would be back in less than an hour. Oh, they were quite sure--not a doubt about it. I do hope they haven't altered their mind, and gone to call somewhere. But, Mrs. Widdowson, I am going to make you a cup of tea--with my own fair hands, as the novelist say.'

Monica begged that he would not trouble. Under the circ.u.mstances she had better not stay. She would come again very soon.

'No, I can't, I can't let you go!' Bevis exclaimed, softening his gay tone as he stood before her. 'How shall I entreat you? If you knew what an unforgettable delight it will be to me to make you a cup of tea! I shall think of it at Bordeaux every Sat.u.r.day.'

She had risen, but exhibited no immutable resolve.

'I really must go, Mr. Bevis--!'

'Don't drive me to despair. I am capable of turning my poor sisters out of house and home--flat and home, I mean--in anger at their delay. On their account, in pity for their youth, do stay, Mrs. Widdowson!

Besides, I have a new song that I want you to bear--words and music my own. One little quarter of an hour! And I know the girls will be here directly.'

His will, and her inclination, prevailed. Monica sat down again, and Bevis disappeared to make the tea. Water must have been already boiling, for in less than five minutes the young man returned with a tray, on which all the necessaries were neatly arranged. With merry homage he waited upon his guest. Monica's cheeks were warm. After the vain attempt to release herself from what was now distinctly a compromising situation, she sat down in an easier att.i.tude than before, as though resolved to enjoy her liberty whilst she might. There was a suspicion in her mind that Bevis had arranged this interview; she doubted the truth of his explanation. And indeed she hoped that his sisters would not return until after her departure; it would be very embarra.s.sing to meet them.

Whilst talking and listening, she silently defended herself against the charge of impropriety. What wrong was she committing? What matter that they were alone? Their talk was precisely what it might have been in other people's presence. And Bevis, such a frank, good-hearted fellow, could not by any possibility fail in respect to her. The objections were all cant, and cant of the worst kind. She would not be a slave of such ign.o.ble prejudices.

'You haven't made Mr. Barfoot's acquaintance yet?' she asked.

'No, I haven't. There seems to have been no opportunity. Did you seriously wish me to know him?'

'Oh, I had no wish in the matter at all.'

'You like Mr. Barfoot?'

'I think him very pleasant.'

'How delightful to be praised by you, Mrs. Widdowson! Now if any one speaks to you about _me_, when I have left England, will you find some nice word? Don't think me foolish. I do so desire the good opinion of my friends. To know that you spoke of me as you did for Mr. Barfoot would give me a whole day of happiness.'

'How enviable! To be so easily made happy.'

'Now let me sing you this song of mine. It isn't very good; I haven't composed for years. But--'

He sat down and rattled over the keys. Monica was expecting a lively air and spirited words, as in the songs she had heard at Guernsey; but this composition told of sadness and longing and the burden of a lonely heart. She thought it very beautiful, very touching. Bevis looked round to see the effect it produced upon her, and she could not meet his eyes.

'Quite a new sort of thing for me, Mrs. Widdowson. Does it strike you as so very bad?'

'No--not at all.'

'But you can't honestly praise it?' He sighed, in dejection. 'I meant to give you a copy. I made this one specially for you, and--if you will forgive me--I have taken the liberty of dedicating it to you.

Songwriters do that, you know. Of course it is altogether unworthy of your acceptance--'

'No--no--indeed I am very grateful to you, Mr. Bevis. Do give it to me--as you meant to.'

'You will have it?' he cried delightedly. 'Now for a triumphal march!'

Whilst he played, with look corresponding to the exultant strain, Monica rose from her chair. She stood with eyes downcast and lips pressed together. When the last chord had sounded,--

'Now I must say good-bye, Mr. Bevis. I am so sorry your sisters haven't come.'

'So am I--and yet I am not. I have enjoyed the happiest half-hour of my life.'

'Will you give me the piece of music?'