The Odd Women Part 58

Through the evening he was in a state of transport, due partly to the belief that Monica really welcomed his decision, partly to the sense of having behaved at length like a resolute man. His eyes were severely bloodshot, and before bedtime headache racked him intolerably.

Everything was carried out as he had planned it. They journeyed down into Somerset, put up at a Clevedon hotel, and began house-hunting. On Wednesday the suitable abode was discovered--a house of modest pretensions, but roomy and well situated. It could be made ready for occupation in a fortnight. Bent on continuing his exhibition of vigorous prompt.i.tude, Widdowson signed a lease that same evening.

'To-morrow we will go straight home and make our preparations for removal. When all is ready, you shall come down here and live at the hotel until the house is furnished. Go to your sister Virginia and simply bid her do as you wish. Imitate me!' He laughed fatuously.

'Don't listen to any objection. When you have once got her away she will thank you.'

By Thursday afternoon they were back at Herne Hill. Widdowson still kept up the show of extravagant spirits, but he was worn out. He spoke so hoa.r.s.ely that one would have thought he had contracted a severe sore throat; it resulted merely from nervous strain. After a pretence of dinner, he seated himself as if to read; glancing at him a few minutes later, Monica found that he was fast asleep.

She could not bear to gaze at him, yet her eyes turned thither again and again. His face was repulsive to her; the deep furrows, the red eyelids, the mottled skin moved her to loathing. And yet she pitied him. His frantic exultation was the cruelest irony. What would he do?

What would become of him? She turned away, and presently left the room, for the sound of his uneasy breathing made her suffer too much.

When he woke up, he came in search of her, and laughed over his involuntary nap.

'Well, now, you will go and see your sister to-morrow morning.'

'In the afternoon, I think.'

'Why? Don't let us have any procrastination. The morning, the morning!'

'Please do let me have my way in such a trifle as that,' Monica exclaimed nervously. 'I have all sorts of things to see to here before I can go out.'

He caressed her.

'You shan't say that I am unreasonable. In the afternoon, then. And don't listen to any objections.'

'No, no.'

It was Friday. All the morning Widdowson had business with house agents and furniture removers, for he would not let a day go by without some practical step towards release from the life he detested. Monica seemed to be equally active in her own department; she was turning out drawers and wardrobes, and making selection of things--on some principle understood by herself. A flush remained upon her cheeks, in marked contrast to the pallor which for a long time had given her an appearance of wasting away. That and her singularly bright eyes endowed her with beauty suggestive of what she might have gained in happy marriage.

They had luncheon at one o'clock, and at a quarter to two Monica started by train for Clapham Junction. It was her purpose to have a short conversation with Virginia, who knew of the trip to Clevedon, and to speak as though she were quite reconciled to the thought of removal; after that, she would pursue her journey so as to reach Bayswater by four o'clock. But Virginia was not at home. Mrs. Conisbee said she had gone out at eleven in the morning, and with the intention of returning by teatime. After a brief hesitation Monica requested the landlady to deliver a message.

'Please ask her not to come to Herne Hill until she hears from me, as I am not likely to be at home for a day or two.'

This left more time at her disposal than she knew how to employ. She returned to the railway station, and travelled on to Victoria; there, in the corner of a waiting-room, she sat, feverishly impatient, until her watch told her that she might take the next train westward.

A possible danger was before her--though perhaps she need not trouble herself with the thought of such dangers. What if Mr. Barfoot happened to encounter her as she ascended the stairs? But most likely he had no idea that her female friends, who dwelt on the floor above him, were gone away. Did it matter what he might think? In a day or two--

She came to the street, approached the block of flats, involuntarily casting anxious glances about her. And when she was within twenty yards of the door, it opened, and forth came Barfoot. Her first sensation was unreasoning terror; her next, thankfulness that she had not been a few minutes sooner, when the very meeting she had feared, within the building itself, would have come to pa.s.s. He walked this way; he saw her; and the pleasantest smile of recognition lit up his face.

'Mrs. Widdowson! Not a minute ago you were in my thoughts. I wished I could see you.'

'I am going--to make a call in this neighbourhood--'

She could not command herself. The shock had left her trembling, and the necessity of feigning calmness was a new trial of her nerves.

Barfoot, she felt certain, was reading her face like a printed page; he saw guilt there; his quickly-averted eyes, his peculiar smile, seemed to express the facile tolerance of a man of the world.

'Allow me to accompany you to the end of the street.'

His words buzzed in her ears. She walked on without conscious effort, like an automaton obedient to a touch.

'You know that Miss Nunn has gone down into c.u.mberland?' Barfoot was saying, his look bent upon her.

'Yes. I know.'

She tried to glance at him with a smile.

'To-morrow,' he pursued, 'I am going there myself.'

'To c.u.mberland?'

'I shall see her, I hope. Perhaps she will only be angry with me.'

'Perhaps. But perhaps not.'

Her confusion would not be overcome. She felt a burning in her ears, on her neck. It was an agony of shame. The words she spoke sounded imbecile mutterings, which must confirm Barfoot in his worst opinion of her.

'If it is all in vain,' he continued, 'then I shall say good-bye, and there's an end.'

'I hope not--I should think--'

Useless. She set her lips and became mute. If only he would leave her!

And almost immediately he did so, with a few words of kind tone. She felt the pressure of his hand, and saw him walk rapidly away; doubtless he knew this was what she desired.

Until he had pa.s.sed out of sight, Monica kept the same direction. Then she turned round and hurried back, fearful lest the detention might make her late, and Bevis might lose hope of her coming. There could be no one in the building now whom she need fear to meet. She opened the big entrance door and went up.

Bevis must have been waiting for the sound of her light footstep; his door flew open before she could knock. Without speaking, a silent laugh of joy upon his lips, he drew back to make room for her entrance, and then pressed both her hands.

In the sitting-room were beginnings of disorder. Pictures had been taken down from the walls and light ornaments removed.

'I shan't sleep here after to-night,' Bevis began, his agitation scarcely less obvious than Monica's. 'To-morrow I shall be packing what is to go with me. How I hate it all!'

Monica dropped into a chair near the door.

'Oh, not there!' he exclaimed. 'Here, where you sat before. We are going to have tea together again.'

His utterances were forced, and the laugh that came between them betrayed the quivering of his nerves.

'Tell me what you have been doing. I have thought of you day and night.'

He brought a chair close to her, and when he had seated himself he took one of her hands. Monica, scarcely repressing a sob, the result of reaction from her fears and miseries, drew the hand away. But again he took it.

'There's the glove on it,' he said in a shaking voice. 'What harm in my holding your glove? Don't think of it, and talk to me. I love music, but no music is like your voice.'

'You go on Monday?'

It was her lips spoke the sentence, not she.