The Odd Women Part 68

Suppressing the agitation which he felt, he awaited her answer. They could still read each other's faces perfectly in a pale yellow light from across the sea. Rhoda's manifested an intense conflict.

'After all, you doubt of your love for me?' said Barfoot quietly.

That was not her doubt. She loved with pa.s.sion, allowing herself to indulge the luxurious emotion as never yet. She longed once more to feel his arms about her. But even thus she could consider the vast issues of the step to which she was urged. The temptation to yield was very strong, for it seemed to her an easier and a n.o.bler thing to proclaim her emanc.i.p.ation from social statutes than to announce before her friends the simple news that she was about to marry. That announcement would excite something more than surprise. Mary Barfoot could not but smile with gentle irony; other women would laugh among themselves; the girls would feel a shock, as at the fall of one who had made heroic pretences. A sure way of averting this ridicule was by furnis.h.i.+ng occasion for much graver astonishment. If it became known that she had taken a step such as few women would have dared to take--deliberately setting an example of new liberty--her position in the eyes of all who knew her remained one of proud independence.

Rhoda's character was specially exposed to the temptation of such a motive. For months this argument had been in her mind, again and again she decided that the sensational step was preferable to a commonplace renunciation of all she had so vehemently preached. And now that the moment of actual choice had come she felt able to dare everything--as far as the danger concerned herself; but she perceived more strongly than hitherto that not only her own future was involved. How would such practical heresy affect Everard's position?

She uttered this thought.

'Are you willing, for the sake of this idea, to abandon all society but that of the very few people who would approve or tolerate what you have done?'

'I look upon the thing in this way. We are not called upon to declare our principles wherever we go. If we regard each other as married, why, we _are_ married. I am no Quixote, hoping to convert the world. It is between you and me--our own sense of what is reasonable and dignified.'

'But you would not make it a mere deception?'

'Mary would of course be told, and any one else you like.'

She believed him entirely serious. Another woman might have suspected that he was merely trying her courage, either to a.s.sure himself of her love or to gratify his vanity. But Rhoda's idealism enabled her to take him literally. She herself had for years maintained an exaggerated standard of duty and merit; desirous of seeing Everard in a n.o.bler light than hitherto, she endeavoured to regard his scruple against formal wedlock as worthy of all respect.

'I can't answer you at once,' she said, half turning away.

'You must. Here and at once.'

The one word of a.s.sent would have satisfied him. This he obstinately required. He believed that it would confirm his love beyond any other satisfaction she could render him. He must be able to regard her as magnanimous, a woman who had proved herself worth living or dying for.

And he must have the joy of subduing her to his will.

'No,' said Rhoda firmly. 'I can't answer you tonight. I can't decide so suddenly.'

This was disingenuous, and she felt humiliated by her subterfuge.

Anything but a sudden decision was asked of her. Before leaving Chelsea she had 'foreseen this moment, and had made preparations for the possibility of never returning to Miss Barfoot's house--knowing the nature of the proposal that would be offered to her. But the practical resolve needed a greater effort than she had imagined. Above all, she feared an ignominious failure of purpose after her word was given; _that_ would belittle her in Everard's eyes, and so shame her in her own that all hope of happiness in marriage must be at an end.

'You are still doubtful of me, Rhoda?'

He took her hand, and again drew her close. But she refused her lips.

'Or are you doubtful of your own love?'

'No. If I understand what love means, I love you.'

'Then give me the kiss I am waiting for. You have not kissed me yet.'

'I can't--until I am sure of myself--of my readiness--'

Her broken words betrayed the pa.s.sion with which she was struggling.

Everard felt her tremble against his side.

'Give me your hand,' he whispered. 'The left hand.'

Before she could guess his purpose he had slipped a ring upon her finger, a marriage ring. Rhoda started away from him, and at once drew off the perilous symbol.

'No--that proves to me I can't! What should we gain? You see, you dare not be quite consistent. It's only deceiving the people who don't know us.'

'But I have explained to you. The consistency is in ourselves, our own minds--'

'Take it back. Custom is too strong for us. We should only play at defying it. Take it back--or I shall drop it on the sand.'

Profoundly mortified, Everard restored the gold circlet to its hiding-place and stood gazing at the dim horizon. Some moments pa.s.sed, then he heard his name murmured. He did not look round.

'Everard, dearest--'

Was that Rhoda's voice, so low, tender, caressing? It thrilled him, and with a silent laugh of scorn at his own folly, he turned to her, every thought burnt up in pa.s.sion.

'Will you kiss me?'

For an answer she laid her hands on his shoulders and gazed at him.

Barfoot understood. He smiled constrainedly, and said in a low voice,--

'You wish for that old, idle form--?'

'Not the religious form, which has no meaning for either of us, But--'

'You have been living here seven or eight days. Stay till the fifteenth, then we can get a licence from the registrar of the district. Does that please you?'

Her eyes made reply.

'Do you love me any the less, Everard?'

'Kiss me.'

She did, and consciousness was lost for them as their mouths clung together and their hearts throbbed like one.

'Isn't it better?' Rhoda asked, as they walked back in the darkness.

'Won't it make our life so much simpler and happier?'

'Perhaps.'

'You know it will.' She laughed joyously, trying to meet his look.

'Perhaps you are right.'

'I shall let no one hear of it until--. Then let us go abroad.'

'You dare not face Mary?'

'I dare, if you wish it. Of course she will laugh at me. They will all laugh at me.'

'Why, you may laugh as well.'

'But you have spoilt my life, you know. Such a grand life it might have been. Why did you come and interfere with me? And you have been so terribly obstinate.'