Throughout January, Barfoot was endeavouring to persuade his brother Tom to leave London, where the invalid’s health perceptibly grew worse. Doctors were urgent to the same end, but ineffectually; for Mrs. Thomas, though she professed to be amazed at her husband’s folly in remaining where he could not hope for recovery, herself refused to accompany him any whither. This pair had no children. The lady always spoke of herself as a sad sufferer from mysterious infirmities, and had, in fact, a tendency to hysteria, which confused itself inextricably with the results of evil nurture and the impulses of a disposition originally base; nevertheless she made a figure in a certain sphere of vulgar wealth, and even gave opportunity to scandalous tongues. Her husband, whatever his secret thought, would hear nothing against her; his temper, like Everard’s, was marked with stubbornness, and after a good deal of wrangling he forbade his brother to address him again on the subject of their disagreement.
‘Tom is dying,’ wrote Everard, early in February, to his cousin in Queen’s Road. ‘Dr. Swain assures me that unless he be removed he cannot last more than a month or two. This morning I saw the woman’— it was thus he always referred to his sister-inlaw —‘and talked to her in what was probably the plainest language she ever had the privilege of hearing. It was a tremendous scene, brought to a close only by her flinging herself on the sofa with shrieks which terrified the whole household. My idea is that we must carry the poor fellow away by force. His infatuation makes me rage and curse, but I am bent on trying to save his life. Will you come and give your help?’
A week later they succeeded in carrying the invalid back to Torquay. Mrs. Barfoot had abandoned him to his doctors, nurses, and angry relatives; she declared herself driven out of the house, and went to live at a fashionable hotel. Everard remained in Devon for more than a month, devoting himself with affection, which the trial of his temper seemed only to increase, to his brother’s welfare. Thomas improved a little; once more there was hope. Then on a sudden frantic impulse, after writing fifty letters which elicited no reply, he travelled in pursuit of his wife; and three days after his arrival in London he was dead.
By a will, executed at Torquay, he bequeathed to Everard about a quarter of his wealth. All the rest went to Mrs. Barfoot, who had declared herself too ill to attend the funeral, but in a fortnight was sufficiently recovered to visit one of her friends in the country.
Everard could now count upon an income of not much less than fifteen hundred a year. That his brother’s death would enrich him he had always foreseen, but no man could have exerted himself with more ardent energy to postpone that advantage. The widow charged him, wherever she happened to be, with deliberate fratricide; she vilified his reputation, by word of mouth or by letter, to all who knew him, and protested that his furious wrath at not having profited more largely by the will put her in fear of her life. This last remarkable statement was made in a long and violent epistle to Miss Barfoot, which the recipient showed to her cousin on the first opportunity. Everard had called one Sunday morning — it was the end of March — to say good-bye on his departure for a few weeks’ travel. Having read the letter, he laughed with a peculiar fierceness.
‘This kind of thing,’ said Miss Barfoot, ‘may necessitate your prosecuting her. There is a limit, you know, even to a woman’s licence.’
‘I am far more likely,’ he replied, ‘to purchase a very nice little cane, and give her an exemplary thrashing.’
‘Oh! Oh!’
‘Upon my word, I see no reason against it! That’s how I should deal with a man who talked about me in this way, and none the less if he were a puny creature quite unable to protect himself. In that furious scene before we got Tom away I felt most terribly tempted to beat her. There’s a great deal to be said for woman-beating. I am quite sure that many a labouring man who pommels his wife is doing exactly the right thing; no other measure would have the least result. You see what comes of impunity. If this woman saw the possibility that I should give her a public caning she would be far more careful how she behaved herself. Let us ask Miss Nunn’s opinion.’
Rhoda had that moment entered the room. She offered her hand frankly, and asked what the subject was.
‘Glance over this letter,’ said Barfoot. ‘Oh, you have seen it. I propose to get a light, supple, dandyish cane, and to give Mrs. Thomas Barfoot half a dozen smart cuts across the back in her own drawing-room, some afternoon when people were present. What have you to say to it?’
He spoke with such show of angry seriousness that Rhoda paused before replying.
‘I sympathized with you,’ she said at length, ‘but I don’t think I would go to that extremity.’
Everard repeated the argument he had used to his cousin.
‘You are quite right,’ Rhoda assented. ‘I think many women deserve to be beaten, and ought to be beaten. But public Opinion would be so much against you.’
‘What do I care? So is public opinion against you.’
‘Very well. Do as you like. Miss Barfoot and I will come to the police court and give strong evidence in your favour.’
‘Now there’s a woman!’ exclaimed Everard, not all in jest, for Rhoda’s appearance had made his nerves thrill and his pulse beat. ‘Look at her, Mary. Do you wonder that I would walk the diameter of the globe to win her love?’
Rhoda flushed scarlet, and Miss Barfoot was much embarrassed. Neither could have anticipated such an utterance as this. ‘That’s the simple truth,’ went on Everard recklessly, ‘and she knows it, and yet won’t listen to me. Well, good-bye to you both! Now that I have so grossly misbehaved myself, she has a good excuse for refusing even to enter the room when I am here. But do speak a word for me whilst I am away, Mary.’
He shook hands with them, scarcely looking at their faces, and abruptly departed.
The women stood for a moments at a distance from each other. Then Miss Barfoot glanced at her friend and laughed.
‘Really my poor cousin is not very discreet.’
‘Anything but,’ Rhoda answered, resting on the back of a chair, her eyes cast down. ‘Do you think he will really cane his sister-inlaw?’
‘How can you ask such a question?’
‘It would be amusing. I should think better of him for it.’
‘Well, make it a condition. We know the story of the lady and her glove. I can see you sympathize with her.’
Rhoda laughed and went away, leaving Miss Barfoot with the impression that she had revealed a genuine impulse. It seemed not impossible that Rhoda might wish to say to her lover: ‘Face this monstrous scandal and I am yours.
A week passed 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 principal street of Marseilles, street of gorgeous cafe’s and restaurants, just now blazing with electric light. You, no doubt, are shivering 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 amusement; 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 button-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, ............