'I often have nightmares,' she remarked, 'and kick a great deal. It wouldn't be nice to give you bruises.'
A week passed. Alice had written from Yatton, and in a cheerful tone. Virginia, chronically excited, had made calls at Rutland Street and at Queen's Road; she talked like one who had suddenly received a great illumination, and her zeal in the cause of independent womanhood rivalled Miss Nunn's. Without enthusiasm, but seemingly contented, Monica worked at the typewriting machine, and had begun certain studies which her friends judged to be useful. She experienced a growth of self-respect. It was much to have risen above the status of shop-girl, and the change of moral atmosphere had a very beneficial effect upon her.
Mildred Vesper was a studious little person, after a fashion of her own. She possessed four volumes of Maunder's 'Treasuries', and to one or other of these she applied herself for at least an hour every evening.
'By nature,' she said, when Monica sought an explanation of this study, 'my mind is frivolous. What I need is a store of solid information, to reflect upon. No one could possibly have a worse memory, but by persevering I manage to learn one or two facts a day.'
Monica glanced at the books now and then, but had no desire to cultivate Maunder's acquaintance. Instead of reading, she meditated the problems of her own life.
Edmund Widdowson, of course, wrote to her at the new address. In her reply she again postponed their meeting. Whenever she went out in the evening, it was with expectation of seeing him somewhere in the neighbourhood; she felt assured that he had long ago come to look at the house, and more likely than not his eyes had several times been upon her. That did not matter; her life was innocent, and Widdowson might watch her coming and going as much as he would.
At length, about nine o'clock one evening, she came face to face with him. It was in Hampstead Road; she had been buying at a draper's, and carried the little parcel. At the moment of recognition, Widdowson's face so flushed and brightened that Monica could not help a sympathetic feeling of pleasure.
'Why are you so cruel to me?' he said in a low voice, as she gave her hand. 'What a time since I saw you!'
'Is that really true?' she replied, with an air more resembling coquetry than any he had yet seen in her.
'Since I spoke to you, then.'
'When did you see me?'
'Three evenings ago. You were walking in Tottenham Court Road with a young lady.'
'Miss Vesper, the friend I live with.'
'Will you give me a few minutes now?' he asked humbly. 'Is it too late?'
For reply Monica moved slowly on. They turned up one of the ways parallel with Rutland Street, and so came into the quiet district that skirts Regent's Park, Widdowson talking all the way in a strain of all but avowed tenderness, his head bent towards her and his voice so much subdued that occasionally she lost a few words.
'I can't live without seeing you,' he said at length. 'If you refuse to meet me, I have no choice but to come wandering about the places where you are. Don't, pray don't think I spy upon you. Indeed, it is only just to see your face or your form as you walk along. When I have had my journey in vain I go back in misery. You are never out of my thoughtsnever.'
'I am sorry for that, Mr. Widdowson.'
'Sorry? Are you really sorry? Do you think of me with less friendliness than when we had our evening on the river?'
'Oh, not with less friendliness. But if I only make you unhappy'
'In one way unhappy, but as no one else ever had the power to. If you would let me meet you at certain times my restlessness would be at an end. The summer is going so quickly. Won't you come for that drive with me next Sunday? I will be waiting for you at any place you like to appoint. If you could imagine what joy it would give me!'
Presently Monica assented. If it were fine, she would be by the southeast entrance to Regent's Park at two o'clock. He thanked her with words of the most submissive gratitude, and then they parted.
The day proved doubtful, but she kept her appointment. Widdowson was on the spot with horse and trap. These were not, as he presently informed Monica, his own property, but hired from a livery stable, according to his custom.
'It won't rain,' he exclaimed, gazing at the sky. 'It shan't rain! These few hours are too precious to me.'
'It would be very awkward if it did,' Monica replied, in merry humour, as they drove along.
The sky threatened till sundown, but Widdowson was able to keep declaring that rain would not come. He took a south-westward course, crossed Waterloo Bridge, and thence by the highways made for Herne Hill. Monica observed that he made a short detour to avoid Walworth Road. She asked his reason.
'I hate the road!' Widdowson answered, with vehemence.
'You hate it?'
'Because you slaved and suffered there. If I had the power, I would destroy itevery house. Many a time,' he added, in a lower voice, 'when you were lying asleep, I walked up and down there in horrible misery.'
'Just because I had to stand at a counter?'
'Not only that. It wasn't fit for you to work in that waybut the people about you! I hated every face of man or woman that passed along the street.'
'I didn't like the society.'
'I should hope not. Of course, I know you didn't. Why did you ever come to such a place?'
There was severity rather than sympathy in his look.
'I was tired of the dull country life,' Monica replied frankly. 'And then I didn't know what the shops and the people were like.'
'Do you need a life of excitement?' he asked, with a sidelong glance.
'Excitement? No, but one must have change.'
When they reached Herne Hill, Widdowson became silent, and presently he allowed the horse to walk.
'That is my house, Miss Maddenthe right-hand one.'
Monica looked, and saw two little villas, built together with stone facings, porches at the doors and ornamented gables.
'I only wanted to show it you,' he added quickly. 'There's nothing pretty or noticeable about it, and it isn't at all grandly furnished. My old housekeeper and one servant manage to keep it in order.'
They passed, and Monica did not allow herself to look back.
'I think it's a nice house,' she said presently.
'All my life I have wished to have a house of my own, but I didn't dare to hope I ever should. Men in general don't seem to care so long as they have lodgings that suit themI mean unmarried men. But I always wanted to live alonewithout strangers, that is to say. I told you that I am not very sociable. When I got my house, I was like a child with a toy; I couldn't sleep for satisfaction. I used to walk all over it, day after day, before it was furnished. There was something that delighted me in the sound of my footsteps on the staircases and the bare floors. Here I shall live and die, I kept saying to myself. Not in solitude, I hoped. Perhaps I might meet some one'
Monica interrupted him to ask a question about some object in the landscape. He answered her very briefly, and for a long time neither spoke. Then the girl, glancing at him with a smile of apology, said in a gentle tone
'You were telling me how the house pleased you. Have you still the same pleasure in living there?'
'Yes. But lately I have been hopingI daren't say more. You will interrupt me again.'
'Which way are we going now, Mr. Widdowson?'
'To Streatham, then on to Carshalton. At five o'clock we will use our right as travellers, and get some innkeeper to make tea for us. Look, the sun is trying to break through; we shall have a fine evening yet. May I, without rudeness, say that you look better since you left that abominable place.'