“I’m afraid I can be of no use,” Rhoda answered coldly.
“She has been hoping to see you.”
“She has said so?”
“Not in so many words—but I am sure she wishes to see you. She has asked about you several times, and when your note came she was very pleased. It would be a great kindness to us—”
“Does she declare that she will never return to her husband?”
“Yes—I am sorry to say she does. But the poor child believes that she has only a short time to live. Nothing will shake her presentiment. “I shall die, and give no more trouble”—that’s what she always says to me. And a conviction of that kind is so likely to fulfil itself. She never leaves the house, and of course that is very wrong; she ought to go out every day. She won’t see a medical man.”
“Has Mr. Widdowson given her any cause for disliking him?” Rhoda inquired.
“He was dreadfully violent when he discovered—I’m afraid it was natural—he thought the worst of her, and he has always been so devoted to Monica. She says he seemed on the point of killing her. He is a man of very severe nature, I have always thought. He never could bear that Monica should go anywhere alone. They were very, very unhappy, I’m afraid—so ill-matched in almost every respect. Still, under the circumstances—surely she ought to return to him?”
“I can’t say. I don’t know.”
Rhoda’s voice signified a conflict of feeling. Had she been disinterested her opinion would not have wavered for a moment; she would have declared that the wife’s inclination must be the only law in such a case. As it was, she could only regard Monica with profound mistrust and repugnance. The story of decisive evidence kept back seemed to her only a weak woman’s falsehood—a fiction due to shame and despair. Undoubtedly it would give some vague relief to her mind if Monica were persuaded to go to Clevedon, but she could not bring herself to think of visiting the suffering woman. Whatever the end might be, she would have no part in bringing it about. Her dignity, her pride, should remain unsullied by such hateful contact.