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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:36:43 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:36:43 -0700 |
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diff --git a/11354-h/11354-h.htm b/11354-h/11354-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..932675e --- /dev/null +++ b/11354-h/11354-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20648 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Irrational Knot, by George Bernard Shaw</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11354 ***</div> + +<h1>The Irrational Knot</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by George Bernard Shaw</h2> + +<h5>BEING</h5> + +<h5>THE SECOND NOVEL OF HIS NONAGE</h5> + +<p class="center"> +1905 +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> +<tr> +<td> <a href="#pref01">PREFACE</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book01"><b>BOOK I</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap00"><b>THE IRRATIONAL KNOT</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book02"><b>BOOK II</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book03"><b>BOOK III</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book04"><b>BOOK IV</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="pref01"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<h5>TO THE AMERICAN EDITION OF 1905</h5> + +<p> +This novel was written in the year 1880, only a few years after I had exported +myself from Dublin to London in a condition of extreme rawness and inexperience +concerning the specifically English side of the life with which the book +pretends to deal. Everybody wrote novels then. It was my second attempt; and it +shared the fate of my first. That is to say, nobody would publish it, though I +tried all the London publishers and some American ones. And I should not +greatly blame them if I could feel sure that it was the book’s faults and +not its qualities that repelled them. +</p> + +<p> +I have narrated elsewhere how in the course of time the rejected MS. became +Mrs. Annie Besant’s excuse for lending me her ever helping hand by +publishing it as a serial in a little propagandist magazine of hers. That was +how it got loose beyond all possibility of recapture. It is out of my power now +to stand between it and the American public: all I can do is to rescue it from +unauthorized mutilations and make the best of a jejune job. +</p> + +<p> +At present, of course, I am not the author of The Irrational Knot. +Physiologists inform us that the substance of our bodies (and consequently of +our souls) is shed and renewed at such a rate that no part of us lasts longer +than eight years: I am therefore not now in any atom of me the person who wrote +The Irrational Knot in 1880. The last of that author perished in 1888; and two +of his successors have since joined the majority. Fourth of his line, I cannot +be expected to take any very lively interest in the novels of my literary +great-grandfather. Even my personal recollections of him are becoming vague and +overlaid with those most misleading of all traditions, the traditions founded +on the lies a man tells, and at last comes to believe, about himself <i>to</i> +himself. Certain things, however, I remember very well. For instance, I am +significantly clear as to the price of the paper on which I wrote The +Irrational Knot. It was cheap—a white demy of unpretentious quality—so +that sixpennorth lasted a long time. My daily allowance of composition was five +pages of this demy in quarto; and I held my natural laziness sternly to that +task day in, day out, to the end. I remember also that Bizet’s Carmen +being then new in London, I used it as a safety-valve for my romantic impulses. +When I was tired of the sordid realism of Whatshisname (I have sent my only +copy of The Irrational Knot to the printers, and cannot remember the name of my +hero) I went to the piano and forgot him in the glamorous society of Carmen and +her crimson toreador and yellow dragoon. Not that Bizet’s music could +infatuate me as it infatuated Nietzsche. Nursed on greater masters, I thought +less of him than he deserved; but the Carmen music was—in places—exquisite of +its kind, and could enchant a man like me, romantic enough to have come to the +end of romance before I began to create in art for myself. +</p> + +<p> +When I say that <i>I</i> did and felt these things, I mean, of course, that the +predecessor whose name I bear did and felt them. The I of to-day is (? am) cool +towards Carmen; and Carmen, I regret to say, does not take the slightest +interest in him (? me). And now enough of this juggling with past and present +Shaws. The grammatical complications of being a first person and several +extinct third persons at the same moment are so frightful that I must return to +the ordinary misusage, and ask the reader to make the necessary corrections in +his or her own mind. +</p> + +<p> +This book is not wholly a compound of intuition and ignorance. Take for example +the profession of my hero, an Irish-American electrical engineer. That was by +no means a flight of fancy. For you must not suppose, because I am a man of +letters, that I never tried to earn an honest living. I began trying to commit +that sin against my nature when I was fifteen, and persevered, from youthful +timidity and diffidence, until I was twenty-three. My last attempt was in 1879, +when a company was formed in London to exploit an ingenious invention by Mr. +Thomas Alva Edison—a much too ingenious invention as it proved, being nothing +less than a telephone of such stentorian efficiency that it bellowed your most +private communications all over the house instead of whispering them with some +sort of discretion. This was not what the British stockbroker wanted; so the +company was soon merged in the National Telephone Company, after making a place +for itself in the history of literature, quite unintentionally, by providing me +with a job. Whilst the Edison Telephone Company lasted, it crowded the basement +of a huge pile of offices in Queen Victoria Street with American artificers. +These deluded and romantic men gave me a glimpse of the skilled proletariat of +the United States. They sang obsolete sentimental songs with genuine emotion; +and their language was frightful even to an Irishman. They worked with a +ferocious energy which was out of all proportion to the actual result achieved. +Indomitably resolved to assert their republican manhood by taking no orders +from a tall-hatted Englishman whose stiff politeness covered his conviction +that they were, relatively to himself, inferior and common persons, they +insisted on being slave-driven with genuine American oaths by a genuine free +and equal American foreman. They utterly despised the artfully slow British +workman who did as little for his wages as he possibly could; never hurried +himself; and had a deep reverence for anyone whose pocket could be tapped by +respectful behavior. Need I add that they were contemptuously wondered at by +this same British workman as a parcel of outlandish adult boys, who sweated +themselves for their employer’s benefit instead of looking after their +own interests? They adored Mr. Edison as the greatest man of all time in every +possible department of science, art and philosophy, and execrated Mr. Graham +Bell, the inventor of the rival telephone, as his Satanic adversary; but each +of them had (or pretended to have) on the brink of completion, an improvement +on the telephone, usually a new transmitter. They were free-souled creatures, +excellent company: sensitive, cheerful, and profane; liars, braggarts, and +hustlers; with an air of making slow old England hum which never left them even +when, as often happened, they were wrestling with difficulties of their own +making, or struggling in no-thoroughfares from which they had to be retrieved +like strayed sheep by Englishmen without imagination enough to go wrong. +</p> + +<p> +In this environment I remained for some months. As I was interested in physics +and had read Tyndall and Helmholtz, besides having learnt something in Ireland +through a fortunate friendship with a cousin of Mr. Graham Bell who was also a +chemist and physicist, I was, I believe, the only person in the entire +establishment who knew the current scientific explanation of telephony; and as +I soon struck up a friendship with our official lecturer, a Colchester man +whose strong point was pre-scientific agriculture, I often discharged his +duties for him in a manner which, I am persuaded, laid the foundation of Mr. +Edison’s London reputation: my sole reward being my boyish delight in the +half-concealed incredulity of our visitors (who were convinced by the hoarsely +startling utterances of the telephone that the speaker, alleged by me to be +twenty miles away, was really using a speaking-trumpet in the next room), and +their obvious uncertainty, when the demonstration was over, as to whether they +ought to tip me or not: a question they either decided in the negative or never +decided at all; for I never got anything. +</p> + +<p> +So much for my electrical engineer! To get him into contact with fashionable +society before he became famous was also a problem easily solved. I knew of +three English peers who actually preferred physical laboratories to stables, +and scientific experts to gamekeepers: in fact, one of the experts was a friend +of mine. And I knew from personal experience that if science brings men of all +ranks into contact, art, especially music, does the same for men and women. An +electrician who can play an accompaniment can go anywhere and know anybody. As +far as mere access and acquaintance go there are no class barriers for him. My +difficulty was not to get my hero into society, but to give any sort of +plausibility to my picture of society when I got him into it. I lacked the +touch of the literary diner-out; and I had, as the reader will probably find to +his cost, the classical tradition which makes all the persons in a novel, +except the comically vernacular ones, or the speakers of phonetically spelt +dialect, utter themselves in the formal phrases and studied syntax of +eighteenth century rhetoric. In short, I wrote in the style of Scott and +Dickens; and as fashionable society then spoke and behaved, as it still does, +in no style at all, my transcriptions of Oxford and Mayfair may nowadays +suggest an unaccountable and ludicrous ignorance of a very superficial and +accessible code of manners. I was not, however, so ignorant as might have been +inferred at that time from my somewhat desperate financial condition. +</p> + +<p> +I had, to begin with, a sort of backstairs knowledge; for in my teens I +struggled for life in the office of an Irish gentleman who acted as land agent +and private banker for many persons of distinction. Now it is possible for a +London author to dine out in the highest circles for twenty years without +learning as much about the human frailties of his hosts as the family solicitor +or (in Ireland) the family land agent learns in twenty days; and some of this +knowledge inevitably reaches his clerks, especially the clerk who keeps the +cash, which was my particular department. He learns, if capable of the lesson, +that the aristocratic profession has as few geniuses as any other profession; +so that if you want a peerage of more than, say, half a dozen members, you must +fill it up with many common persons, and even with some deplorably mean ones. +For “service is no inheritance” either in the kitchen or the House +of Lords; and the case presented by Mr. Barrie in his play of The Admirable +Crichton, where the butler is the man of quality, and his master, the Earl, the +man of rank, is no fantasy, but a quite common occurrence, and indeed to some +extent an inevitable one, because the English are extremely particular in +selecting their butlers, whilst they do not select their barons at all, taking +them as the accident of birth sends them. The consequences include much ironic +comedy. For instance, we have in England a curious belief in first rate people, +meaning all the people we do not know; and this consoles us for the undeniable +secondrateness of the people we do know, besides saving the credit of +aristocracy as an institution. The unmet aristocrat is devoutly believed in; +but he is always round the corner, never at hand. That <i>the</i> smart set +exists; that there is above and beyond that smart set a class so blue of blood +and exquisite in nature that it looks down even on the King with haughty +condescension; that scepticism on these points is one of the stigmata of +plebeian baseness: all these imaginings are so common here that they constitute +the real popular sociology of England as much as an unlimited credulity as to +vaccination constitutes the real popular science of England. It is, of course, +a timid superstition. A British peer or peeress who happens by chance to be +genuinely noble is just as isolated at court as Goethe would have been among +all the other grandsons of publicans, if they had formed a distinct class in +Frankfurt or Weimar. This I knew very well when I wrote my novels; and if, as I +suspect, I failed to create a convincingly verisimilar atmosphere of +aristocracy, it was not because I had any illusions or ignorances as to the +common humanity of the peerage, and not because I gave literary style to its +conversation, but because, as I had never had any money, I was foolishly +indifferent to it, and so, having blinded myself to its enormous importance, +necessarily missed the point of view, and with it the whole moral basis, of the +class which rightly values money, and plenty of it, as the first condition of a +bearable life. +</p> + +<p> +Money is indeed the most important thing in the world; and all sound and +successful personal and national morality should have this fact for its basis. +Every teacher or twaddler who denies it or suppresses it, is an enemy of life. +Money controls morality; and what makes the United States of America look so +foolish even in foolish Europe is that they are always in a state of flurried +concern and violent interference with morality, whereas they throw their money +into the street to be scrambled for, and presently find that their cash +reserves are not in their own hands, but in the pockets of a few millionaires +who, bewildered by their luck, and unspeakably incapable of making any truly +economic use of it, endeavor to “do good” with it by letting +themselves be fleeced by philanthropic committee men, building contractors, +librarians and professors, in the name of education, science, art and what not; +so that sensible people exhale relievedly when the pious millionaire dies, and +his heirs, demoralized by being brought up on his outrageous income, begin the +socially beneficent work of scattering his fortune through the channels of the +trades that flourish by riotous living. +</p> + +<p> +This, as I have said, I did not then understand; for I knew money only by the +want of it. Ireland is a poor country; and my father was a poor man in a poor +country. By this I do not mean that he was hungry and homeless, a hewer of wood +and a drawer of water. My friend Mr. James Huneker, a man of gorgeous +imagination and incorrigible romanticism, has described me to the American +public as a peasant lad who has raised himself, as all American presidents are +assumed to have raised themselves, from the humblest departments of manual +labor to the loftiest eminence. James flatters me. Had I been born a peasant, I +should now be a tramp. My notion of my father’s income is even vaguer +than his own was—and that is saying a good deal—but he always had an income of +at least three figures (four, if you count in dollars instead of pounds); and +what made him poor was that he conceived himself as born to a social position +which even in Ireland could have been maintained in dignified comfort only on +twice or thrice what he had. And he married on that assumption. Fortunately for +me, social opportunity is not always to be measured by income. There is an +important economic factor, first analyzed by an American economist (General +Walker), and called rent of ability. Now this rent, when the ability is of the +artistic or political sort, is often paid in kind. For example, a London +possessor of such ability may, with barely enough money to maintain a furnished +bedroom and a single presentable suit of clothes, see everything worth seeing +that a millionaire can see, and know everybody worth knowing that he can know. +Long before I reached this point myself, a very trifling accomplishment gave me +glimpses of the sort of fashionable life a peasant never sees. Thus I remember +one evening during the novel-writing period when nobody would pay a farthing +for a stroke of my pen, walking along Sloane Street in that blessed shield of +literary shabbiness, evening dress. A man accosted me with an eloquent appeal +for help, ending with the assurance that he had not a penny in the world. I +replied, with exact truth, “Neither have I.” He thanked me civilly, +and went away, apparently not in the least surprised, leaving me to ask myself +why I did not turn beggar too, since I felt sure that a man who did it as well +as he, must be in comfortable circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +Another reminiscence. A little past midnight, in the same costume, I was +turning from Piccadilly into Bond Street, when a lady of the pavement, out of +luck that evening so far, confided to me that the last bus for Brompton had +passed, and that she should be grateful to any gentleman who would give her a +lift in a hansom. My old-fashioned Irish gallantry had not then been worn off +by age and England: besides, as a novelist who could find no publisher, I was +touched by the similarity of our trades and predicaments. I excused myself very +politely on the ground that my wife (invented for the occasion) was waiting for +me at home, and that I felt sure so attractive a lady would have no difficulty +in finding another escort. Unfortunately this speech made so favorable an +impression on her that she immediately took my arm and declared her willingness +to go anywhere with me, on the flattering ground that I was a perfect +gentleman. In vain did I try to persuade her that in coming up Bond Street and +deserting Piccadilly, she was throwing away her last chance of a hansom: she +attached herself so devotedly to me that I could not without actual violence +shake her off. At last I made a stand at the end of Old Bond Street. I took out +my purse; opened it; and held it upside down. Her countenance fell, poor girl! +She turned on her heel with a melancholy flirt of her skirt, and vanished. +</p> + +<p> +Now on both these occasions I had been in the company of people who spent at +least as much in a week as I did in a year. Why was I, a penniless and unknown +young man, admitted there? Simply because, though I was an execrable pianist, +and never improved until the happy invention of the pianola made a Paderewski +of me, I could play a simple accompaniment at sight more congenially to a +singer than most amateurs. It is true that the musical side of London society, +with its streak of Bohemianism, and its necessary toleration of foreign ways +and professional manners, is far less typically English than the sporting side +or the political side or the Philistine side; so much so, indeed, that people +may and do pass their lives in it without ever discovering what English +plutocracy in the mass is really like: still, if you wander in it nocturnally +for a fitful year or so as I did, with empty pockets and an utter impossibility +of approaching it by daylight (owing to the deplorable decay of the morning +wardrobe), you have something more actual to go on than the hallucinations of a +peasant lad setting his foot manfully on the lowest rung of the social ladder. +I never climbed any ladder: I have achieved eminence by sheer gravitation; and +I hereby warn all peasant lads not to be duped by my pretended example into +regarding their present servitude as a practicable first step to a celebrity so +dazzling that its subject cannot even suppress his own bad novels. +</p> + +<p> +Conceive me then at the writing of The Irrational Knot as a person neither +belonging to the world I describe nor wholly ignorant of it, and on certain +points quite incapable of conceiving it intuitively. A whole world of art which +did not exist for it lay open to me. I was familiar with the greatest in that +world: mighty poets, painters, and musicians were my intimates. I found the +world of artificial greatness founded on convention and money so repugnant and +contemptible by comparison that I had no sympathetic understanding of it. +People are fond of blaming valets because no man is a hero to his valet. But it +is equally true that no man is a valet to his hero; and the hero, consequently, +is apt to blunder very ludicrously about valets, through judging them from an +irrelevant standard of heroism: heroism, remember, having its faults as well as +its qualities. I, always on the heroic plane imaginatively, had two disgusting +faults which I did not recognize as faults because I could not help them. I was +poor and (by day) shabby. I therefore tolerated the gross error that poverty, +though an inconvenience and a trial, is not a sin and a disgrace; and I stood +for my self-respect on the things I had: probity, ability, knowledge of art, +laboriousness, and whatever else came cheaply to me. Because I could walk into +Hampton Court Palace and the National Gallery (on free days) and enjoy Mantegna +and Michael Angelo whilst millionaires were yawning miserably over inept +gluttonies; because I could suffer more by hearing a movement of +Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony taken at a wrong tempo than a duchess by +losing a diamond necklace, I was indifferent to the repulsive fact that if I +had fallen in love with the duchess I did not possess a morning suit in which I +could reasonably have expected her to touch me with the furthest protended pair +of tongs; and I did not see that to remedy this I should have been prepared to +wade through seas of other people’s blood. Indeed it is this perception +which constitutes an aristocracy nowadays. It is the secret of all our +governing classes, which consist finally of people who, though perfectly +prepared to be generous, humane, cultured, philanthropic, public spirited and +personally charming in the second instance, are unalterably resolved, in the +first, to have money enough for a handsome and delicate life, and will, in +pursuit of that money, batter in the doors of their fellow men, sell them up, +sweat them in fetid dens, shoot, stab, hang, imprison, sink, burn and destroy +them in the name of law and order. And this shews their fundamental sanity and +rightmindedness; for a sufficient income is indispensable to the practice of +virtue; and the man who will let any unselfish consideration stand between him +and its attainment is a weakling, a dupe and a predestined slave. If I could +convince our impecunious mobs of this, the world would be reformed before the +end of the week; for the sluggards who are content to be wealthy without +working and the dastards who are content to work without being wealthy, +together with all the pseudo-moralists and ethicists and cowardice mongers +generally, would be exterminated without shrift, to the unutterable enlargement +of life and ennoblement of humanity. We might even make some beginnings of +civilization under such happy circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +In the days of The Irrational Knot I had not learnt this lesson; consequently I +did not understand the British peerage, just as I did not understand that +glorious and beautiful phenomenon, the “heartless” rich American +woman, who so thoroughly and admirably understands that conscience is a luxury, +and should be indulged in only when the vital needs of life have been +abundantly satisfied. The instinct which has led the British peerage to fortify +itself by American alliances is healthy and well inspired. Thanks to it, we +shall still have a few people to maintain the tradition of a handsome, free, +proud, costly life, whilst the craven mass of us are keeping up our starveling +pretence that it is more important to be good than to be rich, and piously +cheating, robbing, and murdering one another by doing our duty as policemen, +soldiers, bailiffs, jurymen, turnkeys, hangmen, tradesmen, and curates, at the +command of those who know that the golden grapes are <i>not</i> sour. Why, good +heavens! we shall all pretend that this straightforward truth of mine is mere +Swiftian satire, because it would require a little courage to take it seriously +and either act on it or make me drink the hemlock for uttering it. +</p> + +<p> +There was the less excuse for my blindness because I was at that very moment +laying the foundations of my high fortune by the most ruthless disregard of all +the quack duties which lead the peasant lad of fiction to the White House, and +harness the real peasant boy to the plough until he is finally swept, as +rubbish, into the workhouse. I was an ablebodied and ableminded young man in +the strength of my youth; and my family, then heavily embarrassed, needed my +help urgently. That I should have chosen to be a burden to them instead was, +according to all the conventions of peasant lad fiction, monstrous. Well, +without a blush I embraced the monstrosity. I did not throw myself into the +struggle for life: I threw my mother into it. I was not a staff to my +father’s old age: I hung on to his coat tails. His reward was to live +just long enough to read a review of one of these silly novels written in an +obscure journal by a personal friend of my own (now eminent in literature as +Mr. John Mackinnon Robertson) prefiguring me to some extent as a considerable +author. I think, myself, that this was a handsome reward, far better worth +having than a nice pension from a dutiful son struggling slavishly for his +parent’s bread in some sordid trade. Handsome or not, it was the only +return he ever had for the little pension he contrived to export from Ireland +for his family. My mother reinforced it by drudging in her elder years at the +art of music which she had followed in her prime freely for love. I only helped +to spend it. People wondered at my heartlessness: one young and romantic lady +had the courage to remonstrate openly and indignantly with me, “for the +which” as Pepys said of the shipwright’s wife who refused his +advances, “I did respect her.” Callous as Comus to moral babble, I +steadily wrote my five pages a day and made a man of myself (at my +mother’s expense) instead of a slave. And I protest that I will not +suffer James Huneker or any romanticist to pass me off as a peasant boy +qualifying for a chapter in Smiles’s Self Help, or a good son supporting +a helpless mother, instead of a stupendously selfish artist leaning with the +full weight of his hungry body on an energetic and capable woman. No, James: +such lies are not only unnecessary, but fearfully depressing and fundamentally +immoral, besides being hardly fair to the supposed peasant lad’s parents. +My mother worked for my living instead of preaching that it was my duty to work +for hers: therefore take off your hat to her, and blush.[A] +</p> + +<p> +It is now open to anyone who pleases to read The Irrational Knot. I do not +recommend him to; but it is possible that the same mysterious force which drove +me through the labor of writing it may have had some purpose which will sustain +others through the labor of reading it, and even reward them with some ghastly +enjoyment of it. For my own part I cannot stand it. It is to me only one of the +heaps of spoiled material that all apprenticeship involves. I consent to its +publication because I remember that British colonel who called on Beethoven +when the elderly composer was working at his posthumous quartets, and offered +him a commission for a work in the style of his jejune septet. Beethoven drove +the Colonel out of the house with objurgation. I think that was uncivil. There +is a time for the septet, and a time for the posthumous quartets. It is true +that if a man called on me now and asked me to write something like The +Irrational Knot I should have to exercise great self-control. But there are +people who read Man and Superman, and then tell me (actually to my face) that I +have never done anything so good as Cashel Byron’s Profession. After +this, there may be a public for even The Irrational Knot; so let it go. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +LONDON, <i>May</i> 26, 1905. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +[Footnote A: James, having read the above in proof, now protests he never +called me a peasant lad: that being a decoration by the sub-editor. The +expression he used was “a poor lad.” This is what James calls tact. +After all, there is something pastoral, elemental, well aerated, about a +peasant lad. But a mere poor lad! really, James, <i>really</i>—!!!] +</p> + +<p> +P.S.—Since writing the above I have looked through the proof-sheets of this +book, and found, with some access of respect for my youth, that it is a fiction +of the first order. By this I do not mean that it is a masterpiece in that +order, or even a pleasant example of it, but simply that, such as it is, it is +one of those fictions in which the morality is original and not readymade. Now +this quality is the true diagnostic of the first order in literature, and +indeed in all the arts, including the art of life. It is, for example, the +distinction that sets Shakespear’s Hamlet above his other plays, and that +sets Ibsen’s work as a whole above Shakespear’s work as a whole. +Shakespear’s morality is a mere reach-me-down; and because Hamlet does +not feel comfortable in it, and struggles against the misfit, he suggests +something better, futile as his struggle is, and incompetent as Shakespear +shews himself in his effort to think out the revolt of his feeling against +readymade morality. Ibsen’s morality is original all through: he knows +well that the men in the street have no use for principles, because they can +neither understand nor apply them; and that what they can understand and apply +are arbitrary rules of conduct, often frightfully destructive and inhuman, but +at least definite rules enabling the common stupid man to know where he stands +and what he may do and not do without getting into trouble. Now to all writers +of the first order, these rules, and the need for them produced by the moral +and intellectual incompetence of the ordinary human animal, are no more +invariably beneficial and respectable than the sunlight which ripens the wheat +in Sussex and leaves the desert deadly in Sahara, making the cheeks of the +ploughman’s child rosy in the morning and striking the ploughman +brainsick or dead in the afternoon; no more inspired (and no less) than the +religion of the Andaman islanders; as much in need of frequent throwing away +and replacement as the community’s boots. By writers of the second order +the readymade morality is accepted as the basis of all moral judgment and +criticism of the characters they portray, even when their genius forces them to +represent their most attractive heroes and heroines as violating the readymade +code in all directions. Far be it from me to pretend that the first order is +more readable than the second! Shakespear, Scott, Dickens, Dumas <i>père</i> +are not, to say the least, less readable than Euripides and Ibsen. Nor is the +first order always more constructive; for Byron, Oscar Wilde, and +Larochefoucauld did not get further in positive philosophy than Ruskin and +Carlyle, though they could snuff Ruskin’s Seven Lamps with their fingers +without flinching. Still, the first order remains the first order and the +second the second for all that: no man who shuts his eyes and opens his mouth +when religion and morality are offered to him on a long spoon can share the +same Parnassian bench with those who make an original contribution to religion +and morality, were it only a criticism. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore on coming back to this Irrational Knot as a stranger after 25 years, +I am proud to find that its morality is not readymade. The drunken prima donna +of a bygone type of musical burlesque is not depicted as an immoral person, but +as a person with a morality of her own, no worse in its way than the morality +of her highly respectable wine merchant in <i>its</i> way. The sociology of the +successful inventor is his own sociology too; and it is by his originality in +this respect that he passes irresistibly through all the readymade prejudices +that are set up to bar his promotion. And the heroine, nice, amiable, +benevolent, and anxious to please and behave well, but hopelessly secondhand in +her morals and nicenesses, and consequently without any real moral force now +that the threat of hell has lost its terrors for her, is left destitute among +the failures which are so puzzling to thoughtless people. “I cannot +understand why she is so unlucky: she is such a nice woman!”: that is the +formula. As if people with any force in them ever were altogether nice! +</p> + +<p> +And so I claim the first order for this jejune exploit of mine, and invite you +to note that the final chapter, so remote from Scott and Dickens and so close +to Ibsen, was written years before Ibsen came to my knowledge, thus proving +that the revolt of the Life Force against readymade morality in the nineteenth +century was not the work of a Norwegian microbe, but would have worked itself +into expression in English literature had Norway never existed. In fact, when +Miss Lord’s translation of A Doll’s House appeared in the +eighteen-eighties, and so excited some of my Socialist friends that they got up +a private reading of it in which I was cast for the part of Krogstad, its +novelty as a morally original study of a marriage did not stagger me as it +staggered Europe. I had made a morally original study of a marriage myself, and +made it, too, without any melodramatic forgeries, spinal diseases, and +suicides, though I had to confess to a study of dipsomania. At all events, I +chattered and ate caramels in the back drawing-room (our green-room) whilst +Eleanor Marx, as Nora, brought Helmer to book at the other side of the folding +doors. Indeed I concerned myself very little about Ibsen until, later on, +William Archer translated Peer Gynt to me <i>viva voce</i>, when the magic of +the great poet opened my eyes in a flash to the importance of the social +philosopher. +</p> + +<p> +I seriously suggest that The Irrational Knot may be regarded as an early +attempt on the part of the Life Force to write A Doll’s House in English +by the instrumentality of a very immature writer aged 24. And though I say it +that should not, the choice was not such a bad shot for a stupid instinctive +force that has to work and become conscious of itself by means of human brains. +If we could only realize that though the Life Force supplies us with its own +purpose, it has no other brains to work with than those it has painfully and +imperfectly evolved in our heads, the peoples of the earth would learn some +pity for their gods; and we should have a religion that would not be +contradicted at every turn by the thing that is giving the lie to the thing +that ought to be. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +WELWYN, <i>Sunday, June</i> 25, 1905. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book01"></a>BOOK I</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap00"></a>THE IRRATIONAL KNOT</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<p> +At seven o’clock on a fine evening in April the gas had just been lighted +in a room on the first floor of a house in York Road, Lambeth. A man, recently +washed and brushed, stood on the hearthrug before a pier glass, arranging a +white necktie, part of his evening dress. He was about thirty, well grown, and +fully developed muscularly. There was no cloud of vice or trouble upon him: he +was concentrated and calm, making no tentative movements of any sort (even a +white tie did not puzzle him into fumbling), but acting with a certainty of aim +and consequent economy of force, dreadful to the irresolute. His face was +brown, but his auburn hair classed him as a fair man. +</p> + +<p> +The apartment, a drawing-room with two windows, was dusty and untidy. The paint +and wall paper had not been renewed for years; nor did the pianette, which +stood near the fireplace, seem to have been closed during that time; for the +interior was dusty, and the inner end of every key begrimed. On a table between +the windows were some tea things, with a heap of milliner’s materials, +and a brass candlestick which had been pushed back to make room for a partially +unfolded cloth. There was a second table near the door, crowded with coils, +batteries, a galvanometer, and other electrical apparatus. The mantelpiece was +littered with dusty letters, and two trays of Doulton ware which ornamented it +were filled with accounts, scraps of twine, buttons, and rusty keys. +</p> + +<p> +A shifting, rustling sound, as of somebody dressing, which had been audible for +some minutes through the folding doors, now ceased, and a handsome young woman +entered. She had thick black hair, fine dark eyes, an oval face, a clear olive +complexion, and an elastic figure. She was incompletely attired in a petticoat +that did not hide her ankles, and stays of bright red silk with white laces and +seams. Quite unconcerned at the presence of the man, she poured out a cup of +tea; carried it to the mantelpiece; and began to arrange her hair before the +glass. He, without looking round, completed the arrangement of his tie, looked +at it earnestly for a moment, and said, “Have you got a pin about +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is one in the pincushion on my table,” she said; “but +I think it’s a black one. I dont know where the deuce all the pins go +to.” Then, casting off the subject, she whistled a long and florid +cadenza, and added, by way of instrumental interlude, a remarkably close +imitation of a violoncello. Meanwhile the man went into her room for the pin. +On his return she suddenly became curious, and said, “Where are you going +to-night, if one may ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going out.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him for a moment, and turned contemptuously to the mirror, +saying, “Thank you. Sorry to be inquisitive.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to sing for the Countess of Carbury at a concert at +Wandsworth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sing! You! The Countess of Barbury! Does she live at Wandsworth?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. She lives in Park Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I beg her pardon.” The man made no comment on this; and she, +after looking doubtfully at him to assure herself that he was in earnest, +continued, “How does the Countess of Whatshername come to know +<i>you</i>, pray?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +A long pause ensued. Then she said: “Stuff!”, but without +conviction. Her exclamation had no apparent effect on him until he had buttoned +his waistcoat and arranged his watch-chain. Then he glanced at a sheet of pink +paper which lay on the mantelpiece. She snatched it at once; opened it; stared +incredulously at it; and said, “Pink paper, and scalloped edges! How +filthily vulgar! I thought she was not much of a Countess! Ahem! ‘Music +for the People. Parnassus Society. A concert will be given at the Town Hall, +Wandsworth, on Tuesday, the 25th April, by the Countess of Carbury, assisted by +the following ladies and gentlemen. Miss Elinor McQuinch’—what a name! +‘Miss Marian Lind’—who’s Miss Marian Lind?” +</p> + +<p> +“How should I know?” +</p> + +<p> +“I only thought, as she is a pal of the Countess, that you would most +likely be intimate with her. ‘Mrs. Leith Fairfax.’ There is a Mrs. +Leith Fairfax who writes novels, and very rotten novels they are, too. Who are +the gentlemen? ‘Mr. Marmaduke Lind’—brother to Miss Marian, I +suppose. ‘Mr. Edward Conolly’—save the mark! they must have been +rather hard up for gentlemen when they put <i>you</i> down as one. The Conolly +family is looking up at last. Hm! nearly a dozen altogether. ‘Tickets +will be distributed to the families of working men by the Rev. George +Lind’—pity they didnt engage Jenny Lind on purpose to sing with you. +‘A limited number of front seats at one shilling. Please turn over. Part +I. Symphony in F: Haydn. Arranged for four English concertinas by Julius Baker. +Mr. Julius Baker; Master Julius Abt Baker; Miss Lisette Baker (aged 8); and +Miss Totty Baker (aged 6-1/2)’. Good Lord! ‘Song: Rose softly +blooming: Spohr. Miss Marian Lind.’ I wonder whether she can sing! +‘Polonaise in A flat major: Chopin’—what rot! As if working people +cared about Chopin! Miss Elinor McQuinch is a fool, I see. ‘Song: The +Valley: Gounod.’ Of course: I knew you would try that. Oho! Here’s +something sensible at last. ‘Nigger melody. Uncle Ned. Mr. Marmaduke +Lind, accompanied by himself on the banjo.’ +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Dum, drum. Dum, drum. Dum, drum. Dum—<br/> +‘And there was an ole nigga; and his name was Uncle Ned;<br/> + An’ him dead long ago, long ago.<br/> +An’ he had no hair on the top of his head<br/> + In the place where the wool ought to grow,’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Mr. Marmaduke Lind will get a double <i>encore</i>; and no one will take the +least notice of you or the others. ‘Recitation. The Faithful Soul. +Adelaide Proctor. Mrs. Leith Fairfax.’ Well, this certainly is a blessed +attempt to amuse Wandsworth. <i>Another</i> reading by the Rev.——” +</p> + +<p> +Here Conolly, who had been putting on his overcoat, picked the program deftly +from his sister’s fingers, and left the room. She, after damning him very +heartily, returned to the glass, and continued dressing, taking her tea at +intervals until she was ready to go out, when she sent for a cab, and bade the +driver convey her to the Bijou Theatre, Soho. +</p> + +<p> +Conolly, on arriving at the Wandsworth Town Hall, was directed to a committee +room, which served as green-room on this occasion. He was greeted by a clean +shaven young clergyman who protested that he was glad to see him there, but did +not offer his hand. Conolly thanked him briefly, and went without further +ceremony to the table, and was about to place his hat and overcoat on a heap of +similar garments, when, observing that there were some hooks along the wall, he +immediately crossed over and hung up his things on them, thereby producing an +underbred effect of being more prudent and observant than the rest. Then he +looked at his program, and calculated how soon his turn to sing would come. +Then he unrolled his music, and placed two copies of Le Vallon ready to his +hand upon the table. Having made these arrangements with a self-possession that +quite disconcerted the clergyman, he turned to examine the rest of the company. +</p> + +<p> +His first glance was arrested by the beauty of a young lady with light brown +hair and gentle grey eyes, who sat near the fire. Beside her, on a lower chair, +was a small, lean, and very restless young woman with keen dark eyes staring +defiantly from a worn face. These two were attended by a jovial young gentleman +with curly auburn hair, who was twanging a banjo, and occasionally provoking an +exclamation of annoyance from the restless girl by requesting her opinion of +his progress in tuning the instrument. Near them stood a tall man, dark and +handsome. He seemed unused to his present circumstances, and contemptuous, not +of the company nor the object for which they were assembled, but in the +abstract, as if habitual contempt were part of his nature. +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman, who had just conducted to the platform an elderly professor in a +shabby frock coat, followed by three well-washed children, each of whom carried +a concertina, now returned and sat down beside a middle-aged lady, who made +herself conspicuous by using a gold framed eyeglass so as to convey an +impression that she was an exceedingly keen observer. +</p> + +<p> +“It is fortunate that the evening is so fine,” said the clergyman +to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, is it not, Mr. Lind?” +</p> + +<p> +“My throat is always affected by bad weather, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I shall +be so handicapped by the inevitable comparison of my elocution with yours, that +I am glad the weather is favorable to me, though the comparison is not.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mrs. Fairfax, with decision. “I am not in the +least an orator. I can repeat a poem: that is all. Oh! I hope I have not broken +my glasses.” They had slipped from her nose to the floor. Conolly picked +them up and straightened them with one turn of his fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“No harm done, madam,” said he, with a certain elocutionary +correctness, and rather in the strong voice of the workshop than the subdued +one of the drawing-room, handing the glasses to her ceremoniously as he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. You are very kind, very kind indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly bowed, and turned again toward the other group. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that?” whispered Mrs. Fairfax to the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Some young man who attracted the attention of the Countess by his +singing. He is only a workman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Where did she hear him sing?” +</p> + +<p> +“In her son’s laboratory, I believe. He came there to put up some +electrical machinery, and sang into a telephone for their amusement. You know +how fond Lord Jasper is of mechanics. Jasper declares that he is a genius as an +electrician. Indeed it was he, rather than the Countess, who thought of getting +him to sing for us.” +</p> + +<p> +“How very interesting! I saw that he was clever when he spoke to me. +There is so much in trifles—in byplay, Mr. Lind. Now, his manner of picking up +my glass had his entire history in it. You will also see it in the solid +development of his head. That young man deserves to be encouraged.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very generous, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. It would not be well to +encourage him too much, however. You must recollect that he is not used to +society. Injudicious encouragement might perhaps lead him to forget his real +place in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not agree with you, Mr. Lind. You do not read human nature as I do. +You know that I am an expert. I see men as he sees a telegraph instrument, +quite uninfluenced by personal feeling.” +</p> + +<p> +“True, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. But the heart is deceitful above all things +and des—at least I should say—er. That is, you will admit that the finest +perception may err in its estimate of the inscrutable work of the +Almighty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doubtless. But really, Mr. Lind, human beings are <i>so</i> shallow! I +assure you there is nothing at all inscrutable about them to a trained analyst +of character. It may be a gift, perhaps; but people’s minds are to me +only little machines made up of superficial motives.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” said the young gentleman with the banjo, interrupting +them: “have you got a copy of ‘Rose softly blooming’ +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“I!” said Mrs. Fairfax. “No, certainly not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s all up with the concert. We have forgotten +Marian’s music; and there is nothing for Nelly—I beg pardon, I mean Miss +McQuinch—to play from. She is above playing by ear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>cannot</i> play by ear,” said the restless young lady, +angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will sing ‘Coal black Rose’ instead, Marian, I can +accompany you on the banjo, and back you up in the chorus. The Wandsworthers—if +they survive the concertinas—will applaud the change as one man.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is so unkind to joke about it,” said the beautiful young lady. +“What shall I do? If somebody will vamp an accompaniment, I can get on +very well without any music. But if I try to play for myself I shall break +down.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly here stepped aside, and beckoned to the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“That young man wants to speak to you,” whispered Mrs. Fairfax. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed. Thank you,” said the Rev. Mr. Lind, stiffly. “I +suppose I had better see what he requires.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you had,” said Mrs. Fairfax, with some impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“I dont wish to intrude where I have no business,” said Conolly +quietly to the clergyman; “but I can play that lady’s +accompaniment, if she will allow me.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman was too much afraid of Conolly by this time—he did not know +why—to demur. “I am sure she will not object,” he said, pretending +to be relieved by the offer. “Your services will be most acceptable. +Excuse me for one moment, whilst I inform Miss Lind.” +</p> + +<p> +He crossed the room to the lady, and said in a lower tone, “I think I +have succeeded in arranging the matter, Marian. That man says he will play for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope he <i>can</i> play,” said Marian doubtfully. “Who is +he?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is Conolly. Jasper’s man.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Lind’s eyes lighted. “Is that he?” she whispered, +glancing curiously across the room at him. “Bring him and introduce him +to us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that necessary?” said the tall man, without lowering his voice +sufficiently to prevent Conolly from hearing him. The clergyman hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite necessary: I do not know what he must think of us +already,” said Marian, ashamed, and looking apprehensively at Conolly. He +was staring with a policemanlike expression at the tall man, who, after a vain +attempt to ignore him, had eventually to turn away. The Rev. Mr. Lind then led +the electrician forward, and avoided a formal presentation by saying with a +simper: “Here is Mr. Conolly, who will extricate us from all our +difficulties.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss McQuinch nodded. Miss Lind bowed. Marmaduke shook hands good-naturedly, +and retired somewhat abashed, thrumming his banjo. Just then a faint sound of +clapping was followed by the return of the quartet party, upon which Miss Lind +rose and moved hesitatingly toward the platform. The tall man offered his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Sholto,” said she, laughing. “They will expect you +to do something if you appear with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allow <i>me</i>, Marian,” said the clergyman, as the tall man, +offended, bowed and stood aside. She, pretending not to notice her brother, +turned toward Conolly, who at once passed the Rev. George, and led her to the +platform. +</p> + +<p> +“The original key?” he enquired, as they mounted the steps. +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know,” she said, alarmed. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment he was taken aback. Then he said, “What is the highest note +you can sing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can sing A sometimes—only when I am alone. I dare not attempt it +before people.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly sat down, knowing now that Miss Lind was a commonplace amateur. He had +been contrasting her with his sister, greatly to the disparagement of his home +life; and he was disappointed to find the lady break down where the actress +would have succeeded so well. Consoling himself with the reflexion that if Miss +Lind could not rap out a B flat like Susanna, neither could she rap out an +oath, he played the accompaniment much better than Marian sang the song. +Meanwhile, Miss McQuinch, listening jealously in the green-room, hated herself +for her inferior skill. +</p> + +<p> +“Cool, and reserved, is the modern Benjamin Franklin,” observed +Marmaduke to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Better a reserved man who can do something than a sulky one who can do +nothing,” she said, glancing at the tall man, with whom the clergyman was +nervously striving to converse. +</p> + +<p> +“Exquisite melody, is it not, Mr. Douglas?” said Mrs. Fairfax, +coming to the clergyman’s rescue. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not care for music,” said Douglas. “I lack the maudlin +disposition in which the taste usually thrives.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss McQuinch gave an expressive snap, but said nothing; and the conversation +dropped until Miss Lind had sung her song, and received a round of respectful +but not enthusiastic applause. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mr. Conolly,” she said, as she left the platform. +“I am afraid that Spohr’s music is too good for the people here. +Dont you think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit of it,” replied Conolly. “There is nothing so very +particular in Spohr. But he requires very good singing—better than he is +worth.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Lind colored, and returned in silence to her seat beside Miss McQuinch, +feeling that she had exposed herself to a remark that no gentleman would have +made. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then, Nelly,” said Marmaduke: “the parson is going to +call time. Keep up your courage. Come, get up, get up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not be so boisterous, Duke,” said Marian. “It is bad +enough to have to face an audience without being ridiculed beforehand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian,” said Marmaduke, “if you think Nelly will hammer a +love of music into the British workman, you err. Lots of them get their living +by hammering, and they will most likely resent feminine competition. Bang! +There she goes. Pity the sorrows of a poor old piano, and let us hope its +trembling limbs wont come through the floor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Marmaduke,” said Marian, impatiently, “you are +excessively foolish. You are like a boy fresh from school.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke, taken aback by her sharp tone, gave a long whispered whistle, and +pretended to hide under the table. He had a certain gift of drollery which made +it difficult not to laugh even at his most foolish antics, and Marian was +giving way in spite of herself when she found Douglas bending over her and +saying, in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“You are tired of this place. The room is very draughty: I fear it will +give you cold. Let me drive you home now. An apology can be made for whatever +else you are supposed to do for these people. Let me get your cloak and call a +cab.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian laughed. “Thank you, Sholto,” she said; “but I assure +you I am quite happy. Pray do not look offended because I am not so +uncomfortable as you think I ought to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you are happy,” said Douglas in his former cold tone. +“Perhaps my presence is rather a drawback to your enjoyment than +otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you not to come, Sholto; but you would. Why not adapt yourself to +the circumstances, and be agreeable?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not conscious of being disagreeable.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not mean that. Only I do not like to see you making an enemy of +every one in the room, and forcing me to say things that I know must hurt +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“To the enmity of your new associates I am supremely indifferent, Marian. +To that of your old friends I am accustomed. I am not in the mood to be +lectured on my behavior at present; besides, the subject is hardly worth +pursuing. May I gather from your remarks that I shall gratify you by +withdrawing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Marian, flushing slightly, and looking steadily at him. +Then, controlling her voice with an effort, she added, “Do not try again +to browbeat me into telling you a falsehood, Sholto.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas looked at her in surprise. Before he could answer, Miss McQuinch +reappeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Nelly,” said Marmaduke: “is there any piano +left?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not much,” she replied, with a sullen laugh. “I never played +worse in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wrong notes? or deficiency in the sacred fire?” +</p> + +<p> +“Both.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe your song comes next,” said the clergyman to Conolly, +who had been standing apart, listening to Miss McQuinch’s performance. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is to accompany me, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—ah—Miss McQuinch will, I am sure,” replied the Rev. Mr. Lind, +smiling nervously. Conolly looked grave. The young lady referred to closed her +lips; frowned; said nothing. Marmaduke chuckled. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you would rather play your own accompaniment,” said the +clergyman, weakly. +</p> + +<p> +Conolly shook his head decisively, and said, “I can do only one thing at +a time, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, they are not very critical: they are only workmen,” said the +clergyman, and then reddened deeply as Marmaduke gave him a very perceptible +nudge. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll not take advantage of that, as I am only a workman +myself,” said Conolly. “I had rather leave the song out than +accompany myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray dont suppose that I wish to be disagreeable, Mr. Lind,” said +Miss McQuinch, as the company looked doubtfully at her; “but I have +disgraced myself too completely to trust my fingers again. I should spoil the +song if I played the accompaniment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you might try, Nell,” said Marmaduke, reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I might,” retorted Miss McQuinch; “but I wont.” +</p> + +<p> +“If somebody doesnt go out and do something, there will be a +shindy,” said Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +Marian hesitated a moment and then rose. “I am a very indifferent +player,” she said; “but since no better is to be had, I will +venture—if Mr. Conolly will trust me.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would rather not,” said Miss McQuinch, shamed into remorse, +“I will try the accompaniment. But I am sure to play it all wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think Miss McQuinch had better play,” said Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +Conolly looked at Marian; received a reassuring glance; and went to the +platform with her without further ado. She was not a sympathetic accompanist; +but, not knowing this, she was not at all put out by it. She felt too that she +was, as became a lady, giving the workman a lesson in courtesy which might +stand him in stead when he next accompanied “Rose, softly +blooming.” She was a little taken aback on finding that he not only had a +rich baritone voice, but was, as far as she could judge, an accomplished +singer. +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” she said as they left the platform, “you sing most +beautifully.” +</p> + +<p> +“One would hardly have expected it,” he said, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +Marian, annoyed at having this side of her compliment exposed, did not return +the smile, and went to her chair in the green-room without taking any further +notice of him. +</p> + +<p> +“I congratulate you,” said Mrs. Leith Fairfax to Conolly, looking +at him, like all the rest except Douglas, with a marked access of interest. +“Ah! what wonderful depth there is in Gounod’s music!” +</p> + +<p> +He assented politely with a movement of his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing at all about music,” said Mrs. Fairfax. +</p> + +<p> +“Very few people do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean technically, of course,” she said, not quite pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course.” +</p> + +<p> +A tremendous burst of applause here followed the conclusion of the first verse +of “Uncle Ned.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Do</i> come and listen, Nelly,” said Marian, returning to the +door. Mrs. Fairfax and Conolly presently went to the door too. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you not like to help in the chorus, Nelly?” said Marian in a +low voice, as the audience began to join uproariously in the refrain. +</p> + +<p> +“Not particularly,” said Miss McQuinch. +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto,” said Marian, “come and share our vulgar joy. We +want you to join in the chorus.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Douglas, “I fear I am too indifferent a +vocalist to do justice to the occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sing with Mr. Conolly and you cannot go wrong,” said Miss +McQuinch. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said Marian, interposing quickly lest Douglas should +retort. “There is the chorus. Shall we really join?” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly struck up the refrain without further hesitation. Marian sang with him. +Mrs. Fairfax and the clergyman looked furtively at one another, but forbore to +swell the chorus. Miss McQuinch sang a few words in a piercing contralto voice, +and then stopped with a gesture of impatience, feeling that she was out of +tune. Marian, with only Conolly to keep her in countenance, felt relieved when +Marmaduke, thrice encored, entered the room in triumph. Whilst he was being +congratulated, Douglas turned to Miss McQuinch, who was pretending to ignore +Marmaduke’s success. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, Miss McQuinch,” he said in a low tone, “that you +will be able to relieve Marian at the piano next time. You know how she +dislikes having to play accompaniments for strangers.” +</p> + +<p> +“How mean it is of you to be jealous of a plumber!” said Miss +McQuinch, with a quick glance at him which she did not dare to sustain, so +fiercely did he return it. +</p> + +<p> +When she looked again, he seemed unconscious of her presence, and was buttoning +his overcoat. +</p> + +<p> +“Really going at last, Sholto?” said Marian. Douglas bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you you wouldnt be able to stand it, old man,” said +Marmaduke. “Mrs. Bluestockings wont be pleased with you for not staying +to hear her recite.” This referred to Mrs. Fairfax, who had just gone +upon the platform. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night,” said Miss McQuinch, shortly, anxious to test how far +he was offended, but unwilling to appear solicitous for a reconciliation. +</p> + +<p> +“Until to-morrow, farewell,” he said, approaching Marian, who gave +him her hand with a smile: Conolly looking thoughtfully at him meanwhile. He +left the room; and so, Mrs. Fairfax having gone to the platform to recite, +quiet prevailed for a few minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I have the pleasure of playing the accompaniment to your next +song?” said Conolly, sitting down near Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Marian, shrinking a little: “I think Miss +McQuinch knows it by heart.” Then, still anxious to be affable to the +workman, she added, “Lord Jasper says you are a great musician.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am an electrician. Music is not my business: it is my +amusement.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have invented something very wonderful, have you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have discovered something, and I am trying to invent a means of +turning it to account. It will be only a cheap electro-motor if it comes to +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must explain that to me some day, Mr. Conolly. I’m afraid I +dont know what an electro-motor means.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought not to have mentioned it,” said Conolly. “It is so +constantly in my mind that I am easily led to talk about it. I try to prevent +myself, but the very effort makes me think of it more than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I like to hear you talk about it,” said Marian. “I +always try to make people talk shop to me, and of course they always repay me +by trying to keep on indifferent topics, of which I know as much—or as +little—as they.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” said Conolly, “an electro-motor is only an +engine for driving machinery, just like a steam engine, except that it is +worked by electricity instead of steam. Electric engines are so imperfect now +that steam ones come cheaper. The man who finds out how to make the electric +engine do what the steam engine now does, and do it cheaper, will make his +fortune if he has his wits about him. Thats what I am driving at.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Lind, in spite of her sensible views as to talking shop, was not +interested in the least. “Indeed!” she said. “How interesting +that must be! But how did you find time to become so perfect a musician, and to +sing so exquisitely?” +</p> + +<p> +“I picked most of it up when I was a boy. My grandfather was an Irish +sailor with such a tremendous voice that a Neapolitan music master brought him +out in opera as a <i>buffo</i>. When he had roared his voice away, he went into +the chorus. My father was reared in Italy, and looked more Italian than most +genuine natives. He had no voice; so he became first accompanist, then chorus +master, and finally trainer for the operatic stage. He speculated in an +American tour; married out there; lost all his money; and came over to England, +when I was only twelve, to resume his business at Covent Garden. I stayed in +America, and was apprenticed to an electrical engineer. I worked at the bench +there for six years.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose your father taught you to sing.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He never gave me a lesson. The fact is, Miss Lind, he was a capital +man to teach stage tricks and traditional renderings of old operas; but only +the exceptionally powerful voices survived his method of teaching. He would +have finished my career as a singer in two months if he had troubled himself to +teach me. Never go to Italy to learn singing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear you are a cynic. You ought either to believe in your father or +else be silent about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why! Surely we should hide the failings of those we love? I can +understand now how your musical and electrical tastes became mixed up; but you +should not confuse your duties. But please excuse me:” (Conolly’s +eyes had opened a little wider) “I am lecturing you, without the least +right to. It is a failing of mine which you must not mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. Youve a right to your opinion. But the world would never get +on if every practical man were to stand by his father’s mistakes. +However, I brought it on myself by telling you a long story. This is the first +opportunity I ever had of talking about myself to a lady, and I suppose I have +abused it.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian laughed. “We had better stop apologizing to one another,” +she said. “What about the accompaniments to our next songs?” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Marmaduke and Miss McQuinch were becoming curious about Marian and +Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Nelly,” he whispered, “Marian and that young man seem +to be getting on uncommonly well together. She looks sentimentally happy, and +he seems pleased with himself. Dont you feel jealous?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jealous! Why should I be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Out of pure cussedness. Not that you care for the electric man, but +because you hate any one to fall in love with any one else when you are +by.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you would go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Dont you like me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>loathe</i> you. Now, perhaps you understand me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a nice sort of thing to say to a fellow,” said +Marmaduke, roused. “I have a great mind to bring you to your senses as +Douglas does, by not speaking to you for a week.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you would let me come to my senses by not speaking to me at +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Well, I am off; but mind, Nelly, I am offended. We are no longer on +speaking terms. Look as contemptuous as you please: you will be sorry when you +think over this. Remember: you said you loathed me.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I do,” said Elinor, stubbornly. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said Marmaduke, turning his back on her. Just then the +concertinists returned from the platform, and a waiter appeared with +refreshments, which the clergyman invited Marmaduke to assist him in +dispensing. Conolly, considering the uncorking of bottles of soda water a +sufficiently skilled labor to be more interesting than making small talk, went +to the table and busied himself with the corkscrew. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Nelly,” said Marian, drawing her chair close to Miss +McQuinch, and speaking in a low voice, “what do you think of +Jasper’s workman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not much,” replied Elinor, shrugging her shoulders. “He is +very conceited, and very coarse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really think so? I expected to find you delighted with his +unconventionality. I thought him rather amusing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought him extremely aggravating. I hate to have to speak to people +of that sort.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you consider him vulgar,” said Marian, disappointed. +</p> + +<p> +“N—no. Not vulgarer than anybody else. He couldnt be that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sherry and soda, Marian?” said Marmaduke, approaching. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you, Marmaduke. Get Nelly something.” +</p> + +<p> +“As Miss McQuinch and I are no longer on speaking terms, I leave her to +the care of yonder scientific amateur, who has just refused, on teetotal +grounds, to pledge the Rev. George in a glass of eighteen shilling +sherry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont be silly, Marmaduke. Bring Nelly some soda water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do nothing of the sort,” said Miss McQuinch. +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke bowed and retired. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter between you and Duke now?” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. I told him I loathed him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I dont wonder at his being a little huffed. How <i>can</i> you say +things you dont mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do mean them. What with his folly, Sholto’s mean conceit, +George’s hypocrisy, that man’s vulgarity, Mrs. Fairfax’s +affectation, your insufferable amiability, and the dreariness of those +concertina people, I feel so wretched that I could find it in my heart to +loathe anybody and everybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Nelly! You are only in the blues.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Only</i> in the blues!” said Miss McQuinch sarcastically. +“Yes. That is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take some sherry. It will brighten you up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dutch courage! Thank you: I prefer my present moroseness.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are not morose, Nelly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, stuff, Marian! Dont throw away your amiability on me. Here comes +your new friend with refreshments. I wonder was he ever a waiter? He looks +exactly like one.” +</p> + +<p> +After this the conversation flagged. Mrs. Fairfax grew loquacious under the +influence of sherry, but presently a reaction set in, and she began to yawn. +Miss McQuinch, when her turn came, played worse than before, and the audience, +longing for another negro melody, paid little attention to her. Marian sang a +religious song, which was received with the respect usually accorded to a dull +sermon. The clergyman read a comic essay of his own composition, and Mrs. +Fairfax recited an ode to Mazzini. The concertinists played an arrangement of a +quartet by Onslow. The working men and women of Wandsworth gaped, and those who +sat near the door began to slip out. Even Miss McQuinch pitied them. +</p> + +<p> +“The idea of expecting them to be grateful for an infliction like +that!” she said. “What do people of their class care about +Onslow’s quartets?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that people of any class, high or low, would be gratified +by such an entertainment?” said Conolly, with some warmth. No one had +sufficient spirit left to reply. +</p> + +<p> +At last the concertinists went home, and the reading drew to a close. Conolly, +again accompanied by Marian, sang “Tom Bowling.” The audience +awoke, cheered the singer heartily, and made him sing again. On his return to +the green-room, Miss McQuinch, much affected at the fate of Bowling, and +indignant with herself for being so, stared defiantly at Conolly through a film +of tears. When Marmaduke went out, the people also were so moved that they were +ripe for laughter, and with roars of merriment forced him to sing three songs, +in the choruses of which they joined. Eventually the clergyman had to bid them +go home, as Mr. Lind had given them all the songs he knew. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you will not come with us, Duke,” said Marian, when all +was over, and they were preparing to leave. “We can drop you at your +chambers if you like; but you will have to sit on the box. Mrs. Leith Fairfax, +George, Nelly, and I, will be a carriageful.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke looked at his watch. “By Jove!” he cried, “it is +only ten. I forgot how early we began to-night. No thank you, Marian: I am not +going your way; but you may take the banjo and keep it until I call. Ta +ta!” +</p> + +<p> +They all went out together; and the ladies, followed by the clergyman, entered +their carriage and drove away, leaving Marmaduke and Conolly standing on the +pavement. Having shared the success of the concert, each felt well disposed to +the other. +</p> + +<p> +“What direction are you going in?” said Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +“Westminster Bridge or thereabouts,” replied Conolly. “This +place is rather out of the way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you anything particular to do before you turn in for the +night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll tell you what it is, old man. Lets take a hansom, and +drive off to the Bijou. We shall just be in time to see Lalage Virtue in the +burlesque; and—look here! I’ll introduce you to her: youre just the sort +of chap she would like to know. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly looked at him, nodded, and burst out laughing. Marmaduke, who had set +him down as a cool, undemonstrative man, was surprised at his hilarity for a +moment, but presently joined in it. Whilst they were both laughing a hansom +appeared, and Conolly, recovering himself, hailed the driver. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall get on together, I see,” said Marmaduke, jumping into the +cab. “Hallo! The Bijou Theatre, Soho, and drive as fast as you can afford +to for half a sovereign.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right you are, sir,” replied the driver, whipping his horse. +</p> + +<p> +The rattling of the cab silenced Conolly; but his companion persisted for some +time in describing the burlesque to which they were going, and particularly the +attractions of Mademoiselle Lalage Virtue, who enacted a principal character +therein, and with whom he seemed to be in love. When they alighted at the +theatre Marmaduke payed the cabman, and Conolly took advantage of this to enter +the theatre and purchase two stall tickets, an arrangement which Lind, suddenly +recollecting his new friend’s position, disapproved of, but found it +useless to protest against. He forgot it on hearing the voice of Lalage Virtue, +who was at that moment singing within; and he went to his stall with his eyes +turned to the stage, treading on toes and stumbling as children commonly do +when they walk in one direction and look in another. An attendant, who seemed +to know him, proffered a glass for hire. He took it, and leveled it at +Mademoiselle Lalage, who was singing some trivial couplets much better than +they deserved. Catching sight of him presently, she greeted him with a flash of +her dark eye that made him writhe as though his heart had received a fillip +from a ponderable missile. She did not spare these roguish glances. They darted +everywhere; and Conolly, looking about him to note their effect, saw rows of +callow young faces with parted lips and an expression which seemed to have been +caught and fixed at the climax of a blissful chuckle. There were few women in +the stalls, and the silly young faces were relieved only by stupid old ones. +</p> + +<p> +The couplets ended amidst great applause. Marmaduke placed his glass on his +knees, and, clapping his hands vigorously, turned to his companion with a +triumphant smile, mutely inviting him to clamor for a repetition of the air. +But Conolly sat motionless, with his arms folded, his cheek flushed, and his +brow lowered. +</p> + +<p> +“You dont seem used to this sort of thing,” said Lind, somewhat +disgusted. +</p> + +<p> +“It was well sung,” replied Conolly “—better than most of +these blackguards know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why dont you clap?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she is not giving herself any trouble. That sort of thing, from +a woman of her talent, is too cheap to say ‘thank you’ for.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke looked at him, and began to think that he was a priggish fellow after +all. But as the burlesque went on, Mademoiselle Lalage charmed away this +disagreeable impression. She warbled in an amorous duet, and then sang the +pleasures of champagne; tossing her head; waving a gilt goblet; and, without +the least appearance of effort, working hard to captivate those who were to be +won by bold smiles and arch glances. She displayed her person less freely than +her colleagues, being, not more modest, but more skilful in the art of +seduction. The slang that served for dialogue in her part was delivered in all +sorts of intonations, now demure and mischievous, anon strident and mock +tragic. Marmaduke was delighted. +</p> + +<p> +“What I like about her is that she is such a genuine little lady,” +he said, as her exit released his attention. “With all her go, she is +never a bit vulgar. Off the stage she is just the same. Not a spark of +affectation about her. It is all natural.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know her, then?” said Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“I should think I do,” replied Marmaduke, energetically. “You +have no idea what a rattling sort she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“To you, who only see her occasionally, no doubt she gives—as a rattling +sort—a heightened charm to the order, the refinement, the—the beauty of the +home life which you can enjoy. Excuse my introducing such a subject, Mr. Lind; +but would you bring your cousin—the lady who sang to-night at the concert—to +see this performance?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would if she asked me to,” said Marmaduke, somewhat taken aback. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt. But should you be surprised if she asked you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit. Fine ladies are neither such fools nor such angels as you—as +some fellows think. Miss Lind’s notion is to see everything. And yet she +is a thoroughly nice woman too. It is the same with Lalage there. She is not +squeamish, and she is full of fun; but she knows as well as anybody how to pull +up a man who doesnt behave himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you actually think that this Lalage Virtue is as respectable a woman +as your cousin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I dont bother myself about it. I shouldnt have thought of comparing +them if you hadnt started the idea. Marian’s way is not the other +one’s way, and each of them is all right in her own way. Look here. +I’ll introduce you to Lalage. We can pick up somebody else to make a +party for you, and finish with a supper at Jellicoe’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you privileged to introduce whom you like to Miss Lalage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as to that, she doesnt stand much on ceremony; but then, you see, +that cuts two ways. The mere introducing is no difficulty; but it depends on +the man himself whether he gets snubbed afterward or not. By the bye, you must +understand, if you dont know it already, that Lalage is as correct in her +morals as a bishop’s wife. I just tell you, because some fellows seem to +think that a woman who goes on the stage leaves her propriety behind as a +matter of course. In fact, I rather thought so myself once. Not that you wont +find loose women there as well as anywhere else, if you want to. But dont take +it for granted, that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Conolly, “you may introduce me, and we can +consider the supper afterwards. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you obtained +your own introduction? You dont, I suppose, move in the same circle as she; and +if she is as particular as your own people, she can hardly form promiscuous +acquaintanceships.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man at the point of death does not stop to think about etiquet. She +saved my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Saved your life! That sounds romantic.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was precious little romance about it, though I owe my being alive +now to her presence of mind. It happened in the rummest way. I was brought +behind the scenes one night by a Cambridge chum. We were painting the town a +bit red. We were not exactly drunk; but we were not particularly sober either; +and I was very green at that time, and made a fool of myself about Lalage: +staring; clapping like a madman in the middle of her songs; getting into the +way of everybody and everything, and so on. Then a couple of fellows we knew +turned up, and we got chatting at the wing with some girls. At last a fellow +came in with a bag of cherries; and we began trying that old trick—you +know—taking the end of a stalk between your lips and drawing the cherry into +the mouth without touching it with your hand, you know. I tried it; and I was +just getting the cherry into my mouth when some idiot gave me a drive in the +waistcoat. I made a gulp; and the cherry stuck fast in my throat. I began to +choke. Nobody knew what to do; and while they were pushing me about, some +thinking I was only pretending, the girls beginning to get frightened, and the +rest shouting at me to swallow the confounded thing, I was getting black in the +face, and my head was bursting: I could see nothing but red spots. It was a +near thing, I tell you. Suddenly I got a shake; and then a little fist gave me +a stunning thump on the back, that made the cherry bounce out against my +palate. I gasped and coughed like a grampus: the stalk was down my throat +still. Then the little hand grabbed my throat and made me open my mouth wide; +and the cherry was pulled out, stalk and all. It was Lalage who did this while +the rest were gaping helplessly. I dont remember what followed. I thought I had +fainted; but it appears that I nearly cried, and talked the most awful nonsense +to her. I suppose the choking made me hysterical. However, I distinctly +recollect the stage manager bullying the girls, and turning us all out. I was +very angry with myself for being childish, as they told me I had been; and when +I got back to Cambridge I actually took to reading. A few months afterward I +made another trip to town, and went behind the scenes again. She recognized me, +and chaffed me about the cherry. I jumped at my chance; I improved the +acquaintance; and now I know her pretty well.” +</p> + +<p> +“You doubt whether any of the ladies that were with us at the concert +would have been equally useful in such an emergency?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think I do doubt it, my boy. Hush! Now that the ballet is over, +we are annoying people by talking.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” replied Conolly. “Aha! Here is Miss Lalage +again.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke raised his opera-glass to his eyes, eager for another smile from the +actress. He seemed about to be gratified; for her glance was travelling toward +him along the row of stalls. But it was arrested by Conolly, on whom she looked +with perceptible surprise and dismay. Lind, puzzled, turned toward his +companion, and found him smiling maliciously at Mademoiselle Lalage, who +recovered her vivacity with an effort, and continued her part with more +nervousness than he had ever seen her display before. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly before the curtain fell, they left the theatre, and re-entered it by +the stage door. +</p> + +<p> +“Queer place, isnt it?” said Lind. +</p> + +<p> +Conolly nodded, but went forward like one well accustomed to the dingy +labyrinth of old-fashioned stages. Presently they came upon Lalage. She was +much heated by her exertions, thickly painted, and very angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” she said quarrelsomely. +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke, perceiving that her challenge was not addressed to him, but to +Conolly, looked from one to the other, mystified. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to see you act at last,” said Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“You might have told me you were coming. I could have got you a stall, +although I suppose you would have preferred to throw away your money like a +fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must admit, my dear,” said Conolly, “that I could have +spent it to much greater advantage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! and you!” she said, turning to Lind, whose deepening color +betrayed his growing mortification: “what is the matter with +<i>you</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have played a trick on your friend,” said Conolly. “He +suggested this visit; and I did not tell him of the relation between us. +Finding us on terms of familiarity, if not of affection, he is naturally +surprised.” +</p> + +<p> +“As I have never tried to meddle with your private affairs,” said +Marmaduke to Lalage, “I need not apologize for not knowing your husband. +But I regret——” +</p> + +<p> +The actress laughed in spite of her vexation. “Why, you silly old +thing!” she exclaimed, “he is no more my husband than you +are!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Marmaduke. “Indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am her brother,” said Conolly considerately, stifling a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said Mademoiselle Lalage fiercely, raising her voice, +“what else did you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said Conolly, “we are talking too much in this crowd. +You had better change your dress, Susanna, and then we can settle what to do +next.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can settle what you please,” she replied. “I am going +home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Lind has suggested our supping together,” said Conolly, +observing her curiously. +</p> + +<p> +Susanna looked quickly at them. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is Mr. Lind?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Your friend, of course,” said Conolly, with an answering flash of +intelligence that brought out the resemblance between them startlingly. +“Mr. Marmaduke Lind.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke became very red as they both waited for him to explain. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that you would perhaps join us at supper,” he said to +Susanna. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you?” she said, threateningly. Then she turned her back on him +and went to her dressing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, “what do you think of +Mademoiselle Lalage now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think her annoyance is very natural,” said Marmaduke, gloomily. +“No doubt you are right to take care of your sister, but you are very +much mistaken if you think I meant to act badly toward her.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no part of my duty to take care of her,” said Conolly, +seriously. “She is her own guardian, and she has never been encouraged to +suppose that her responsibility lies with any one but herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“It doesnt matter now,” said Marmaduke; “for I intend never +to speak to her again.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly laughed. “However that may turn out,” he said, “we +are evidently not in the mood for further conviviality, so let us postpone the +supper to some other occasion. May I advise you not to wait until Susanna +returns. There is no chance of a reconciliation to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont want any reconciliation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not; I had forgotten,” replied Conolly, placably. +“Then I suppose you will go before she has finished dressing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go now,” said Marmaduke, buttoning his overcoat, and +turning away. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” said Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” muttered Marmaduke, petulantly, and disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Conolly waited a moment, so that he might not overtake Lind. He then went for a +cab, and waited at the stage door until his sister came down, frowning. She got +into the hansom without a word. +</p> + +<p> +“Why dont you have a brougham, instead of going about in cabs?” he +said, as they drove away. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I like a hansom better than a brougham; and I had rather pay +four shillings a night and travel comfortably, than thirteen and be half +suffocated.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought the appearance of——” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no use in your talking to me. I cant hear a word you say going +over these stones.” +</p> + +<p> +When they were alone together in their drawing-room in Lambeth, he, after +walking up and down the room a few times, and laughing softly to himself, began +to sing the couplets from the burlesque. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you aware,” she inquired, “that it is half past twelve, +and that the people of the house are trying to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” said he, desisting. “By the bye, I, too, have had my +triumphs this evening. I shared the honors of the concert with Master Lind, who +was so delighted that he insisted on bringing me off to the Bijou. He loves you +to distraction, poor devil!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: you made a nice piece of mischief there. Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone away in a rage, swearing never to speak to you again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hm! And so his name is Lind, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Didnt you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, or I should have told you when I read the program this evening. The +young villain pretended that his name was Marmaduke Sharp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! The name reminds me of one of his cousins, a little spitfire that +snaps at every one who presumes to talk to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“His cousins! Oh, of course; you met them at the concert. What are they +like? Are they swells?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they seem to be. There were only two cousins, Miss McQuinch and a +young woman named Marian, blonde and rather good looking. There was a brother +of hers there, but he is only a parson, and a tall fellow named Douglas, who +made rather a fool of himself. I could not make him out exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did they snub you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know. Probably they tried. Are you intimate with many of our +young nobility under assumed names?” +</p> + +<p> +“Steal a few more marches to the Bijou, and perhaps you will find +out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night! Pardon my abrupt departure, but you are not the very +sweetest of Susannas to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>good</i>-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“By the bye,” said Conolly, returning, “this must be the Mr. +Duke Lind who is going to marry Lady Constance Carbury, my noble pupil’s +sister.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure it matters very little whom he marries.” +</p> + +<p> +“If he will pay us a visit here, and witness the working of perfect +frankness without affection, and perfect liberty without refinement, he may +find reason to conclude that it matters a good deal. Good-night.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<p> +Marian Lind lived at Westbourne Terrace, Paddington, with her father, the +fourth son of a younger brother of the Earl of Carbury. Mr. Reginald Harrington +Lind, at the outset of his career, had no object in life except that of getting +through it as easily as possible; and this he understood so little how to +achieve that he suffered himself to be married at the age of nineteen to a +Lancashire cotton spinner’s heiress. She bore him three children, and +then eloped with a professor of spiritualism, who deserted her on the eve of +her fourth confinement, in the course of which she caught scarlet fever and +died. Her child survived, but was sent to a baby farm and starved to death in +the usual manner. Her husband, disgusted by her behavior (for she had been +introduced by him to many noblemen and gentlemen, his personal friends, some +one at least of whom, on the slightest encouragement, would, he felt sure, have +taken the place of the foreign charlatan she had disgraced him by preferring), +consoled himself for her bad taste by entering into her possessions, which +comprised a quantity of new jewellery, new lace, and feminine apparel, and an +income of nearly seven thousand pounds a year. After this, he became so welcome +in society that he could have boasted with truth at the end of any July that +there were few marriageable gentlewomen of twenty-six and upward in London who +had not been submitted to his inspection with a view to matrimony. But finding +it easy to delegate the care of his children to school principals and +hospitable friends, he concluded that he had nothing to gain and much comfort +to lose by adding a stepmother to his establishment; and, after some time, it +became the custom to say of Mr. Lind that the memory of his first wife kept him +single. Thus, whilst his sons were drifting to manhood through Harrow and +Cambridge, and his daughter passing from one relative’s house to +another’s on a continual round of visits, sharing such private tuition as +the cousins with whom she happened to be staying happened to be receiving just +then, he lived at his club and pursued the usual routine of a +gentleman-bachelor in London. +</p> + +<p> +In the course of time, Reginald Lind, the eldest child, entered the army, and +went to India with his regiment. His brother George, less stolid, weaker, and +more studious, preferred the Church. Marian, the youngest, from being +constantly in the position of a guest, had early acquired habits of +self-control and consideration for others, and escaped the effects, good and +evil, of the subjection in which children are held by the direct authority of +their parents. +</p> + +<p> +Of the numerous domestic circles of her father’s kin, that with which she +was the least familiar, because it was the poorest, had sprung from the +marriage of one of her father’s sisters with a Wiltshire gentleman named +Hardy McQuinch, who had a small patrimony, a habit of farming, and a love of +hunting. In the estimation of the peasantry, who would not associate lands, +horses, and a carriage, with want of money, he was a rich man; but Mrs. +McQuinch found it hard to live like a lady on their income, and had worn many +lines into her face by constantly and vainly wishing that she could afford to +give a ball every season, to get a new carriage, and to appear at church with +her daughters in new dresses oftener than twice a year. Her two eldest girls +were plump and pleasant, good riders and hearty eaters; and she had reasonable +hopes of marrying them to prosperous country gentlemen. +</p> + +<p> +Elinor, her third and only other child, was one of her troubles. At an early +age it was her practice, once a week or thereabouts, to disappear in the +forenoon; be searched anxiously for all day; and return with a torn frock and +dirty face at about six o’clock in the afternoon. She was stubborn, +rebellious, and passionate under reproof or chastisement: governesses had left +the house because of her; and from one school she had run away, from another +eloped with a choir boy who wrote verses. Him she deserted in a fit of +jealousy, quarter of an hour after her escape from school. The only one of her +tastes that conduced to the peace of the house was for reading; and even this +made her mother uneasy; for the books she liked best were fit, in Mrs. +McQuinch’s opinion, for the bookcase only. Elinor read openly what she +could obtain by asking, such as Lamb’s Tales from Shakespear, and The +Pilgrim’s Progress. The Arabian Nights Entertainments were sternly +refused her; so she read them by stealth; and from that day there was always a +collection of books, borrowed from friends, or filched from the upper shelf in +the library, beneath her mattress. Nobody thought of looking there for them; +and even if they had, they might have paused to reflect on the consequences of +betraying her. Her eldest sister having given her a small workbox on her +eleventh birthday, had the present thrown at her head two days later for +reporting to her parents that Nelly’s fondness for sitting in a certain +secluded summer-house was due to her desire to read Lord Byron’s poetry +unobserved. Miss Lydia’s forehead was severely cut; and Elinor, though +bitterly remorseful, not only refused to beg pardon for her fault, but +shattered every brittle article in the room to which she was confined for her +contumacy. The vicar, on being consulted, recommended that she should be well +whipped. This counsel was repugnant to Hardy McQuinch, but he gave his wife +leave to use her discretion in the matter. The mother thought that the child +ought to be beaten into submission; but she was afraid to undertake the task, +and only uttered a threat, which was received with stubborn defiance. This was +forgotten next day when Elinor, exhausted by a week of remorse, terror, rage, +and suspense, became dangerously ill. When she recovered, her parents were more +indulgent to her, and were gratified by finding her former passionate +resistance replaced by sulky obedience. Five years elapsed, and Elinor began to +write fiction. The beginning of a novel, and many incoherent verses imitated +from Lara, were discovered by her mother, and burnt by her father. This outrage +she never forgave. She was unable to make her resentment felt, for she no +longer cared to break glass and china. She feared even to remonstrate lest she +should humiliate herself by bursting into tears, as, since her illness, she had +been prone to do in the least agitation. So she kept silence, and ceased to +speak to either of her parents except when they addressed questions to her. Her +father would neither complain of this nor confess the regret he felt for his +hasty destruction of her manuscripts; but, whilst he proclaimed that he would +burn every scrap of her nonsense that might come into his hands, he took care +to be blind when he surprised her with suspicious bundles of foolscap, and +snubbed his wife for hinting that Elinor was secretly disobeying him. Meanwhile +her silent resentment never softened, and the life of the family was embittered +by their consciousness of it. It never occurred to Mrs. McQuinch, an excellent +mother to her two eldest daughters, that she was no more fit to have charge of +the youngest than a turtle is to rear a young eagle. The discomfort of their +relations never shook her faith in their “naturalness.” Like her +husband and the vicar, she believed that when God sent children he made their +parents fit to rule them. And Elinor resented her parents’ tyranny, as +she felt it to be, without dreaming of making any allowances for their being in +a false position towards her. +</p> + +<p> +One morning a letter from London announced that Mr. Lind had taken a house in +Westbourne Terrace, and intended to live there permanently with his daughter. +Elinor had not come down to breakfast when the post came. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs. McQuinch, when she had communicated the news: +“I knew there was something the matter when I saw Reginald’s +handwriting. It must be fully eighteen months since I heard from him last. I am +very glad he has settled Marian in a proper home, instead of living like a +bachelor and leaving her to wander about from one house to another. I wish we +could have afforded to ask her down here oftener.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here is a note from Marian, addressed to Nelly,” said Lydia, who +had been examining the envelope. +</p> + +<p> +“To Nelly!” said Mrs. McQuinch, vexed. “I think she should +have invited one of you first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it is not an invitation,” said Jane. +</p> + +<p> +“What else is it likely to be, child?” said Mrs. McQuinch. Then, as +she thought how much pleasanter her home would be without Elinor, she added, +“After all, it will do Nelly good to get away from here. She needs +change, I think. I wish she would come down. It is too bad of her to be always +late like this.” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor came in presently, wearing a neglected black gown; her face pale; her +eyes surrounded by dark circles; her black hair straggling in wisps over her +forehead. Her sisters, dressed twinlike in white muslin and gold lockets, +emphasized her by contrast. Being blond and gregarious, they enjoyed the +reputation of being pretty and affectionate. They had thriven in the soil that +had starved Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a letter for you from Marian,” said Mrs. McQuinch. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks,” said Elinor, indifferently, putting the note into her +pocket. She liked Marian’s letters, and kept them to read in her hours of +solitude. +</p> + +<p> +“What does she say?” said Mrs. McQuinch. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not looked,” replied Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mrs. McQuinch, plaintively, “I wish you +<i>would</i> look. I want to know whether she says anything about this letter +from your uncle Reginald.” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor plucked the note from her pocket, tore it open, and read it. Suddenly +she set her face to hide some emotion from her family. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian wants me to go and stay with her,” she said. “They +have taken a house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Marian!” said Jane. “And will you go?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will,” said Elinor. “Have you any objection?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear, no,” said Jane, smoothly. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you will be glad to get away from your home,” said Mrs. +McQuinch, incontinently. +</p> + +<p> +“Very glad,” said Elinor. Mr. McQuinch, hurt, looked at her over +his newspaper. Mrs. McQuinch was huffed. +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know what you are to do for clothes,” she said, +“unless Lydia and Jane are content to wear their last winter’s +dresses again this year.” +</p> + +<p> +The faces of the young ladies elongated. “That’s nonsense, +mamma,” said Lydia. “We cant wear those brown reps again.” +Women wore reps in those days. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not be alarmed,” said Elinor. “I dont want any +clothes. I can go as I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“You dont know what you are talking about, child,” said Mrs. +McQuinch. +</p> + +<p> +“A nice figure you would make in uncle Reginald’s drawing-room with +that dress on!” said Lydia. +</p> + +<p> +“And your hair in that state!” added Jane. +</p> + +<p> +“You should remember that there are others to be considered besides +yourself,” said Lydia. “How would <i>you</i> like <i>your</i> +guests to look like scarecrows?” +</p> + +<p> +“How could you expect Marian to go about with you, or into the Park? I +suppose——” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, here!” said Mr. McQuinch, putting down his paper. “Let +us have no more of this. What else do you need in the Park than a riding habit? +You have that already. Whatever clothes you want you had better get in London, +where you will get the proper things for your money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Hardy, she is not going to pay a London milliner four prices for +things she can get quite as good down here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you I dont want anything,” said Elinor impatiently. +“It will be time enough to begrudge me some decent clothes when I ask for +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont begrudge——” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. McQuinch’s husband interrupted her. “Thats enough, now, +everybody. It’s settled that she is to go, as she wants to. I will get +her what is necessary. Give me another egg, and talk about something +else.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, Elinor went to live at Westbourne Terrace. Marian had spent a +month of her childhood in Wiltshire, and had made of Elinor an exacting friend, +always ready to take offence, and to remain jealous and sulky for days if one +of her sisters, or any other little girl, engaged her cousin’s attention +long. On the other hand, Elinor’s attachment was idolatrous in its +intensity; and as Marian was sweet-tempered, and more apt to fear that she had +disregarded Elinor’s feelings than to take offence at her waywardness, +their friendship endured after they were parted. Their promises of +correspondence were redeemed by Elinor with very long letters at uncertain +intervals, and by Marian with shorter epistles notifying all her important +movements. Marian, often called upon to defend her cousin from the charge of +being a little shrew, was led to dwell upon her better qualities. Elinor found +in Marian what she had never found at her own home, a friend, and in her +uncle’s house a refuge from that of her father, which she hated. She had +been Marian’s companion for four years when the concert took place at +Wandsworth. +</p> + +<p> +Next day they were together in the drawing-room at Westbourne Terrace: Marian +writing, Elinor at the pianoforte, working at some technical studies, to which +she had been incited by the shortcoming of her performance on the previous +night. She stopped on hearing a bell ring. +</p> + +<p> +“What o’clock is it?” she said, after listening a moment. +“Surely it is too early for a visit.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is only half past two,” replied Marian. “I hope it is not +anybody. I have not half finished my correspondence.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Miss,” said a maid, entering, “Mr. Douglas +wants to see you, and he wont come up.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose he expects you to go down and talk to him in the hall,” +said Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“He is in the dining-room, and wishes to see you most particular,” +said the maid. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him I will come down,” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“He heard me practising,” said Elinor, “that is why he would +not come up. I am in disgrace, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Nelly! But indeed I have no doubt he has come to complain of +our conduct, since he insists on seeing me alone.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss McQuinch looked sceptically at Marian’s guileless eyes, but resumed +her technical studies without saying anything. Marian went to the dining-room, +where she found Douglas standing near the window, tall and handsome, frock +coated and groomed to a spotless glossiness that established a sort of +relationship between him and the sideboard, the condition of which did credit +to Marian’s influence over her housemaids. He looked intently at her as +she bade him good morning. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I am rather early,” he said, half stiffly, half +apologetically. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to say something which I do not care to keep unsaid longer +than I can help; so I thought it better to come when I could hope to find you +alone. I hope I have not disturbed you. I have something rather important to +say.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are the same as one of ourselves, of course, Sholto. But I believe +you delight in stiffness and ceremony. Will you not come upstairs?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to speak to you privately. First, I have to apologize to you for +what passed last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray dont, Sholto: it doesnt matter. I am afraid we were rude to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me. It is I who am in fault. I never before made an apology to +any human being; and I should not do so now without a painful conviction that I +forgot what I owed to myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself—I mean for never having +apologized before. I am quite sure you have not got through life without having +done at least one or two things that required an apology.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry you hold that opinion of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How is Brutus’s paw?” +</p> + +<p> +“Brutus!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That abrupt way of changing the subject is what Mrs. Fairfax calls +a display of tact. I know it is very annoying; so you may talk about anything +you please. But I really want to hear how the poor dog is.” +</p> + +<p> +“His paw is nearly healed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m so glad—poor old dear!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are aware that I did not come here to speak of my mother’s +dog, Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +“I supposed not,” said Marian, with a smile. “But now that +you have made your apology, wont you come upstairs? Nelly is there.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have something else to say—to you alone, Marian. I entreat you to +listen to it seriously.” Marian looked as grave as she could. “I +confess that in some respects I do not understand you; and before you enter +upon another London season, through which I cannot be at your side, I would +obtain from you some assurance of the nature of your regard for me. I do not +wish to harass you with jealous importunity. You have given me the most +unequivocal tokens of a feeling different from that which inspires the ordinary +intercourse of a lady and gentleman in society; but of late it has seemed to me +that you maintain as little reserve toward other men as toward me. I am not +thinking of Marmaduke: he is your cousin. But I observed that even the working +man who sang at the concert last night was received—I do not say +intentionally—with a cordiality which might have tempted a more humbly disposed +person than he seemed to be to forget——” Here Douglas, seeing +Marian’s bearing change suddenly, hesitated. Her beautiful gray eyes, +always pleading for peace like those of a good angel, were now full of +reproach; and her mouth, but for those eyes, would have suggested that she was +at heart an obstinate woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto,” she said, “I dont know what to say to you. If this +is jealousy, it may be very flattering; but it is ridiculous. If it is a +lecture, seriously intended, it is—it is really most insulting. What do you +mean by my having given you unequivocal signs of regard? Of course I think of +you very differently from the chance acquaintances I make in society. It would +be strange if I did not, having known you so long and been your mother’s +guest so often. But you talk almost as if I had been making love to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Douglas, forgetting his ceremonious manner and speaking +angrily and naturally; “but you talk as though I had not been making love +to <i>you</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have, I never knew it. I never dreamt it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, since you are not the stupidest lady of my acquaintance, you must +be the most innocent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me of one single occasion on which anything has passed between us +that justifies your speaking to me as you are doing now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Innumerable occasions. But since I cannot compel you to acknowledge +them, it would be useless to cite them.” +</p> + +<p> +“All I can say is that we have utterly misunderstood one another,” +she said, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +He said nothing, but took up his hat, and looked down at it with angry +determination. Marian, too uneasy to endure silence, added: +</p> + +<p> +“But I shall know better in future.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” said Douglas, hastily putting down his hat and advancing a +step. “You cannot plead misunderstanding now. Can you give me the +assurance I seek?” +</p> + +<p> +“What assurance?” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas shook his shoulders impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“You expect me to know everything by intuition,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my declaration shall be definite enough, even for you. Do you love +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I dont think I do. In fact, I am quite sure I do not—in the way you +mean. I wish you would not talk like this, Sholto. We have all got on so +pleasantly together: you, and I, and Nelly, and Marmaduke, and my father. And +now you begin making love, and stuff of that kind. Pray let us agree to forget +all about it, and remain friends as before.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not be anxious about our future relations: I shall not +embarrass you with my society again. I hoped to find you a woman capable of +appreciating a man’s passion, even if you should be unable to respond to +it. But I perceive that you are only a girl, not yet aware of the deeper life +that underlies the ice of conventionality.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a very good metaphor for your own case,” said Marian, +interrupting him. “Your ordinary manner is all ice, hard and chilling. +One may suspect that there are depths beneath, but that is only an additional +inducement to keep on the surface.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then even your amiability is a delusion! Or is it that you are amiable +to the rest of the world, and reserve taunts of coldness and treachery for +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she said, angelic again. “You have taken me up +wrongly. I did not mean to taunt you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You conceal your meaning as skilfully as—according to you—I have +concealed mine. Good-morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going already?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you care one bit for me, Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do indeed. Believe me, you are one of my special friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not want to be <i>one</i> of your friends. Will you be my +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto!” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be my wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I——” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me. That is quite sufficient. Good-morning.” +</p> + +<p> +The moment he interrupted her, a change in her face shewed she had a temper. +She did not move a muscle until she heard the house door close behind him. Then +she ran upstairs to the drawing-room, where Miss McQuinch was still practising. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Nelly,” she cried, throwing herself into an easy chair, and +covering her face with her hands. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” She opened +her fingers and looked whimsically at her cousin, who, despising this stage +business, said, impatiently: +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what Sholto came for?” +</p> + +<p> +“To propose to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop, Nelly. You do not know what horrible things one may say in jest. +He <i>has</i> proposed.” +</p> + +<p> +“When will the wedding be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont joke about it, please. I scarcely know how I have behaved, or what +the meaning of the whole scene is, yet. Listen. Did you ever suspect that he +was—what shall I say?—<i>courting</i> me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw that he was trying to be tender in his own conceited way. I fully +expected he would propose some day, if he could once reconcile himself to a +wife who was not afraid of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you never told me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you saw it for yourself; particularly as you encouraged +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“There! The very thing he has been accusing me of! He said I had given +him unequivocal tokens—yes, unequivocal tokens—that I was madly in love with +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you say?—if I may ask.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tried to explain things to him; but he persisted in asking me would I +be his wife; and when I refused he would not listen to anything else, and went +off in a rage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I can imagine Sholto’s feelings on discovering that he had +humbled himself in vain. Why did you refuse him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why! Fancy being Sholto’s wife! I would as soon think of marrying +Marmaduke. But I cannot forget what he said about my flirting with him. Nelly: +will you promise to tell me whenever you think I am behaving in a way that +might lead anybody on to—like Sholto, you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! If men choose to make fools of themselves, you cannot prevent +them. Hush! I hear someone coming upstairs. It is Marmaduke, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marmaduke would never come up so slowly. He generally comes up three +steps at a time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sulky after last night, no doubt. I suppose he wont speak to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke entered listlessly. “Good morning, Marian,” he said, +sitting down on an uncomfortable chair. “Good morrow, Nell.” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor, surprised at the courtesy, looked up and saluted him snappishly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything the matter, Duke?” said Marian. “Are you +ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m all right. Rather busy: thats all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Busy!” said Elinor. “There must be something even more +unusual than that, when you are too low spirited to keep up a quarrel with me. +Why dont you sit on the easy chair, or sprawl on the ottoman, after your +manner?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything for a quiet life,” he replied, moving to the ottoman. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be hungry,” said Marian, puzzled by his obedience. +“Let me get you something.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you,” said Marmaduke. “I couldnt eat. Just had +lunch. Ive come to pack up a few things of mine that you have here.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have your banjo.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I dont want that. You may keep it, or put it in the fire, for all I +care. I want some clothes I left behind me when we had the theatricals.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you leaving London?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I am getting tired of loafing about here. I think I ought to go +home for a while. My mother wants me to.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss McQuinch, by a subdued but expressive snort, conveyed the most entire +scepticism as to his solicitude about his mother. She then turned to the piano +calmly, observing, “You have probably eaten something that disagrees with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a shame!” said Marian. “Come, Duke: I have plenty of +good news for you. Nelly and I are invited to Carbury Park for the autumn; and +there will be no visitors but us three. We shall have the whole place to +ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Time enough to think of the autumn yet awhile,” said Marmaduke, +gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Miss McQuinch, “here is some better news for +you. Constance—<i>Lady</i> Constance—will be in town next week.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke muttered something. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon?” said Elinor, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“I didnt say anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may be wrong; but I thought I heard you say ‘Hang Lady +Constance!’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Marmaduke!” cried Marian, affectedly. “How dare you +speak so of your betrothed, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who says she is my betrothed?” he said, turning on her angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, everybody. Even Constance admits it.” +</p> + +<p> +“She ought to have the manners to wait until I ask her,” he said, +subsiding. “I’m not betrothed to her; and I dont intend to become +so in a hurry, if I can help it. But you neednt tell your father I said so. It +might get round to my governor; and then there would be a row.” +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>must</i> marry her some day, you know,” said Elinor, +maliciously. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Must</i> I? I shant marry at all. I’ve had enough of +women.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed? Perhaps they have had enough of you.” Marmaduke reddened. +“You seem to have exhausted the joys of this world since the concert last +night. Are you jealous of Mr. Conolly’s success?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your by-play when you found how early it was at the end of the concert +was not lost on us,” said Marian demurely. “You were going +somewhere, were you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Since you are so jolly curious,” said Marmaduke, unreasonably +annoyed, “I went to the theatre with Connolly; and my by-play, as you +call it, simply meant my delight at finding that we could get rid of you in +time to enjoy the evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“With Conolly!” said Marian, interested. What kind of man is +he?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is nothing particular. You saw him yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But is he well educated, and—and so forth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont know, I’m sure. We didnt talk about mathematics and +classics.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well; but—do you like him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you I dont care a damn about him one way or the other,” +said Marmaduke, rising and walking away to the window. His cousins, astonished, +exchanged looks. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Marmaduke,” said Marian softly, after a pause: “I +wont tease you any more. Dont be angry.” +</p> + +<p> +“You havnt teased me,” said he, coming back somewhat shamefacedly +from the window. “I feel savage to-day, though there is no reason why I +should not be as jolly as a shrimp. Perhaps Nelly will play some Chopin, just +to soothe me. I should like to hear that polonaise again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should enjoy nothing better than taking you at your word,” said +Elinor. “But I heard Mr. Lind come in, a moment ago; and he is not so +fond of Chopin as you and I.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind entered whilst she was speaking. He was a dignified gentleman, with +delicately chiselled features and portly figure. His silky light brown hair +curled naturally about his brow and set it off imposingly. His hands were white +and small, with tapering fingers, and small thumbs. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, sir?” said Marmaduke, blushing. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you: I am better than I have been.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke murmured congratulations, and looked at his watch as if pressed for +time. “I must be off now,” he said, rising. “I was just going +when you came in.” +</p> + +<p> +“So soon! Well, I must not detain you, Marmaduke. I heard from your +father this morning. He is very anxious to see you settled in life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I shall shake down some day, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have very good opportunities—very exceptional opportunities. Has +Marian told you that Constance is expected to arrive in town next week?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: we told him,” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“He thought it too good to be true, and would hardly believe us,” +added Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind smiled at his nephew, happily forgetful, worldly wise as he was, of +the inevitable conspiracy of youth against age. They smiled too, except +Marmaduke, who, being under observation, kept his countenance like the Man in +the Iron Mask. “It is quite true, my boy,” said the uncle, kindly. +“But before she arrives, I should like to have a talk with you. When can +you come to breakfast with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Any day you choose to name, sir. I shall be very glad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us say to-morrow morning. Will that be too soon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. It will suit me quite well. Good evening, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening to you.” +</p> + +<p> +When Marmaduke was in the street, he stood for a while considering which way to +go. Before the arrival of his uncle, he had intended to spend the afternoon +with his cousins. He was now at a loss for a means of killing time. On one +point he was determined. There was a rehearsal that day at the Bijou Theatre; +and thither, at least, he would not go. He drove to Charing Cross, and drifted +back to Leicester Square. He turned away from the theatre, and wandered down +Piccadilly. Then he thought he would return as far as the Criterion, and drink. +Finally he arrived at the stage door of the Bijou Theatre, and inquired whether +the rehearsal was over. +</p> + +<p> +“Theyve bin at it since eleven this mornin, and will be pretty nigh til +the stage is wanted for to-night,” said the janitor. “I’d as +lief youd wait here as go up, if you dont mind, sir. The guvnor is above; and +he aint in the best o’ tempers. I’ll send word up.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke looked round irresolutely. A great noise of tramping and singing +began. +</p> + +<p> +“Thats the new procession,” continued the doorkeeper. +“Sixteen hextras took on for it. It’s Miss Virtue’s chance +for lunch, sir: you wont have long to wait now.” +</p> + +<p> +Here there was a rapid pattering of feet down the staircase. Marmaduke started, +and stood biting his lips as Mademoiselle Lalage, busy, hungry, and in haste, +hurried towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Come! Come on,” she said impatiently to him, as she went out. +“Go and get a cab, will you. I must have something to eat; and I have to +get back sharp. Do be qu——there goes a hansom. Hi!” She whistled shrilly, +and waved her umbrella. The cab came, and was directed by Marmaduke to a +restaurant in Regent Street. +</p> + +<p> +“I am absolutely starving,” she said as they drove off. “I +have been in since eleven this morning; and of course they only called the band +for half-past. They are such damned fools: they drive me mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why dont you walk out of the theatre, and make them arrange it properly +for next day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes! And throw the whole day after the half, and lose my rehearsal. +It is bad enough to lose my temper. I swore, I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt you did.” +</p> + +<p> +“This horse thinks he’s at a funeral. What o’clock is +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only eight minutes past four. There is plenty of time.” +</p> + +<p> +When they alighted, Lalage hurried into the restaurant; scrutinized the tables; +and selected the best lighted one. The waiter, a decorous elderly man, +approached with some severity of manner, and handed a bill of fare to +Marmaduke. She snatched it from him, and addressed the waiter sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring me some thin soup; and get me a steak to follow. Let it be a thick +juicy one. If its purple and raw I wont have it; and if its done to a cinder, I +wont have it: it must be red. And get me some spring cabbage and potatoes, and +a pint of dry champagne—the decentest you have. And be quick.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what for you, sir?” said the waiter, turning to Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind him,” interrupted Susanna. “Go and attend to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +The waiter bowed and retired. +</p> + +<p> +“Old stick-in-the-mud!” muttered Miss Lalage. “Is it +half-past four yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. It’s only quarter past. There’s lots of time.” +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle Lalage ate until the soup, a good deal of bread, the steak, the +vegetables, and the pint of champagne—less a glassful taken by her +companion—had disappeared. Marmaduke watched her meanwhile, and consumed two +ices. +</p> + +<p> +“Have an ice to finish up with?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I cant work on sweets,” she replied. “But I am beginning +to feel alive again and comfortable. Whats the time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound the time!” said Marmaduke. “It’s twenty +minutes to five.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll drive back to the theatre. I neednt start for quarter +of an hour yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank heaven!” said Marmaduke. “I was afraid I should not be +able to get a word with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That reminds me of a crow I have to pluck with you, Mr. Marmaduke Lind. +What did you mean by telling me your name was Sharp?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the name of a cousin of mine,” said Marmaduke, +attempting to dismiss the subject with a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“It may be your cousin’s name; but it’s not yours. By the +bye, is that the cousin youre engaged to?” +</p> + +<p> +“What cousin? I’m not engaged to anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a lie, like your denial of your name. Come, come, Master +Marmaduke: you cant humbug me. Youre too young. Hallo! What do <i>you</i> +want?” +</p> + +<p> +It was the waiter, removing some plates, and placing a bill on the table. +Marmaduke put his hand into his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“Just wait a minute, please,” said Susanna. The waiter retired. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then,” she resumed, placing her elbows on the table, +“let us have no more nonsense. What is your little game? Are you going to +pay that bill or am I?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no of course in it—not yet, anyhow. What are you hanging about +the theatre after me for? Tell me that. Dont stop to think.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke looked foolish, and then sulky. Finally he brightened, and said, +“Look here. Youre angry with me for bringing your brother last night. But +upon my soul I had no idea—” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s not what I mean at all. You are dodging a plain question. +When you came to the theatre, I thought you were a nice fellow; and I made +friends with you. Now I find you have been telling me lies about yourself, and +trying to play fast and loose. You must either give that up or give me up. I +wont have you pass that stage door again if you only want to amuse yourself +like other lounging cads about town.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by playing fast and loose, and being a cad about +town?” said Marmaduke angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope youre not going to make a row here in public.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; but I have you where <i>you</i> cant make a row; and I intend to +have it out with you once and for all. If you quarrel now, so help me Heaven +I’ll never speak to you again!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is you who are quarrelling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Susanna, opening her purse as though the matter +were decided. “Waiter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to pay.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you can—for what you had yourself. I dont take dinners from strange +men, nor pay for their ices.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke did not reply. He took out his purse determinedly; glanced angrily at +her; and muttered, “I never thought you were that sort of woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of woman?” demanded Susanna, in a tone that made the +other occupants of the room turn and stare. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind,” said Marmaduke. She was about to retort, when she saw +him looking into his purse with an expression of dismay. The waiter came. +Susanna, instead of attempting to be beforehand in proffering the money, +changed her mind, and waited. Marmaduke searched his pockets. Finding nothing, +he muttered an imprecation, and, fingering his watch chain, glanced doubtfully +at the waiter, who looked stolidly at the tablecloth. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said Susanna, putting down a sovereign. +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke looked on helplessly whilst the waiter changed the coin and thanked +Susanna for her gratuity. Then he said, “You must let me settle with you +for this to-night. Ive left nearly all my cash in the pocket of another +waistcoat.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not have the chance of settling with me, either to-night or any +other night. I am done with you.” And she rose and left the restaurant. +Marmaduke sat doggedly for quarter of a minute. Then he went out, and ran along +Regent Street, anxiously looking from face to face in search of her. At last he +saw her walking at a great pace a little distance ahead of him. He made a dash +and overtook her. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Lalage,” he said, keeping up with her as she walked: +“this is all rot. I didnt mean to offend you. I dont know what you mean, +or what you want me to do. Dont be so unreasonable.” +</p> + +<p> +No answer. +</p> + +<p> +“I can stand a good deal from you; but it’s too much to be kept at +your heels as if I were a beggar or a troublesome dog. <i>Lalage</i>.” +She took no notice of him; and he stopped, trying to compose his features, +which were distorted by rage. She walked on, turning into Glasshouse Street. +When she had gone twenty yards, she heard him striding behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“If you wont stop and talk to me,” he said, “I’ll make +you. If anybody interferes with me I’ll smash him into jelly. It would +serve you right if I did the same to you.” +</p> + +<p> +He put his hand on her arm; and she instantly turned and struck him across the +face, knocking off his hat. He, who a moment before had been excited, red, and +almost in tears, was appalled. There was a crowd in a moment; and a cabman drew +up close to the kerb with a calm conviction that his hansom would be wanted +presently. +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you put your hand on me, you coward?” she exclaimed, with +remarkable crispness of utterance and energy of style. “Who are you? I +dont know you. Where are the police?” She paused for a reply; and a +bracelet, broken by the blow she had given him, dropped on the pavement, and +was officiously picked up and handed to her by a battered old woman who shewed +in every wrinkle her burning sympathy with Woman turning at bay against Man. +Susanna looked at the broken bracelet, and tears of vexation sprang to her +eyes. “Look at what youve done!” she cried, holding out the +bracelet in her left hand and shewing a scrape which had drawn blood on her +right wrist. “For two pins I’d knock your head off!” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke, quite out of countenance, and yet sullenly very angry, vacillated +for a moment between his conflicting impulses to knock her down and to fly to +the utmost ends of the earth. If he had been ten years older he would probably +have knocked her down: as it was, he signed to the cabman, who gathered up the +reins and held them clear of his fare’s damaged hat with the +gratification of a man whose judgment in a delicate matter had just been +signally confirmed by events. +</p> + +<p> +As they started, Susanna made a dash at the cab, which was pulled up, amid a +shout from the crowd, just in time to prevent an accident. Then, holding on to +the rail and standing on the step, she addressed herself to the cabman, and, +sacrificing all propriety of language to intensity of vituperation, demanded +whether he wanted to run his cab over her body and kill her. He, with +undisturbed foresight, answered not a word, but again shifted the reins so as +to make way for her bonnet. Acknowledging the attention with one more epithet, +she seated herself in the cab, from which Marmaduke at once indignantly rose to +escape. But the hardiest Grasmere wrestler, stooping under the hood of a +hansom, could not resist a vigorous pull at his coat tails; and Marmaduke was +presently back in his seat again, with Susanna clinging to him and half +sobbing: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Bob, youve killed me. How could you?” Then, with a +suspiciously sudden recovery of energy, she screamed “Bijou Theatre. +Drive on, will you” up at the cabman, who was looking down through the +trapdoor. The horse plunged forward, and, with the jolt, she was fawning on +Marmaduke’s arm again, saying, “Dont be brutal to me any more, Bob. +I cant bear it. I have enough trouble without your turning on me.” +</p> + +<p> +He was young and green, and too much confused by this time to feel sure that he +had not been the aggressor. But he did, on the whole, the wisest thing—folded +his arms and sat silent, with his cheeks burning. +</p> + +<p> +“Say something to me,” she said, shaking his arm. “I have +nothing to say,” he replied. “I shall leave town for home to-night. +I cant shew my face again after this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Home,” she said, in her former contemptuous tone, flinging his arm +away. “That means your cousin Constance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you about her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. You are engaged to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You lie!” +</p> + +<p> +Susanna was shaken. She looked hard at him, wondering whether he was deceiving +her or not. “Look me in the face, Bob,” she said. If he had +complied, she would not have believed him. But he treated the challenge with +supreme disdain and stared straight ahead, obeying his male instinct, which +taught him that the woman, with all the advantages on her side, would +nevertheless let him win if he held on. At last she came caressingly to his +shoulder again, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Why didnt you tell me about her yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn it all,” he exclaimed, violently, “there is nothing to +tell! I am not engaged to her: on my oath I am not. My people at home talk +about a match between us as if it were a settled thing, though they know I dont +care for her. But if you want to have the truth, I cant afford to say that I +wont marry her, because I am too hard up to quarrel with the governor, who has +set his heart on it. You see, the way I am circumstanced——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, bother your circumstances! Look here, Bob, I dont want you to +introduce me to your swell relations; it is not worth <i>my</i> while to waste +time on people who cant earn their own living. And never mind your governor: we +can get on without him. If you are hard up for money, and he is stingy, you had +better get it from me than from the Jews.” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldnt do that,” said Marmaduke, touched. “In fact, I am +well enough off. By the bye, I must not forget to pay you for that lunch. But +if I ever am hard up, I will come to you. Will that do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course: that is what I meant. Confound it, here we are already. You +mustnt come in, you would only be in the way. Come to-night after the +burlesque, if you like. Youre not angry with me, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +Her breast touched his arm just then; and as if she had released some spring, +all his love for her suddenly surged up within him and got the better of him. +“Wait—listen,” he said, in a voice half choked with tenderness. +“Look here, Lalage: the honest truth is that I shall be ruined if I marry +you openly. Let us be married quietly, and keep it dark until I am more +independent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Married! Catch me at it—if you can. No, dear boy, I am very fond of you, +and you are one of the right sort to make me the offer; but I wont let you put +a collar round <i>my</i> neck. Matrimony is all very fine for women who have no +better way of supporting themselves, but it wouldnt suit me. Dont look so +dazed. What difference does it make to <i>you</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” He stopped, bewildered, gazing at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Get out, you great goose!” she said, and suddenly sprang out of +the hansom and darted into the theatre. +</p> + +<p> +He sat gaping after her, horrified—genuinely horrified. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<p> +The Earl of Carbury was a youngish man with no sort of turn for being a +nobleman. He could not bring himself to behave as if he was anybody in +particular; and though this passed for perfect breeding whenever he by chance +appeared in his place in society, on the magisterial bench, or in the House of +Lords, it prevented him from making the most of the earldom, and was a standing +grievance with his relatives, many of whom were the most impudent and uppish +people on the face of the earth. He was, if he had only known it, a born +republican, with no natural belief in earls at all; but as he was rather too +modest to indulge his consciousness with broad generalizations of this kind, +all he knew about the matter was that he was sensible of being a bad hand at +his hereditary trade of territorial aristocrat. At a very early age he had +disgraced himself by asking his mother whether he might be a watchmaker when he +grew up, and his feeble sense on that occasion of the impropriety of an earl +being anything whatsoever except an earl had given his mother an imperious +contempt for him which afterward got curiously mixed with a salutary dread of +his moral superiority to her, which was considerable. His aspiration to become +a watchmaker was an early symptom of his extraordinary turn for mechanics. An +apprenticeship of six years at the bench would have made an educated workman of +him: as it was, he pottered at every mechanical pursuit as a gentleman amateur +in a laboratory and workshop which he had got built for himself in his park. In +this magazine of toys—for such it virtually was at first—he satisfied his +itchings to play with tools and machines. He was no sportsman; but if he saw in +a shop window the most trumpery patent improvement in a breechloader, he would +go in and buy it; and as to a new repeating rifle or liquefied gas gun, he +would travel to St. Petersburg to see it. He wrote very little; but he had +sixteen different typewriters, each guaranteed perfect by an American agent, +who had also pledged himself that the other fifteen were miserable impostures. +A really ingenious bicycle or tricycle always found in him a ready purchaser; +and he had patented a roller skate and a railway brake. When the electric chair +for dental operations was invented, he sacrificed a tooth to satisfy his +curiosity as to its operation. He could not play brass instruments to any +musical purpose; but his collection of double slide trombones, bombardons with +patent compensating pistons, comma trumpets, and the like, would have equipped +a small military band; whilst his newly tempered harmonium with fifty-three +notes to each octave, and his pianos with simplified keyboards that nobody +could play on, were the despair of all musical amateurs who came to stay at +Towers Cottage, as his place was called. He would buy the most expensive and +elaborate lathe, and spend a month trying to make a true billiard ball at it. +At the end of that time he would have to send for a professional hand, who +would cornet the ball with apparently miraculous skill in a few seconds. He got +on better with chemistry and photography; but at last he settled down to +electrical engineering, and, giving up the idea of doing everything with his +own half-trained hand, kept a skilled man always in his laboratory to help him +out. +</p> + +<p> +All along there had been a certain love of the marvelous at the bottom of his +fancy for inventions. Therefore, though he did not in the least believe in +ghosts, he would “investigate” spiritualism, and part with +innumerable guineas to mediums, slatewriters, clairvoyants, and even of +turbaned rascals from the East, who would boldly offer at midnight to bring him +out into the back yard and there and then raise the devil for him. And just as +his tendency was to magnify the success and utility of his patent purchases, so +he would lend himself more or less to gross impostures simply because they +interested him. This confirmed his reputation for being a bit of a crank; and +as he had in addition all the restlessness and eccentricity of the active +spirits of his class, arising from the fact that no matter what he busied +himself with, it never really mattered whether he accomplished it or not, he +remained an unsatisfied and (considering the money he cost) unsatisfactory +specimen of a true man in a false position. +</p> + +<p> +Towers Cottage was supposed to be a mere appendage to Carbury Towers, which had +been burnt down, to the great relief of its noble owners, in the reign of +William IV. The Cottage, a handsome one-storied Tudor mansion, with tall +chimneys, gabled roofs, and transom windows, had since served the family as a +very sufficient residence, needing a much smaller staff of servants than the +Towers, and accommodating fewer visitors. At first it had been assumed on all +hands that the stay at the Cottage was but a temporary one, pending the +re-erection of the Towers on a scale of baronial magnificence; but this +tradition, having passed through its primal stage of being a standing excuse +with the elders into that of being a standing joke with the children, had +naturally lapsed as the children grew up. Indeed, the Cottage was now too large +for the family; for the Earl was still unmarried, and all his sisters had +contracted splendid alliances except the youngest, Lady Constance Carbury, a +maiden of twenty-two, with a thin face and slight angular figure, who was still +on her mother’s hands. The illustrious matches made by her sisters had, +in fact, been secured by extravagant dowering, which had left nothing for poor +Lady Constance except a miserable three hundred pounds a year, at which paltry +figure no man had as yet offered to take her. The Countess (Dowager) habitually +assumed that Marmaduke Lind ardently desired the hand of his cousin; and +Constance herself supported tacitly this view; but the Earl was apt to become +restive when it was put forward, though he altogether declined to improve his +sister’s pecuniary position, having already speculated quite heavily +enough in brothers-in-law. +</p> + +<p> +In the August following the Wandsworth concert Lord Carbury began to take his +electrical laboratory with such intensified seriousness that he flatly refused +to entertain any visitors until the 12th, and held fast to his determination in +spite of his mother’s threat to leave the house, alleging, with a laugh, +that he had got hold of a discovery with money in it at last. But he felt at +such a disadvantage after this incredible statement that he hastened to explain +that his objection to visitors did not apply to relatives who would be +sufficiently at home at Towers Cottage to require no attention from him. Under +the terms of this capitulation Marian, as universal favorite, was invited; and +since there was no getting Marian down without Elinor, she was invited too, in +spite of the Countess’s strong dislike for her, a sentiment which she +requited with a pungent mixture of detestation and contempt. Marian’s +brother, the Reverend George Lind, promised to come down in a day or two; and +Marmaduke, who was also invited, did not reply. +</p> + +<p> +The morning after her arrival, Marian was awakened at six o’clock by a +wagon rumbling past the window of her room with a sound quite different from +that made by the dust-cart in Westbourne Terrace. She peeped out at it, and saw +that is was laden with packages of irregular shape, which, judging by some +strange-looking metal rods that projected through the covering, she took to be +apparatus for Lord Jasper’s laboratory. From the wagon, with its +patiently trudging horse and dull driver, she lifted her eyes to the lawn, +where the patches of wet shadow beneath the cedars refreshed the sunlit grass +around them. It looked too fine a morning to spend in bed. Had Marian been able +to taste and smell the fragrant country air she would not have hesitated a +moment. But she had been accustomed to believe that fresh air was unhealthy at +night, and though nothing would have induced her to wash in dirty water, she +thought nothing of breathing dirty air; and so the window was shut and the room +close. Still, the window did not exclude the loud singing of the birds or the +sunlight. She ventured to open it a little, not without a sense of imprudence. +Twenty minutes later she was dressed. +</p> + +<p> +She first looked into the drawing-room, but it was stale and dreary. The +dining-room, which she tried next, made her hungry. The arrival of a servant +with a broom suggested to her that she had better get out of the way of the +household work. She felt half sorry for getting up, and went out on the lawn to +recover her spirits. There she heard a man’s voice trolling a stave +somewhere in the direction of the laboratory. Thinking that it might be Lord +Carbury, and that, if so, he would probably not wait until half past nine to +break his fast, she ran gaily off round the southwest corner of the Cottage to +a terrace, from which there was access through a great double window, now wide +open, to a lofty apartment roofed with glass. +</p> + +<p> +At a large table in the middle of the room sat a man with his back to the +window. He had taken off his coat, and was bending over a small round block +with little holes sunk into it. Each hole was furnished with a neat brass peg, +topped with ebony; and the man was lifting and replacing one of these pegs +whilst he gravely watched the dial of an instrument that resembled a small +clock. A large straw hat concealed his head, and protected it from the rays +that were streaming through the glass roof and open window. The apparent +triviality of his occupation, and his intentness upon it, amused Marian. She +stole into the laboratory, came close behind him, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Since you have nothing better to do than play cribbage with yourself, +I——” +</p> + +<p> +She had gently lifted up his straw hat, and found beneath a head that was not +Lord Carbury’s. The man, who had cowered with surprise at her touch and +voice, but had waited even then to finish an observation of his galvanometer +before turning, now turned and stared at her. +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>beg</i> your pardon,” said Marian, blushing vigorously. +“I thought it was Lord Carbury. I have disturbed you very rudely. +I——” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” said the man. “I quite understand. I was not +playing cribbage, but I was doing nothing very important. However, as you +certainly did take me by surprise, perhaps you will excuse my coat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, pray dont mind me. I must not interrupt your work.” She looked +at his face again, but only for an instant, as he was watching her. Then, with +another blush, she put out her hand and said, “How do you do, Mr. +Conolly. I did not recognize you at first.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook hands, but did not offer any further conversation. “What a +wonderful place!” she said, looking round, with a view to making herself +agreeable by taking an interest in everything. “Wont you explain it all +to me? To begin with, what is electricity?” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly stared rather at this question, and then shook his head. “I dont +know anything about that,” he said; “I am only a workman. Perhaps +Lord Carbury can tell you: he has read a good deal about it.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian looked incredulously at him. “I am sure you are joking,” she +said. “Lord Carbury says you know ever so much more than he does. I +suppose I asked a stupid question. What are those reels of green silk +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Conolly, relaxing. “Come now, I can tell you that +easily enough. I dont know what it <i>is</i>, but I know what it does, and I +can lay traps to catch it. Here now, for instance——” +</p> + +<p> +And he went on to deliver a sort of chatty Royal Institution Children’s +Lecture on Electricity which produced a great impression on Marian, who was +accustomed to nothing better than small talk. She longed to interest him by her +comments and questions, but she found that they had a most discouraging effect +on him. Redoubling her efforts, she at last reduced him to silence, of which +she availed herself to remark, with great earnestness, that science was a very +wonderful thing. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” he said, a little bluntly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure it must be,” she replied, brightening; for she thought +he had now made a rather foolish remark. “Is Lord Carbury a very clever +scientist?” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly looked just grave enough to suggest that the question was not +altogether a discreet one. Then, brushing off that consideration, he replied: +</p> + +<p> +“He has seen a great deal and read a great deal. You see, he has great +means at his disposal. His property is as good as a joint-stock company at his +back. Practically, he is very good, considering his method of working: not so +good, considering the means at his disposal.” +</p> + +<p> +“What would you do if you had his means?” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly made a gesture which plainly signified that he thought he could do a +great many things. +</p> + +<p> +“And is science, then, so expensive? I thought it was beyond the reach of +money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes: science may be. But I am not a scientific man: I’m an +inventor. The two things are quite different. Invention is the most expensive +thing in the world. It takes no end of time, and no end of money. Time is +money; so it costs both ways.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why dont you discover something and make your fortune?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have already discovered something.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“That it costs a fortune to make experiments enough to lead to an +invention.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are exaggerating, are you not? What do you mean by a fortune?” +</p> + +<p> +“In my case, at least four or five hundred pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all? Surely you would have no difficulty in getting five hundred +pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly laughed. “To be sure,” said he. “What is five hundred +pounds?” +</p> + +<p> +“A mere nothing—considering the importance of the object. You really +ought not to allow such a consideration as that to delay your career. I have +known people spend as much in one day on the most worthless things.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is something in that, Miss Lind. How would you recommend me to +begin?” +</p> + +<p> +“First,” said Marian, with determination, “make up your mind +to spend the money. Banish all scruples about the largeness of the sum. Resolve +not to grudge even twice as much to science.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is done already. I have quite made up my mind to spend the money. +What next?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I suppose the next thing is to spend it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me. The next thing is to get it. It is a mere detail, I know; but +I should like to settle it before we go any further.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how can I tell you that? You forget that I am quite unacquainted +with your affairs. You are a man, and understand business, which of course I +dont.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you wanted five hundred pounds, Miss Lind, how would you set about +getting it?—if I may ask.” +</p> + +<p> +“What? I! But, as I say, I am only a woman. I should ask my father for +it, or sign a receipt for my trustees, or something of that sort.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a very simple plan. But unfortunately I have no father and no +trustees. Worse than that, I have no money. You must suggest some other +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do what everybody else does in your circumstances. Borrow it. I am sure +Lord Carbury would lend it to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly shook his head. “It doesnt do for a man in my position to start +borrowing the moment he makes the acquaintance of a man in Lord +Carbury’s,” he said. “We are working a little together +already on one of my ideas, and that is as far as I care to ask him to go. I am +afraid I must ask you for another suggestion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Save up all your money until you have enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would take some time. Let me see. As I am an exceptionally +fortunate and specially skilled workman, I can now calculate on making from +seventy shillings to six pounds a week. Say four pounds on the average.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Marian, despondingly, “you would have to wait more +than two years to save five hundred pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“And to dispense with food, clothes, and lodging in the meantime.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” said Marian. “Of course, I see that it is impossible +for you to save anything. And yet it seems absurd to be stopped by the want of +such a sum. I have a cousin who has no money at all, and no experiments to +make, and he paid a thousand pounds for a race-horse last spring.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly nodded, to intimate that he knew that such things happened. +</p> + +<p> +Marian could think of no further expedient. She stood still, thinking, whilst +Conolly took up a bit of waste and polished a brass cylinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Conolly,” she said at last, “I cannot absolutely promise +you; but I think I can get you five hundred pounds.” Conolly stopped +polishing the cylinder, and stared at her. “If I have not enough, I am +sure we could make the rest by a bazaar or something. I should like to begin to +invest my money; and if you make some great invention, like the telegraph or +steam engine, you will be able to pay it back to me, and to lend me money when +<i>I</i> want it.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly blushed. “Thank you, Miss Lind,” said he, “thank you +very much indeed. I—It would be ungrateful of me to refuse; but I am not so +ready to begin my experiments as my talking might lead you to suppose. My +estimate of their cost was a mere guess. I am not satisfied that it is not want +of time and perseverance more than of money that is the real obstacle. However, +I will—I will—a——Have you any idea of the value of money, Miss Lind? Have you +ever had the handling of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said Marian, secretly thinking that the satisfaction +of shaking his self-possession was cheap at five hundred pounds. “I keep +house at home, and do all sorts of business things.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly glanced about him vaguely; picked up the piece of waste again as if he +had been looking for that; recollected himself; and looked unintelligibly at +her. Her uncertainty as to what he would do next was a delightful sensation: +why, she did not know nor care. To her intense disappointment, Lord Carbury +entered just then, and roused her from what was unaccountably like a happy +dream. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more of any importance happened that day except the arrival of a letter +from Paris, addressed to Lady Constance in Marmaduke’s handwriting. Miss +McQuinch first heard of it in the fruit garden, where she found Constance +sitting with her arm around Marian’s waist in a summer-house. She sat +down opposite them, at a rough oak table. +</p> + +<p> +“A letter, Nelly!” said Marian. “A letter! A letter from +Marmaduke! I have extorted leave for you to read it. Here it is. Handle it +carefully, pray.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has he proposed?” said Elinor, taking it. +</p> + +<p> +Constance changed color. Elinor opened the letter in silence, and read: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +My dear Constance:<br/> + I hope you are quite well. I am having an awfully jolly time of it here. What a +pity it is you dont come over! I was wishing for you yesterday in the Louvre, +where we spent a pleasant day looking at the pictures. I send you the silk you +wanted, and had great trouble hunting through half-a-dozen shops for it. Not +that I mind the trouble, but just to let you see my devotion to you. I have no +more to say at present, as it is nearly post hour. Remember me to the clan. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Yours ever,<br/> +DUKE. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +P.S.—How do Nelly and your mother get along together? +</p> + +<p> +Whilst Elinor was reading, the gardener passed the summer-house, and Constance +went out and spoke to him. Elinor looked significantly at Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“Nelly,” returned Marian, in hushed tones of reproach, “you +have stabbed poor Constance to the heart by telling her that Marmaduke never +proposed to her. That is why she has gone out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Elinor, “it was brutal. But I thought, as you +made such a fuss about the letter, that it must have been a proposal at least. +It cant be helped now. It is one more enemy for me, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of the letter? Was it not kind of him to +write—considering how careless he is usually?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hm! Did he match the silk properly?”. +</p> + +<p> +“To perfection. He must really have taken some trouble. You know how he +botched getting the ribbon for his fancy dress at the ball last year.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is just what I was thinking about. Do you remember also how he +ridiculed the Louvre after his first trip to Paris, and swore that nothing +would ever induce him to enter it again?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has got more sense now. He says in the letter that he spent yesterday +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not exactly. He says ‘<i>we</i> spent a pleasant day looking at +the pictures.’ Who is ‘<i>we</i>’?” +</p> + +<p> +“Some companion of his, I suppose. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was just thinking could it be the person who has matched the silk so +well. The same woman, I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Nelly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Marian! Do you suppose Marmaduke would spend an afternoon at the +Louvre with a man, who could just as well go by himself? Do men match +silks?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course they do. Any fly-fisher can do it better than a woman. Really, +Nell, you have an odious imagination.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—when my imagination is started on an odious track. Nothing will +persuade me that Marmaduke cares a straw for Constance. He does not want to +marry her, though he is too great a coward to own it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say so? I grant you he is unceremonious and careless. But he +is the same to everybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: to everybody <i>we</i> know. What is the use of straining after an +amiable view of things, Marian, when a cynical view is most likely to be the +true one.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no harm in giving people credit for being good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there is, when people are not good, which is most often the case. +It sets us wrong practically, and holds virtue cheap. If Marmaduke is a noble +and warmhearted man, and Constance a lovable, innocent girl, all I can say is +that it is not worth while to be noble or lovable. If amiability consists in +maintaining that black is white, it is a quality anyone may acquire by telling +a lie and sticking to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I dont maintain that black is white. Only it seems to me that as +regards white, you are color blind. Where I see white, you see black; +and——hush! Here is Constance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” whispered Elinor: “she comes back quickly enough when +it occurs to her that we are talking about her.” +</p> + +<p> +Instead of simply asking why Constance should not behave in this very natural +manner if she chose to, Marian was about to defend Constance warmly by denying +all motive to her return, when that event took place and stopped the +discussion. Marian and Nelly spent a considerable part of their lives in +bandying their likes and dislikes under the impression that they were arguing +important points of character and conduct. +</p> + +<p> +They knew that Constance wanted to answer Marmaduke’s letter; so they +alleged correspondence of their own, and left her to herself. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Constance went to her brother’s study, where there was a comfortable +writing-table. She began to write without hesitation, and her pen gabbled +rapidly until she had covered two sheets of paper, when, instead of taking a +fresh sheet, she wrote across the lines already written. After signing the +letter, she read it through, and added two postscripts. Then she remembered +something she had forgotten to say; but there was no more room on her two +sheets, and she was reluctant to use a third, which might, in a letter to +France, involve extra postage. Whilst she was hesitating her brother entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I in your way?” she said. “I shall have done in a +moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not going to write. By-the-bye, they tell me you had a letter +from Marmaduke this morning. Has he anything particular to say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing very particular. He is in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed? Are you writing to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Constance, irritated by his disparaging tone. +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do as you please, of course. I am afraid he is a scamp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you? You know a great deal about him, I dare say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not much reassured by those who do know about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who may they be? The only person you know who has seen much of him +is Marian, and she doesnt speak ill of people behind their backs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian takes rather a rose-colored view of everybody, Marmaduke +included. You should talk to Nelly about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it. I knew, the minute you began to talk, who had set you +on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid Nelly’s opinion is worth more than Marians.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Her</i> opinion! Everybody knows what her opinion is. She is bursting +with jealousy of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jealousy!” +</p> + +<p> +“What else? Marmaduke has never taken the least notice of her, and she is +madly in love with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is quite a new light upon the affair. Constance, are you sure you +are not romancing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Romancing! Why, she cannot conceal her venom. She taunted me this +morning in the summer-house because Marmaduke has never made me a formal +proposal. It was the letter that made her do it. Ask Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can hardly believe it: I should not have supposed, from what I have +observed, that she cared about him.” +</p> + +<p> +You should not have supposed it from what she <i>said</i>: is that what you +mean? I dont care whether you believe it or not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you are so confident, there is no occasion to be acrimonious +about Elinor. She is more to be pitied than blamed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, everybody is to pity Elinor because she cant have her wish and make +me wretched,” said Constance, beginning to cry. Whereupon Lord Carbury +immediately left the room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<p> +Long before the harvest was home, preparations were made at Towers Cottage to +receive another visitor. The Rev. George Lind was coming. Lord Carbury drove in +the wagonet to the railway station, and met him on the platform. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, my dear fellow?” cried the clergyman, shaking the +earl’s hand. “Why did you trouble to meet me? I could have taken a +fly. Most kind of you, I am sure. How is your dear mother? And Constance: how +is <i>she</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“All quite well, thank you. Just show my fellow your traps; he will see +to them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there is no need to trouble him. I myself or a porter—oh, thank you, +I am sure; the brown one with G.L. on it—and that small green metal box too, if +you will be so good. Thank you very much. And how are you, Jasper, if I may +call you so? Studious still, eh? I hope he will be careful of the box. No, not +a word to him, I beg: it does not matter at all. What a charming little trap! +What air! Happy man, Jasper! These fields are better than the close alleys and +garrets to which my profession leads me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jump in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. And how is Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite well, thank you. <i>Everybody</i> is quite well. The girls are at +a tennis party, or they would have come to meet you. Constance desired me +particularly to apologize.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, needless, most needless. Why should they not enjoy themselves? What +a landscape! The smiling beauty of nature in the country is like a—like a +message to us. This is indeed a delightful drive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she is a capital trotter, this mare of mine. What do you think of +her?” +</p> + +<p> +“A noble animal, Jasper. Although I never studied horseflesh much, even +in my university days, I can admire a spirited nag on occasion. But I have to +content myself with humbler means of locomotion in my own calling. A poor +parson cannot entertain his friends as a magnate like you can. Have you any one +at the hall now, besides the girls?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. The place will be rather dull for you, I am afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, my dear fellow, not at all. I shall be satisfied and +thankful under all circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have led a humdrum life for the past month. Marian and Elinor have +begun to potter about in my laboratory. They come there every day for an hour +to work and study, as they call it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! I have no doubt Marian will find the study of nature most +improving. It is very generous of you to allow her to trespass on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I occupy myself chiefly with Nelly McQuinch. Marian is my +assistant’s pupil, and he has made a very expert workwoman of her +already. With a little direction, she can put a machine together as well as I +can.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am delighted to hear it. And dear Nelly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear Nelly treats the subject in her usual way. But she is very +amusing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Jasper! Ah! An unstable nature there, an unstable nature! Elinor has +not been firmly trained. She needs to be tried by adversity.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt she will be. Most of us are.” +</p> + +<p> +“And dear Constance? Does she study?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ahem! A—have you——? That is St. Mildred’s yonder, is it +not?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is. They have put a new clock in the tower, worth about sixty pounds. +I believe they collected a hundred and fifty for the purpose. But you were +going to say something else.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. At least, I intended to ask you about Marmaduke. He is coming down, +I understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know what he is doing. Last week he wrote to us that he had just +returned from Paris; but I happened to know that he had then been back for some +time. He has arranged to come twice, but on each occasion, at the last moment, +he has made excuses. He can do as he likes now. I wish he would say definitely +that he doesnt intend to come, instead of shilly-shallying from week to week. +Hallo, Prentice, have the ladies returned yet?” This was addressed to the +keeper of the gate-lodge, at which they had now arrived. He replied that the +ladies were still absent. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said Lord Carbury, “we had better get down and stroll +across the lawn. Perhaps you are tired, though?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. I should prefer it. What a lovely avenue! What greenery! +How—” +</p> + +<p> +“We were talking about Marmaduke. Do you know what he is doing at +present? He talks of being busy, and of not having a moment to spare. I can +understand a fellow not having a moment to spare in June or July, but what +Marmaduke has to do in London in September is more than I can imagine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not care to enquire into these things too closely. I had intended +to speak to you on the subject. Marmaduke, as I suppose you know, has taken a +house at West Kensington.” +</p> + +<p> +“A house at West Kensington! No, I did not know it. What has he done that +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear he has been somewhat disingenuous with me on the subject. I think +he tried to prevent the matter coming to my ears; and when I asked him about +it, he certainly implied—in fact, I grieve to say he left me under the +impression that he had taken the house with a view to marrying dear Constance, +and settling down. I expressed some surprise at his going so far out of town; +but he did not volunteer any further explanation, and so the matter +dropped.” The Rev. George paused, and then continued in a lower tone, +“Not long afterward I met him at a very late hour. He had perhaps +exceeded a little in his cups; for he spoke to me with the most shocking +cynicism, inviting me to supper at this house of his, and actually accusing me +of knowing perfectly well the terrible truth about his occupation of it. He +assured me that she—meaning, I presume, the unhappy person with whom he lives +there—was exceptionally attractive; and I have since discovered that she is +connected with the theatre, and of great notoriety. I need not tell you how +dreadful all this is to me, Jasper; but to the best of my judgment, which I +have fortified by earnest prayers for guidance, it is my imperative duty to +tell you of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The vagabond! It is exactly as I have always said: Constance is too tame +for him. He does not care a d——” +</p> + +<p> +“Jasper, my dear fellow, gently,” said the clergyman, pressing his +arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw!” said the Earl, “I dont care. I think Constance is +well out of it. Let us drop the subject for the present. I hear the +carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, here it is. Dear Lady Carbury has recognized me, and is waving her +hand.” The Rev. George stood on tiptoe as he spoke, and flourished his +low-crowned soft felt hat. +</p> + +<p> +During the ensuing greetings Carbury stood silent, looking at the horses with +an expression that made the coachman uneasy. At dinner he ate sedulously, and +left the task of entertaining the visitor to his mother and the girls. The +clergyman was at no loss for conversation. He was delighted with the dinner, +delighted with the house, delighted to see the Countess looking so well, and +delighted to hear that the tennis party that day had been a pleasant one. The +Earl listened with impatience, and was glad when his mother rose. Before she +quitted the dining-room he made a sign to her, and she soon returned, leaving +Marian, Constance, and Elinor in the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not mind my staying, I hope, George,” she said, as she +resumed her seat. +</p> + +<p> +“A delightful precedent, and from a distinguished source,” said the +Rev. George. “Allow me to pass the bottle. Ha! ha!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, no,” said the Countess. “I never take +wine.” Her tone was inconclusive, as if she intended to take something +else. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take brandy-and-soda?” said her son, rather brusquely. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Carbury lowered her eyelids in protest. Then she said: “A very +little, if you please, Jasper. I dare not touch wine,” she continued to +the clergyman. “I am the slave of my medical man in all matters relating +to my unfortunate digestion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother,” said Jasper, “George has brought us a nice piece of +news concerning your pet Marmaduke.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman became solemn and looked steadily at his glass. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know that it is fair to describe him as my pet exactly,” +said the Countess, a little troubled. “I trust there is nothing +unpleasant the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nothing! He has settled down domestically in a mansion at West +Kensington, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Married!” +</p> + +<p> +“Unhappily,” said the Rev. George, “no, not married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said the Countess slowly, as an expression of relief. +“It is very shocking, of course; very wrong indeed. Young men <i>will</i> +do these things. It is especially foolish in Marmaduke’s case, for he +really cannot afford to make any settlement such as this kind of complication +usually involves when the time comes for getting rid of it. Pray do not let it +come to Constance’s ears. It is not a proper subject for a girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite as proper a subject as marriage with a fellow like +Marmaduke,” said Jasper, rising coolly and lighting a cigaret. +“However, it will be time enough to trouble about that when there is any +sign of his having the slightest serious intentions toward Constance. For my +part I dont believe, and I never did believe, that there was anything real in +the business. This last move of his proves it—to my satisfaction, at any +rate.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Carbury, with a slight but impressive bridling, and yet with an evident +sense of discomfiture, proceeded to assert herself before the clergyman. +“I beg you will control yourself, Jasper,” she said. “I do +not like to be spoken to in that tone. In discharging the very great +responsibility which rests with a mother, I am compelled to take the world as I +find it, and to acknowledge that certain very deplorable tendencies must be +allowed for in society. You, in the solitude of your laboratory, contemplate an +ideal state of things that we all, I am sure, long for, but which unhappily +does not exist. I have never enquired into Marmaduke’s private life, and +I think you ought not to have done so. I could not disguise from myself the +possibility of his having entered into some such relations as those you have +alluded to.” +</p> + +<p> +Jasper, without the slightest appearance of having heard this speech, strolled +casually out of the room. The Countess, baffled, turned to her sympathetic +guest. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure that you, George, must feel that it is absolutely necessary +for us to keep this matter to ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George said, gravely, “I do not indeed see what blessing can +rest on our interference in such an inexpressibly shocking business. It is for +Marmaduke to wrestle with his own conscience.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” said the Countess, shrugging her shoulders as if to +invite her absent son’s attention to this confirmation of her judgment. +“Is it not absurd of Jasper to snatch at such an excuse for breaking off +the match?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can sympathize with Jasper’s feeling, I trust. It is natural for +a candid nature to recoil from duplicity. But all our actions need charitable +construction; and, remembering that, we should take heed to prevent our +forebearance toward others from wavering. Who knows that the alliance with your +pure and lovely daughter may not be the means specially ordained to rescue him +from his present condition.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it very possible,” drawled the Countess, looking at him, +nevertheless, with a certain contempt for what she privately considered his +priggish, underbred cant. “Besides, such things are recognized, though of +course they are not spoken of. No lady could with common decency pretend to +know that such connexions are possible, much less assign one of them as a +reason for breaking off an engagement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me,” said the Rev. George; “but can these worldly +considerations add anything to the approval of our consciences? I think not. We +will keep our own counsel in this matter in the sight of Heaven. Then, whatever +the world may think, all will surely come right in the end.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is sure to come right in the end: these wretched businesses +always do. I cannot imagine men having such low tastes—as if there were +anything in these women more than in anybody else! Come into the drawing-room, +George.” +</p> + +<p> +They went into the drawing-room and found it deserted. The ladies were in the +veranda. The Countess took up the paper and composed herself for a nap. George +went into the porch, where the girls, having seen the sun go down, were now +watching the deepening gloom among the trees that skirted the lawn. Marian +proposed that they should walk through the plantation whilst there was still a +little light left, and the clergyman readily assented. He rather repented of +this when they got into the deep gloom under the trees, and Elinor began to +tell stories about adders, wild cats, poachers, and anything else that could +possibly make a nervous man uncomfortable under such circumstances. He was +quite relieved when they saw the spark of a cigaret ahead of them and heard the +voices of Jasper and Conolly coming toward them through the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I believe I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Conolly,” +said the Rev. George, formally, when they met. “I am glad to see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Conolly. “If you ladies have thin shoes on +as usual, we had better come out of this.” +</p> + +<p> +“As we ladies happen to have our boots on,” said Marian, “we +shall stay as long as we like.” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, they soon turned homeward, and as the path was narrow, they +walked in pairs. The clergyman, with Constance, led the way. Lord Jasper +followed with Elinor. Conolly and Marian came last. +</p> + +<p> +“Does that young man—Mr. Conolly—live at the Hall?” was the Rev. +George’s first remark to Constance. +</p> + +<p> +“No. He has rooms in Rose Cottage, that little place on Quilter’s +farm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha! Then he is very well off here.” +</p> + +<p> +“A great deal too well off. Jasper allows him to speak to him as though +he were an equal. However, I suppose Jasper knows his own business best.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have observed that he is rather disposed to presume upon any +encouragement he receives. It is a bad sign in a young man, and one, I fear, +that will greatly interfere with his prospects.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is an American, and I suppose thinks it a fine thing to be +republican. But it is Jasper’s fault. He spoils him. He once wanted to +have him in the drawing-room in the evenings to play accompaniments; but mamma +positively refused to allow it. Jasper is excessively obstinate, and though he +did not make a fuss, he got quite a habit of going over to Rose Cottage and +spending his evenings there singing and playing. Everybody about the place used +to notice it. Mamma was greatly disgusted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you find him unpleasant—personally, I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I! Oh dear, no! I should never dream of speaking to him. His presence is +unpleasant, because he exercises a bad influence on Jasper; so I wish, on that +account alone, that he would go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I trust Marian is careful to limit her intercourse with him as much as +possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Marian learns electricity from him; and of course that makes a +difference. I do not care about such things; and I never go into the laboratory +when he is there; so I do not know whether Marian lets him be familiar with her +or not. She is rather easygoing; and he is insufferably conceited. However, if +she wants to learn electricity, I suppose she must put up with him. He is no +worse, after all, than the rest of the people one has to learn things from. +They are all impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a strange fancy of the girls, to study science.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I dont know why they do it. It is great nonsense for Jasper to +do it, either. He will never keep up his position properly until he shuts up +that stupid workshop. He ought to hunt and shoot and entertain a great deal +more than he does. It is very hard on us, for we are altogether in +Jasper’s hands for such matters. I think he is very foolish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not foolish. Dont say that. Excuse my giving you a little lecture; but +it is not right to speak, even without thought, of your brother as a fool. No +doubt he is a little injudicious; but all men are not called to the same +pursuits.” +</p> + +<p> +“If people have a certain position, they ought to make up their minds to +the duties of their position, whether they are called to them or not.” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George, missing the deference with which ladies not related to him +usually received his admonitions, changed the subject. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Conolly and Marian, walking more slowly than the rest, had fallen +far behind. They had been silent at first. She seemed to be in trouble. At +last, after some wistful glances at him, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Have you resolved to go to London to-morrow; or will you wait until +Friday?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow, Miss Lind. Can I do anything for you in town?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian hesitated painfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not mind giving me plenty of bother,” he said. “I am so +accustomed to superintend the transit of machines as cumbersome as trunks and +as fragile as bonnet boxes, that the care of a houseful of ordinary luggage +would be a mere amusement for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; but it is not that. I was only thinking—Are you likely to see +my cousin, Mr. Marmaduke Lind, whilst you are in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“N—no. Unless I call upon him, which I have no excuse for doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I thought you knew him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I met him at that concert.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought you were in the habit of going about with him. At least, I +understood him one day to say that you had been to the theatre together.” +</p> + +<p> +“So we were; but only once. We went there after the concert, and I have +never seen him since.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed! I quite mistook.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have any particular reason for wishing me to see him, I will. It +will be all right if I have a message from you. Shall I call on him? It will be +no trouble to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, oh no. I wanted—it was something that could only be told to him +indirectly by an intimate friend—by some one with influence over him. More a +hint than anything else. But it does not matter. At least, it cannot be +helped.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly did not speak until they had gone some thirty yards or so in silence. +Then he said: “If the matter is of serious importance to you, Miss Lind, +I think I can manage to have a message conveyed to him by a person who has +influence over him. I am not absolutely certain that I can; but probably I +shall succeed without any great difficulty.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian looked at him in some surprise. “I hardly know what I ought to +do,” she said, doubtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Then do nothing,” said Conolly bluntly. “Or, if you want +anything said to this gentleman, write to him yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I dont know his address, and my brother says I ought not to write to +him. I dont think I ought, either; but I want him to be told something that may +prevent a great deal of unhappiness. It seems so unfeeling to sit down quietly +and say, ‘It is not my business to interfere,’ when the mischief +might so easily be prevented.” +</p> + +<p> +“I advise you to be very cautious, Miss Lind. Taking care of other +people’s happiness is thankless and dangerous. You dont know your +cousin’s address, you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I thought you did.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly shook his head. “Who does know it?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“My brother George does; but he refused to tell me. I shall not ask him +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not. I can find it out for you. But of what use will that be, +since you think you ought not to write to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, Mr. Conolly, that if it only concerned myself, I would not +hesitate to tell you the whole story, and ask your advice. I feel sure you +would shew me what was right. But this is a matter which concerns other people +only.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you have my advice without telling me. Dont meddle in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—” +</p> + +<p> +“But what?” +</p> + +<p> +“After all, what I wish to do could not possibly bring about mischief. If +Marmaduke could be given a hint to come down here at once—he has been invited, +and is putting off his visit from week to week—it would be sufficient. He will +get into trouble if he makes any more excuses. And he can set everything right +by coming down now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure you dont mean only that he can smooth matters over for the +present?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, you mistake. It is not so much to smooth matters over as to rescue +him from a bad influence that is ruining him. There is a person in London from +whom he must he got away at all hazards. If you only knew—I <i>wish</i> you +knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I know more than you suppose. Come, Miss Lind, let us understand +one another. Your family want your cousin to marry Lady Constance. I know that. +She does not object. I know that too. He does.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” exclaimed Marian, “you are wrong. He does not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyhow,” continued Conolly, “he acts with a certain degree +of indifference toward her—keeps away at present, for instance. I infer that +the bad influence you have mentioned is the cause of his remissness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you are right; only, looking at it all from without as you do, you +are mistaken as to Marmaduke’s character. He is easily led away, and very +careless about the little attentions that weigh so much with women; but he is +thoroughly honorable, and incapable of trifling with Lady Constance. +Unfortunately, he is easily imposed on, and impatient of company in which he +cannot be a little uproarious. I fear that somebody has taken advantage of this +part of his character to establish a great ascendency over him. I”—here +Marian became nervous, and controlled her voice with difficulty—“I saw +this person once in a theatre; and I can imagine how she would fascinate +Marmaduke. She was so clever, so handsome, and—and so utterly abominable. I was +angry with Duke for bringing us to the place; and I remember now that he was +angry with me because I said she made me shudder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Utterly abominable is a strong thing for one woman to say of +another,” said Conolly, with a certain sternness. “However, I can +understand your having that feeling about her. I know her; and it is through +her that I hope to find out his address for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But her address is his address now, Mr. Conolly. I think it is somewhere +in West Kensington.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly stopped, and turned upon her so suddenly that she recoiled a step, +frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“Since when, pray?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very lately, I think. I do not know.” +</p> + +<p> +They neither moved nor spoke for some moments: she earnestly regretting that +she had lingered so far behind her companions in the terrible darkness. He +walked on at last faster than before. No more words passed between them until +they came out into the moonlight close to the veranda. Then he stopped again, +and took off his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Permit me to leave you now,” he said, with an artificial +politeness worthy of Douglas himself. “Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” faltered Marian. +</p> + +<p> +He walked gravely away. Marian hurried into the veranda, where she found Jasper +and Elinor. The other couple had gone into the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo!” said Jasper, “where is Conolly? I want to say a word +to him before he goes.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has just gone,” said Marian, pointing across the lawn. Jasper +immediately ran out in the direction indicated, and left the two cousins alone +together. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Marian,” said Elinor, “do you know that you have taken +more than quarter of an hour longer to come from the plantation than we did, +and that you look quite scared? Our sweet Constance, as the parson calls her, +has been making some kind remarks about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I look disturbed? I hope Auntie wont notice it. I wish I could go +straight to bed without seeing anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you to-night when you come in to me. I am disgusted with +myself; and I think Conolly is mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mad!” +</p> + +<p> +“On my word, I think Conolly has gone mad,” said Lord Jasper, +returning at this moment out of breath and laughing. +</p> + +<p> +Elinor, startled, glanced at Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“He was walking quite soberly toward the fence of the yellow field when I +caught sight of him. Just as I was about to hail him, he started off and +cleared the fence at a running jump. He walked away at a furious rate, swinging +his arms about, and laughing as if he was enjoying some uncommonly good joke. I +am not sure that I did not see him dance a hornpipe; but as it is so dark I +wont swear to that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better not,” said Elinor, sceptically. “Let us go +in; and pray do not encourage George to talk. I have a headache, and want to go +to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been in very good spirits, considering your headache,” he +replied, in the same incredulous tone. “It has come on rather suddenly, +has it not?” +</p> + +<p> +When they went into the drawing-room they found that Constance had awakened her +mother, and had already given her an account of their walk. Jasper added a +description of what he had just witnessed. “I have not laughed so much +for a long time,” he said, in conclusion. “He is usually such a +steady sort of fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see nothing very amusing in the antics of a drunken workman,” +said the Countess. “How you could have left Marian in his care even for a +moment I am at a loss to conceive.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was not drunk, indeed,” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” said Jasper, rather indignantly. “I was +walking with him for some time before we met the girls. You are very pale, +Marian. Have you also a headache?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been playing tennis all day; and I am quite tired out.” +</p> + +<p> +Soon afterward, when Marian was in bed, and Miss McQuinch, according to a +nightly custom of theirs, was seated on the coverlet with her knees doubled up +to her chin inside her bedgown, they discussed the adventure very earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“Dont understand him at all, I confess,” said Elinor, when Marian +had related what had passed in the plantation. “Wasnt it rather rash to +make a confidant of him in such a delicate matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what makes me feel so utterly ashamed. He might have known that +I only wanted to do good. I thought he was so entirely above false +delicacy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont mean that. How do you know that the story is true? You only have +it from Mrs. Leith Fairfax’s letter; and she is perhaps the greatest liar +in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Nelly, you ought not to talk so strongly about people. She would +never venture to tell me a made-up tale about Marmaduke.” +</p> + +<p> +“In my opinion, she would tell anybody anything for the sake of using her +tongue or pen.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is so hard to know what to do. There was nobody whom I could trust, +was there? Jasper has always been against Marmaduke; and Constance, of course, +was out of the question. There was Auntie, but I did not like to tell +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she is an evil-minded old Jezebel, whom no nice woman would talk +to on such a subject,” said Elinor, giving the bed a kick with her heel. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Nelly. I am always in terror lest you should say something like +that before other people, out of sheer habit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never fear. Well, you have done the best you could. No use regretting +what cannot be recalled. You cannot have the security of conventionality along +with the self-respect of sincerity. By the bye, do you remember that Jasper and +his fond mamma and George had a family council after dinner? You may be sure +that George has told them everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Then my wretched attempt to have Marmaduke warned was useless. Oh, +Nelly, this is too bad. Do you really think so? When I told him before dinner +what Mrs. Leith Fairfax wrote, he only said he feared it was true, and refused +to give me the address.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so threw you back on Conolly. I am glad the responsibility rests +with George. He knew very well that it was true; for he had only just been +telling Jasper. Jasper told me as much in the plantation. Master Georgy has no +right to be your brother. He is worse than a dissenter. Dissenters try to be +gentlemen; but George has no misgivings about himself on that score; so he +gives his undivided energy to his efforts to be parsonic. He is an arrant +hypocrite.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont think he is a hypocrite. I think he sincerely believes that his +duty to the Church requires him to behave as he does.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he is a donkey, which is worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish he were more natural in his manner.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is natural enough. It is always the same with parsons: ‘it is +their nature to.’ Good-night. Men are all the same, my dear, all the +same.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. Good-night.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<p> +A little removed from a pretty road in West Kensington, and communicating with +it by a shrubbery and an iron gate, there stood at this time a detached villa +called Laurel Grove. On the opposite side were pairs of recently built houses, +many of them still unlet. These, without depriving the neighbourhood of its +suburban quietude, forbade any feeling of rustic seclusion, and so made it +agreeable to Susanna Conolly, who lived at Laurel Grove with Marmaduke Lind. +</p> + +<p> +One morning in September they were at breakfast together. Beside each was a +pile of letters. Marmaduke deferred opening his until his hunger was satisfied; +but Susanna, after pouring out tea for him, seized the uppermost envelope, +thrust her little finger under the flap, and burst it open. +</p> + +<p> +“Hm,” she said. “First rehearsal next Monday. Here he is at +me again to make the engagement renewable after Christmas. What an old fool he +must be not to guess why I dont want to be engaged next spring! Just look at +the <i>Times</i>, Bob, and see if the piece is advertized yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think so, by Jupiter,” said Marmaduke, patiently +interrupting his meal to open the newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is a separate advertisement for everybody. ‘The latest +Parisian success. <i>La petite Maison du Roi.</i> Music by M. de Jongleur. Mr. +Faulkner has the honor to announce that an adaptation by Mr. Cribbs of M. de +Jongleur’s opera bouffe <i>La petite Maison du Roi</i>, entitled King +Lewis on the lewis’—what the deuce does that mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the loose, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is spelt l-e-w——oh! its a pun. What an infernal piece of idiocy! +Then it goes on as usual, except that each name in the cast has a separate line +of large print. Here you are: ‘Lalage Virtue as Madame +Dubarry’——” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that at the top?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before Rose Stella?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Why!—I didnt notice it before—you are down fifteen times! Every +alternate space has your name over again. ‘Lalage Virtue as Madame +Dubarry. Fred Smith as Louis XV. Lalage Virtue as the Dubarry. Felix Sumner as +the Due de Richelieu. Lalage Virtue as <i>la belle Jeanneton</i>.’ By the +way, that is all rot. Cardinal Richelieu died four or five hundred years before +Madame Dubarry was born.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see the paper. I see they have given Rose Stella the last line +with a big AND before it. No matter. She is down only once; and I am down +fifteen times.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder what all these letters of mine are about! This is a bill, of +course. The West Kensington Wine Company. Whew! We are getting through the +champagne at the rate of about thirty pounds a month, not counting what we pay +for when we dine in town.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what matter! Champagne does nobody any harm; and I get awfully low +without it.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, my dear. So long as you please yourself, and dont injure your +health, I dont care. Here’s a letter of yours put among mine by mistake. +It has been forwarded from your old diggings at Lambeth.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s from Ned,” said Susanna, turning pale. “He must +be coming home, or he would not write. Yes, he is. What shall I do?” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he say?” said Marmaduke, taking the letter from her. +“‘<i>Back at 6 on Wednesday evening. Have high tea. N.C.</i>’ +Short and sweet! Well, he will not turn up til to-morrow, at all events, even +if he knows the address, which of course he doesnt.” +</p> + +<p> +“He knows nothing. His note shews that. What <i>will</i> he do when he +finds me gone? He may get the address at the post-office, where I told them to +send on my letters. The landlady has most likely found out for her own +information. There is no mistake about it,” said Susanna, rising and +walking to the window: “I am in a regular funk about him. I have half a +mind to go back to Lambeth and meet him. I could let the murder out gradually, +or, perhaps, get him off to the country again before he discovers +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go back! oh no, nonsense! The worst he can do is to cut you—and a good +job too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish he would. It would be a relief to me at present to know for +certain that he would.” +</p> + +<p> +“He cant be so very thin-skinned as you fancy, considering the time you +have been on the stage.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing wrong in being on the stage. There’s nothing +wrong in being here either, in spite of Society. After all, what do I care +about Ned, or anybody else? He always went his own way when it suited him; and +he has no right to complain if I go mine. Let him come if he likes: he will not +get much satisfaction from me.” Susanna sat down again, and drank some +tea, partly defiant, partly disconsolate. +</p> + +<p> +“Dont think any more about it,” said Marmaduke. “He wont +come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, let him, if he likes,” said Susanna, impatiently. Marmaduke +did not quite sympathize with her sudden recklessness. He hoped that Conolly +would have the good sense to keep away. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Bob,” said she, when they had finished breakfast. +“Let us go somewhere to-day. I feel awfully low. Let us have a turn up +the river.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Marmaduke, with alacrity. “Whatever you +please. How shall we go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyhow. Let us go to Hampton by train. When we get there we can settle +what to do afterward. Can you come now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, whenever you are ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will run upstairs and dress. Go out and amuse yourself with that +blessed old lawn-mower until I come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think I will,” said Marmaduke, seriously. “That plot +near the gate wants a trimming badly.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a silly old chap you are, Bob!” she said, stopping to kiss +him on each cheek as she left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke had become attached to the pursuit of gardening since his +domestication. He put on his hat; went out; and set to work on the plot near +the gate. The sun was shining brightly; and when he had taken a few turns with +the machine he stopped, raising his face to the breeze, and saw Conolly +standing so close to him that he started backward, and made a vague movement as +if to ward off a blow. Conolly, who seemed amused by the mowing, said quietly: +“That machine wants oiling: the clatter prevented you from hearing me +come. I have just returned from Carbury Towers. Miss Lind is staying there; and +she has asked me to give you a message.” +</p> + +<p> +This speech perplexed Marmaduke. He inferred from it that Conolly was ignorant +of Susanna’s proceedings, but he had not sufficient effrontery to welcome +him unconcernedly at once. So he stood still and stared at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I have startled you,” Conolly went on, politely. +“I found the gate unlocked, and thought it would be an unnecessary waste +of time to ring the bell. You have a charming little place here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it’s a pretty little place, isnt it?” said Marmaduke. +“A—wont you come in and have a—excuse my bringing you round this way, +will you? My snuggery is at the back of the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; but I had rather not go in. I have a great deal of business +to do in town to-day; so I shall just discharge my commission and go.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, come into the shade,” said Marmaduke, glancing +uneasily toward the windows of the house. “This open place is enough to +give us sunstroke.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly followed him to a secluded part of the shrubbery, where they sat down +on a bench. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything up?” said Marmaduke, much oppressed. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you excuse my speaking without ceremony?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly. Fire away!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. I must then tell you that the relations between you and Lady +Constance are a source of anxiety to her brother. You know the way men feel +bound to look after their sisters. You have, I believe, sisters of your +own?” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke nodded, and stole a doubtful glance at Conolly’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“It appears that Lord Carbury has all along considered your courtship too +cool to be genuine. In this view he was quite unsupported, the Countess being +strongly in your favor, and the young lady devoted to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I knew all that. At least, I suspected it. What is up now?” +</p> + +<p> +“This. The fact of your having taken a villa here has reached the ears of +the family at Carbury. They are, not unnaturally, curious to know what use a +bachelor can have for such an establishment.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have my rooms in Clarges Street still. This is not my house. It +was taken for another person.” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely what they seem to think. But, to be brief with you, Miss Lind +thinks that unless you wish to break with the Earl, and quarrel with your +family, you should go down to Towers Cottage at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I cant go away just now. There are reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Lind is fully acquainted with your reasons. They are her reasons +for wishing you to leave London immediately. And now, having executed my +commission, I must ask you to excuse me. My time is much occupied.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am greatly obliged to you for coming all this way out of town to +give me the straight tip,” said Marmaduke, relieved at the prospect of +getting rid of his visitor without alluding to Susanna. “It is very good +of you; and I am very glad to see you. Jolly place, Carbury Park is, isnt it? +How will the shooting be?” +</p> + +<p> +“First rate, I am told. I do not know much about it myself.” They +had risen, and were strolling along the path leading to the gate. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I see you down there—if I go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly. I shall have to go down for a day at least, to get my luggage, +in case I decide not to renew my engagement with Lord Jasper.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” said Marmaduke. Then, as they reached the gate, he +proffered his hand, in spite of an inward shrinking, and said heartily, +“Good-bye, old fellow. Youre looking as well as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly took his hand, and retained it whilst he said: “Good-bye, Mr. +Lind. I am quite well, thank you. If I may ask—how is Susanna?” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke was prevented by a spasm of the throat from replying. Before he +recovered, Susanna herself, attired for her proposed trip to Hampton, emerged +from the shrubbery and stood before them, confounded. Conolly, still wearing +the cordial expression with which he had shaken Marmaduke’s hand, looked +at her, then at her protector, and then at her again. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been admiring the villa, Susanna,” said he, after an +emphatic silence. “It is better than our place at Lambeth. You wont mind +my hurrying away: I have a great deal to do in town. Good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. +Lind.” +</p> + +<p> +Susanna murmured something. Marmaduke, after making an effort to bid his guest +good-bye genially, opened the gate, and stood for a minute watching him as he +strode away. +</p> + +<p> +“What does <i>he</i> care what becomes of me, the selfish brute!” +cried Susanna, passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“He didnt complain: he has nothing to complain of,” said Marmaduke. +“Anyhow, why didnt he stay at home and look after you? By George, +Susanna, he is the coolest card I ever came across.” +</p> + +<p> +“What brought him here?” she demanded, vehemently. +</p> + +<p> +“That reminds me. I am afraid I must go down to Carbury for a few +days.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what am I to do here alone? Are <i>you</i> going to leave me +too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I cannot be in two places at the same time. I suppose you can +manage to get on without me for a few days.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go home. I can get on without you altogether. I will go +home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Susanna! what is the use of kicking up a row? I cant afford to +quarrel with all my people because you choose to be unreasonable.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do I care about your people, or about you either?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then,” said Marmaduke, offended, “you can go home +if you like. Perhaps your brother appreciates this sort of thing. I +dont.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you coward! You taunt me because you think I have no home. Do you +flatter yourself that I am dependent on you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue,” said Marmaduke, fiercely. “Dont you turn +on me in that fashion. Keep your temper if you want me to keep mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have ruined me,” said Susanna, sitting down on the grass, and +beginning to cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, upon my soul, this is too much,” said Marmaduke, with disgust. +“Get up out of that and dont make a fool of yourself. Ruined indeed! Will +you get up?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” screamed Susanna. +</p> + +<p> +“Then stay where you are and be damned,” retorted Marmaduke, +turning on his heel and walking toward the house. In the hall he met a maid +carrying an empty champagne bottle and goblet. +</p> + +<p> +“Missis is looking for you, sir,” said the maid. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Marmaduke, “I have seen her. Listen to me. +I am going to the country. My man Mason will come here to-day to pack up my +traps, and bring them after me. You had better take a note of my address from +the card in the strap of my valise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said the maid. “Any message for missis?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Marmaduke. He then changed his coat and hat, and went +out again. As he approached the gate he met Susanna, who had risen and was +walking toward the house. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to Carbury,” he said. “I dont know when I shall +be back.” +</p> + +<p> +She passed on disdainfully, as if she had not heard him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<p> +Three days later Lord Carbury came to luncheon with a letter in his hand. +Marian had not yet come in; and the Rev. George was absent, his place being +filled by Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +“Good news for you and Constance, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” said the Countess, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Conolly is coming down this afternoon to collect his traps and +leave you forever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Jasper, you exaggerate Mr. Conolly’s importance. +Intelligence of his movements can hardly be news—good or bad—either to me or to +Constance.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad he is going,” said Constance, “for Jasper’s +sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” replied Jasper. “I thought you would be. He will +be a great loss to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” said the Countess. “If another workman is needed, +another can easily be had.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I can be of any assistance to you, old man,” said Marmaduke, +“make what use of me you like. I picked up something about the business +yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Elinor. “While you were away, Jasper, he went to +the laboratory with Constance, and fired off a brass cannon with your new pile +until he had used up all the gunpowder and spoiled the panels of the door. That +is what he calls picking up something about the business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing like experiment for convincing you of the power of +electricity,” said Marmaduke. “Is there, Conny?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very wonderful; but I hate shots.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Marian?” said Lady Carbury. +</p> + +<p> +“I left her in the summer-house in the fruit garden,” said Elinor. +“She was reading.” +</p> + +<p> +“She must have forgotten the hour,” said the Countess. “She +has been moping, I think, for the last few days. I hope she is not unwell. But +she would never stay away from luncheon intentionally. I shall send for +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go,” said Marmaduke, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Duke. You must not leave the table. I will send a +servant.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will fetch her here in half the time that any servant will. Poor +Marian, why shouldnt she have her lunch? I shall be back in a jiffy.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a restless, extraordinary creature he is!” said Lady Carbury, +displeased, as Marmaduke hastily left the room. “The idea of a man +leaving the table in that way!” +</p> + +<p> +“I suspect he has his reasons,” said Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is a perfectly natural thing for him to do,” said +Constance, pettishly. “I see nothing extraordinary in it.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke found Marian reading in the summer-house in the fruit garden. She +looked at him in lazy surprise as he seated himself opposite to her at the +table. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the first chance I’ve had of talking to you privately +since I came down,” he said. “I believe you have been keeping out +of my way on purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I concluded that you wanted as many chances as possible of talking +to some one else in private; so I gave you as many as I could.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you and the rest have been uncommonly considerate in that respect: +thank you all awfully. But I mean to have it out with you, Miss Marian, now +that I have caught you alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“With me! Oh, dear! What have I done?” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you done? I’ll tell you what youve done. Why did you +send Conolly, of all men in the world, to tell me that I was in disgrace +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“There was no one else, Marmaduke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, suppose there wasn’t! Suppose there had been no one else +alive on the earth except you, and I, and he, and Constance, and Su—and +Constance! how could you have offered him such a job?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? Was there any special reason—” +</p> + +<p> +“Any special reason! Didnt your common sense tell you that a meeting +between him and me must be particularly awkward for both of us?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. At least I—. Marmaduke: I think you must fancy that I told him more +than I did. I did not know where you were; and as he was going to London, and I +thought you knew him well, and I had no other means of warning you, I had to +make use of him. Jasper will tell you how thoroughly trustworthy he is. But all +I said—and I really could not say less—was that I was afraid you were in bad +company, or under bad influence, or something like that; and that I only wanted +you to come down here at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Indeed! That was <i>all</i>, was it? Merely that I was in bad +company.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I said under bad influence. I was told so; and I believed it at +the time. I hope it’s not true, Marmaduke. If it is not, I beg your +pardon with all my heart.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke stared very hard at her for a while, and then said, with the emphasis +of a man baffled by utter unreason: “Well, I <i>am</i> damned!” at +which breach of good manners she winced. “Hang me if I understand you, +Marian,” he continued, more mildly. “Of course it’s not true. +Bad influence is all bosh. But it was a queer thing to say to his face. He knew +very well you meant his sister. Hallo! what’s the matter? Are you going +to faint?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I—Never mind me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind you!” said Marmaduke. “What are you looking like +that for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because—it is nothing: I only blushed. Dont be stupid, Duke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Blushed! Why dont you blush red, like other people, and not green? Shall +I get you something?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. Oh, Duke, why did you not tell me? How could you be so heartless +as to leave us all in the dark when we were talking about you before him every +day! Oh, are you in earnest, Duke? Pray dont jest about it. What do you mean by +his sister? I never knew he had one. Who is she? What happened? I mean when you +saw him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing happened. I was mowing in the garden. He just walked in; bade me +good morning; admired the place; and told me he came with a message from you +that things were getting hot here. Then he went off, as cool as you please. He +didnt seem to mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he warned you, in spite of all.” +</p> + +<p> +“More for your sake than for mine, I suspect. He’s rather sweet on +you, isnt he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Duke, Duke, are you not ashamed of yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Deuce a bit. But I’m in trouble; and I want you to stand by me. +Look here, Marian, you have no nonsense about you, I know. I may tell you +frankly how I am situated, maynt I?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian looked at him apprehensively, and said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“You see you will only mix up matters worse than before unless you know +the truth. Besides, I offered to marry her: upon my soul I did; but she +refused. Her real name is Susanna Conolly: his sister, worse luck.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont tell me any more of this, Duke. It is not right.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it’s not right, as you say. But what am I to do? I must +tell you; or you will go on making mischief with Constance.” +</p> + +<p> +“As if I would tell her! I promise that she shall never know from me. Is +that enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“No: its too much. The plain truth is that I dont care whether she finds +me out or not. I want her to understand thoroughly, once and for ever, that I +wont marry her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marmaduke!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if I were fifty Marmadukes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will break her heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never fear! Her heart is pretty tough, if she has one. Whether or no, I +am not going to have her forced on me by the Countess or any one else. The +truth is, Marian, they have all tried to bully me into this match. Constance +can’t complain.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not aloud.” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither aloud or alow. I never proposed to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Marmaduke: there is no use now in blaming Auntie or excusing +yourself. If you have made up your mind, there is an end.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you cant make out that I am acting meanly, Marian. Why, I have +everything to lose by giving her up. There is her money, and I suppose I must +prepare for a row with the family; unless the match could be dropped quietly. +Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“And is that what you want me to manage for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—. Come, Marian! dont be savage. I have been badly used in this +affair. They forced it on me. I did all I could to keep out of it. She was +thrown at my head. Besides, I once really used to think I could settle down +with her comfortably some day. I only found out what an insipid little fool she +was when I had a woman of sense to compare her with.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont say hard things about her. I think you might have a little +forbearance towards her under the circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hm! I dont feel very forbearing. She has been sticking to me for the +last few days like a barnacle. Our respectable young ladies think a lot of +themselves, but—except you and Nelly—I dont know a woman in society who has as +much brains in her whole body as Susanna Conolly has in her little finger nail. +I cant imagine how the deuce you all have the cheek to expect men to talk to +you, much less marry you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps there is something that honest men value more than +brains.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to know what it is. If it is something that ladies have +and Susanna hasnt, it is not either good looks or good sense. If it’s +respectability, that depends on what you consider respectable. If Conny’s +respectable and Susanna isnt, then I prefer disrepu—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Duke, you know you have no right to speak to me like this. Let us +think of poor Constance. How is she to be told the truth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let her find it out. I shall go back to London as soon as I can; and the +affair will drop somehow or another. She will forget all about me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Happy-go-lucky Marmaduke. I think if neglect and absence could make her +forget you, you would have been forgotten before this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. You see you must admit that I gave her no reason to suppose I meant +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you have consulted your own humor both in your neglect and +your attentions, Duke. The more you try to excuse yourself, the more +inexcusable your conduct appears. I do not know how to advise you. If Constance +is told, you may some day forget all about your present infatuation; and then a +mass of mischief and misery will have been made for nothing. If she is not +told, you will be keeping up a cruel deception and wasting her chances of——but +she will never care for anybody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Better do as I say. Leave matters alone for the present. But mind! no +speculating on my changing my intentions. I wont marry her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you hadnt told me about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Marian, I couldnt help it. I know, of course, that you only wanted +to make us all happy; but you nursed this match and kept it in +Constance’s mind as much as you could. Besides—though it was not your +fault—that mistake about Conolly was too serious not to explain. Dont be +downcast: I am not blaming you a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me that the worst view of things is always the true one in +this world. Nelly and Jasper were right about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aha! So <i>they</i> saw what I felt. You cant say I did not make my +intentions plain enough to every unbiassed person. The Countess was determined +to get Constance off her hands; Constance was determined to have me; and you +were determined to stick up for your own notions of love and +honeysuckles.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was determined to stick up for <i>you</i>, Marmaduke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont be indignant: I knew you would stick up for me in your own way. But +what I want to shew is, that only three people believed that I was in earnest; +and those three were prejudiced.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you had enlightened Constance, and deceived all the rest of the +world, instead. No doubt I was wrong, very wrong. I am very sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw! It doesnt matter. It will all blow over some day. Hush, I hear +the garden gate opening. It is Constance, come to spy what I am doing here with +you. She is as jealous as a crocodile—very nearly made a scene yesterday +because I played with Nelly against her at tennis. I have to drive her to Bushy +Copse this afternoon, confound it!” +</p> + +<p> +“And <i>will</i> you, after what you have just confessed?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must. Besides, Jasper says that Conolly is coming this evening to pack +up his traps and go; and I want to be out of the way when he is about.” +</p> + +<p> +“This evening!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Between ourselves, Marian, Susanna and I were so put out by the +cool way he carried on when he called, that we had a regular quarrel after he +went; and we haven’t made it up yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray dont talk about it to me, Duke. Here is Constance.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you are here,” said Constance, gaily, but with a quick glance +at them. “That is a pretty way to bring your cousin in to luncheon, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“We got chatting about you, my ownest,” said Marmaduke; “and +the subject was so sweet, and the moments were so fleet, that we talked for +quite an hour on the strict q.t. Eh, Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +“As a punishment, you shall have no lunch. Mamma is very angry with you +both.” +</p> + +<p> +“Always ready to make allowances for her, provided she sends you to +lecture me, Conny. Why dont you wear your hat properly?” He arranged her +hat as he spoke. Constance laughed and blushed. Marian shuddered. “Now +youre all that fancy painted you: youre lovely, youre divine. Are you ready for +Bushy Copse?” +</p> + +<p> +Constance replied by singing: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Oh yes, if you please, kind sir, she said; sir, she said; sir, she said;<br/> +Oh! yes if you ple—ease, kind sir, she said.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then come along. After your ladyship,” he said, taking her elbows +as if they were the handles of a wheelbarrow, and pushing her out before him +through the narrow entrance to the summer-house. On the threshold he turned for +a moment; met Marian’s reproachful eyes with a wink; grinned; and +disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +For half an hour afterward Marian sat alone in the summer-house, thinking of +the mistake she had made. Then she returned to the Cottage, where she found +Miss McQuinch writing in the library, and related to her all that had passed in +the summer-house. Elinor listened, seated in a rocking-chair, restlessly +clapping her protended ankles together. When she heard of Conolly’s +relationship to Susanna, she kept still for a few moments, looking with widely +opened eyes at Marian. Then, with a sharp laugh, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I beg his pardon. I thought he was another of that woman’s +retainers. I never dreamt of his being her brother.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian was horror stricken. “You thought—! Oh, Nelly, what puts such +things into your head?” +</p> + +<p> +“So would you have thought it if you had the least gumption about people. +However, I was wrong; and I’m glad of it. However, I was right about +Marmaduke. I told you so, over and over and over again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you did; but I didnt think you were in earnest.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, you never can conceive my being in earnest when I differ from you, +until the event proves me to be right.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid it will kill Constance.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dont</i>, Marian!” cried Elinor, giving her chair a violent +swing. +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite serious. You know how delicate she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if she dies of any sentiment, it will be wounded vanity. Serve her +right for allowing a man to be forced into marrying her. I believe she knows in +her soul that he does not care about her. Why else should she be jealous of me, +of you, and of everybody?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me that instead of sympathizing with the unfortunate girl, +both you and Marmaduke exult in her disappointment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I pity her, poor little wretch. But I dont sympathize with her. I dont +pity Marmaduke one bit: if the whole family cuts him he will deserve it richly, +but I do sympathize with him. Can you wonder at his preference? When we went to +see that woman last June I envied her. There she was, clever, independent, +successful, holding her own in the world, earning her living, fascinating a +crowd of people, whilst we poor respectable nonentities sat pretending to +despise her—as if we were not waiting until some man in want of a female slave +should offer us our board and lodging and the privilege of his lordly name with +‘Missis’ before it for our lifelong services. You may make up as +many little bread-and-butter romances as you please, Marian; but I defy you to +give me any sensible reason why Marmaduke should chain himself for ever to a +little inane thing like Constance, when he can enjoy the society of a capable +woman like that without binding himself at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Nelly! Really, you oughtnt to say such things.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I ought to keep both eyes tight shut so that I may be contented in +that station to which it has pleased God to call me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine his proposing to marry her, Nell! I am just as wicked as you; +for I am very glad she refused; though I cant conceive why she did it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” said Miss McQuinch, becoming excited, “she refused +because she had too much good sense: aye, and too much common decency to +accept. It is all very well for us fortunate good-for-nothings to resort to +prostitution——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Nelly!” +</p> + +<p> +“—I say, to prostitution, to secure ourselves a home and an income. +Somebody said openly in Parliament the other day that marriage was the true +profession of women. So it is a profession; and except that it is a harder +bargain for both parties, and that society countenances it, I dont see how it +differs from what we—bless our virtuous indignation!—stigmatize as +prostitution. <i>I</i> dont mean ever to be married, I can tell you, Marian. I +would rather die than sell myself forever to a man, and stand in a church +before a lot of people whilst George or somebody read out that cynically +plain-spoken marriage service over me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop Nelly! Pray stop! If you thought for a moment you would never say +such awful things.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought we had agreed long ago that marriage is a mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but that is very different to what you are saying now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot see——” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray stop, Nelly. Dont go on in that strain. It does no good; and it +makes me very uncomfortable.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take it out in work,” said Nelly calmly, returning to +her manuscript. “I can see that, as you say, talking does no good. All +the more reason why I should have another try at earning my own living. When I +become a great novelist I shall say what I like and do what I please. For the +present I am your obedient, humble servant.” +</p> + +<p> +At any other time Marian would have protested, and explained, and soothed. Now +she was too heavily preoccupied by her guilty conscience. She strolled +disconsolately to the window, and presently, seeing that Miss McQuinch was at +work in earnest and had better not be disturbed, went off for a lonely walk. It +was a glorious afternoon; and nature heaped its peculiar consolations on her; +so that she never thought of returning until the sun was close to the horizon. +As she came, tired, through the plantation, with the evening glow and the light +wind, in which the branches were rustling and the leaves dropping, lulling her +luxuriously, she heard some one striding swiftly along the path behind. She +looked back; but there was a curve in the way; and she could not see who was +coming. Then it occurred to her that it might be Conolly. Dreading to face him +after what had happened, she stole aside among the trees a little way, and sat +down on a stone, hoping that he might pass by without seeing her. The next +moment he came round the curve, looking so resolute and vigorous that her heart +became fainter as she watched him. Just opposite where she sat, he stopped, +having a clear view of the path ahead for some distance, and appeared puzzled. +Marian held her breath. He looked to the left through the trees, then to the +right, where she was. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening, Miss Lind,” he said respectfully, raising his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening,” said she, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not looking quite well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have walked too much; and I feel a little tired. That is why I had to +sit down. I shall be rested presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly sat down on a felled trunk opposite Marian. “This is my last +visit to Carbury Towers,” he said. “No doubt you know that I am +going for good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Marian. “I—I am greatly obliged to you for all +the pains you have taken with me in the laboratory. You have been very patient. +I suppose I have often wasted your time unreasonably.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Conolly, unceremoniously, “you have not wasted my +time: I never let anybody do that. My time belonged to Lord Carbury, not to +myself. However, that is neither here nor there. I enjoyed giving you lessons. +Unless you enjoyed taking them, the whole obligation rests on me.” +</p> + +<p> +“They were very pleasant.” +</p> + +<p> +He shifted himself into an easier position, looking well pleased. Then he said, +carelessly, “Has Mr. Marmaduke Lind come down?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian reddened and felt giddy. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to avoid meeting him,” continued Conolly; “and I +thought perhaps you might know enough of his movements this evening to help me +to do so. It does not matter much; but I have a reason.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian felt the hysteric globe at her throat as she tried to speak; but she +repressed it, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Conolly: I know the reason. I did not know before: I am sure you did +not think I did. I made a dreadful mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why!” said Conolly, with some indignation, “who has told you +since?” +</p> + +<p> +“Marmaduke,” said Marian, roused to reply quickly by the energy of +the questioner. “He did not mean to be indiscreet: he thought I +knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thought! He never thought in his life, Miss Lind. However, he was right +enough to tell you; and I am glad you know the truth, because it explains my +behavior the last time we met. It took me aback a bit for the moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were very forbearing. I hope you will not think me intrusive if I +tell you how sincerely sorry I am for the misfortune which has come to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What misfortune?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian lost confidence again, and looked at him in silent distress. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure,” he interposed, quickly. “I know; but you had +put it all out of my head. I am much obliged to you. Not that I am much +concerned about it. You will perhaps think it an instance of the depravity of +my order, Miss Lind; but I am not one of those people who think it pious to +consider their near relatives as if they were outside the natural course of +things. I never was a good son or a good brother or a good patriot in the sense +of thinking that my mother and my sister and my native country were better than +other people’s because I happened to belong to them. I knew what would +happen some day, though, as usual, my foreknowledge did not save me from a +little emotion when the event came to pass. Besides, to tell you the truth, I +dont feel it as a misfortune. You know what my sister’s profession is. +You told me how you felt when you saw her act. Now, tell me fairly, and without +stopping to think of whether your answer will hurt me, would you consent to +know her in private even if you had heard nothing to her disadvantage? Would +you invite her to your house, or go to a party at which all the other women +were like her? Would you introduce young ladies to her, as you would introduce +them to Miss McQuinch? Dont stop to imagine exceptional circumstances which +might justify you in doing these things; but tell me yes or no, <i>would</i> +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Mr. Conolly, I should really never have an opportunity of doing +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“By your leave, Miss Lind, that means No. Honestly, then, what has +Susanna to lose by disregarding your rules of behavior? Even if, by marrying, +she conciliated the notions of your class, she would only give some man the +right to ill-treat her and spend her earnings, without getting anything in +return—and remember there is a special danger of that on the stage, for several +reasons. She would not really conciliate you by marrying, for you wouldnt +associate with her a bit the more because of her marriage certificate. Of +course I am putting her self-respect out of the question, that being a matter +between herself and her conscience, with which we have no concern. Believe me, +neither actresses nor any other class will trouble themselves about the opinion +of a society in which they are allowed to have neither part nor lot. Perhaps I +am wrong to talk about such matters to you; but you are trained to feel all the +worst that can be felt for my sister; and I feel bound to let you know that +there is something to be said in her defence. I have no right to blame her, as +she has done me no harm. The only way in which her conduct can influence my +prospects will be through her being an undesirable sister-in-law in case I +should want to marry.” +</p> + +<p> +“If the person you choose hesitate on that account, you can let her go +without regret,” said Marian. “She will not be worthy of your +regard.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so sure of that,” said Conolly, laughing. “You see, +Miss Lind, if that invention of mine succeeds, I may become a noted man; and it +is fashionable nowadays for society to patronize geniuses who hit on a new +illustration of what people call the marvels of science. I am ambitious. As a +celebrity, I might win the affections of a duchess. Who knows?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should not advise you to marry a duchess. I do not know many of them, +as I am a comparatively humble person; but I am sure you would not like +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye. And possibly a lady of gentle nurture would not like me.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary, clever people are so rare in society that I think you +would have a better chance than most men.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think my manners would pass? I learnt to dance and bow before I +was twelve years old from the most experienced master in Europe; and I used to +mix with all the counts, dukes, and queens in my father’s opera company, +not to mention the fashionable people I have read about in novels.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are jesting, Mr. Conolly. I do not believe that your manners give +you the least real concern.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think that I may aspire in time—if I am successful in public—to +the hand of a lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you know as much of the world as I. Why should you not marry a +lady, if you wish to?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid class prejudice would be too strong for me, after +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont think so. What hour is it now, Mr. Conolly?” +</p> + +<p> +“It wants ten minutes of seven.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” cried Marian, rising. “Miss McQuinch is probably +wondering whether I am drowned or lost. I must get back to the Hall as fast as +I can. They have returned from Bushy Copse before this; and I am sure they are +asking about me.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly rose silently and walked with her as far as the path from the cottage +to the laboratory. +</p> + +<p> +“This is my way, Miss Lind,” said he. “I am going to the +laboratory. Will you be so kind as to give my respects to Miss McQuinch. I +shall not see her again, as I must return to town by the last train +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“And are you not coming back—not at all, I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Marian slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Good bye, Miss Lind.” +</p> + +<p> +He was about to raise his hat as usual; but Marian, with a smile, put out her +hand. He took it for the first time; looked at her for a moment gravely; and +left her. +</p> + +<p> +Lest they should surprise one another in the act, neither of them looked back +at the other as they went their several ways. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book02"></a>BOOK II</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<p> +In the spring, eighteen months after his daughter’s visit to Carbury +Towers, Mr. Reginald Harrington Lind called at a house in Manchester Square and +found Mrs. Douglas at home. Sholto’s mother was a widow lady older than +Mr. Lind, with a rather glassy eye and shaky hand, who would have looked weak +and shiftless in an almshouse, but who, with plenty of money, unlimited +domestic service, and unhesitating deference from attendants who were all +trained artists in their occupation, made a fair shew of being a dignified and +interesting old lady. When he was seated, her first action was to take a new +photograph from a little table at her side, and hand it to him without a word, +awaiting his recognition of it with a shew of natural pride and affection which +was amateurish in comparison to the more polished and skilful comedy with which +her visitor took it and pretended to admire it. +</p> + +<p> +“Capital. Capital,” said Mr. Lind. “He must give us +one.” +</p> + +<p> +“You dont think that the beard has spoiled him, do you?” said Mrs. +Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not: it is an improvement,” said Mr. Lind, decisively. +“You are glad to have him back again with you, I dare say. Ah yes, +yes” (Mrs. Douglas’s eyes had answered for her). “Did he tell +you that he met me? I saw him on Wednesday last for the first time since his +return to London. How long was he away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two years,” she replied, with slow emphasis, as if such an absence +were hardly credible. “Two long years. He has been staying in Paris, in +Venice, in Florence: a month here, a week there, dissatisfied everywhere. He +would have been almost as happy with me at home. And how is Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Lind, smiling, “I believe she is still +disengaged; and she professes to be fancy free. She is fond of saying, +generally, that she will never marry, and so forth. That is the new fashion +with young women—if saying what they dont mean can be called a new +fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian is sure to get married,” said Mrs. Douglas. “She must +have had offers already. There are few parents who have not cause to envy +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have both been happy in that respect, Mrs. Douglas. Sholto is a +highly distinguished young man. I wish I had started in life with half his +advantages. I thought at one time he was perhaps becoming attached to +Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite sure, Mr. Lind, that you could forgive his being a plain +gentleman? A little bird whispered to me that you desired a title for +Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mrs. Douglas, we, who are familiar with titles, understand their +true value. I should be very sorry to see Marian lose, by an unsuitable +alliance, the social position I have been able to give her. I should set my +face resolutely against such an alliance. But few English titles can boast a +pedigree comparable with Sholto’s. The name of Douglas is historic—far +more so than that of Lind, which is not even English except by naturalization. +Besides, Sholto’s talents are very remarkable. He will certainly adopt a +political career; and, with his opportunities and abilities, a peerage is +anything but a remote contingency.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto, you know, is perfectly unembarrassed. There is not a charge on +his property. I think that even Marian, good as she is, and lovely as she is, +will not easily find a better match. But I am well known to be a little crazy +about my dear boy. That is because I know him so much better than anyone else +does. Now let us talk about other matters. Let me see. Oh yes, I got a +prospectus of some company from the city the other day; and whose name should +there be upon the list of directors but Reginald Harrington Lind’s! And +Lord Carbury’s, too! Pray, is the entire family going into +business?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I believe the undertaking to be a commercially sound one; +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy <i>you</i> talking about commercial soundness!” +</p> + +<p> +“True. It must sound strange to you. But it is no longer unusual for men +in my position to take an active part in the direction of commerce. We have +duties as well as privileges. I gave my name and took a few shares chiefly on +the recommendation of Jasper and of my own stockbroker. I think there can be no +doubt that Jasper and Mr. Conolly have made a very remarkable discovery, and +one which must prove highly remunerative and beneficial.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the discovery? I did not quite understand the prospectus.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is called the Conolly Electro-motor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And it—it turns all sorts of machinery. I cannot explain it +scientifically to you: you would not understand me. But it is, in short, a +method of driving machinery by electricity at a less cost than by steam. It is +connected in principle with the conservation of energy and other technical +matters. You must come and see the machinery at work some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must, indeed. And is it true that Mr. Conolly was a common working +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a practical man, undoubtedly, but highly educated. He speaks French +and Italian fluently, and is a remarkable musician. Altogether a man of very +superior attainments, and by no means deficient in culture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me! Jasper told me something of that sort about him; but Lady +Carbury gave him a very different character. She assured me that he was sprung +from the dregs of the people, and that she had a great deal of trouble to teach +him his proper place. Still, we know that she is not very particular as to what +she says when she dislikes people. Yet she ought to know; for he was +Jasper’s laboratory servant—at least so she said.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, surely not a servant. Jasper never regarded him in that light. The +Countess disapproves of Jasper’s scientific pursuits, and sets her face +against all who encourage him in them. However, I really know nothing about Mr. +Conolly’s antecedents. His manner when he appears at our board meetings +is quiet and not unpleasant. Marian, it appears, met him at Towers Cottage the +year before last, and had some scientific lessons from him. He was quite +unknown then. It was rather a curious coincidence. I did not know of it until +about a month ago, when he read a paper at the Society of Arts on his +invention. I attended the meeting with Marian; and when it was over, I +introduced him to her, and was surprised to learn that they knew one another +already. He told me afterward that Marian had shewn an unusual degree of +cleverness in studying electricity, and that she greatly interested him at the +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt. Marian interests everybody; and even great discoverers, when +they are young, are only human.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Perhaps so. But she must have shewn some ability or she would never +have elicited a remark from him. He is full of his business.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is the latest news of the family scamp?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean my Reginald?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, no! What a shame to call poor Reggy a scamp! I mean young +Marmaduke, of course. Is it true that he has a daughter now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes. Perfectly true.” +</p> + +<p> +“The reprobate! And he was always such a pleasant fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but he is annoyingly inconsiderate. About a fortnight ago, Marian +and Elinor went to Putney to a private view at Mr. Scott’s studio. On +their way back they saw Marmaduke on the river, and, rather unnecessarily, I +think, entered into conversation with him. He begged them to come to +Hammersmith in his boat, saying that he had something there to shew them. +Elinor, it appears, had the sense to ask whether it was anything they ought not +to see; but he replied on his honor that it was something perfectly innocent, +and promised that they should be delighted with it. So they foolishly +consented, and went with him to Hammersmith, where they left the river and +walked some distance with him. He left them in a road somewhere in West +Kensington, and came back after about fifteen minutes with a little girl. He +actually presented her to Marian and Elinor as a member of the family whom +they, as a matter of course, would like to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, <i>such</i> a thing to do! And what happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian seems to have thought of nothing but the prettiness of the +unhappy child. She gravely informed me that she forgave Marmaduke everything +when she saw how he doted on it. Elinor has always shewn a disposition to +defend him——” +</p> + +<p> +“She is full of perversity, and always was.” +</p> + +<p> +“——and this incident did not damage his credit with <i>her</i>. However, +after the little waif had been sufficiently petted and praised to gratify +Master Marmaduke’s paternal feelings, they came home, and, instead of +holding their tongues, began to tell all our people what a dear little child +Marmaduke had, and how they considered that it ought not to be made to suffer +for his follies. In fact, I think they would have adopted it, if I had allowed +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is Marian all over. Some of her ideas will serve her very well when +she goes to heaven; but they will get her into scrapes in this wicked world if +you do not take care of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear so. For that reason I tolerate a degree of cynicism in +Elinor’s character which would otherwise be most disagreeable to me. It +is often useful in correcting Marian’s extravagances. Unfortunately, the +incident at Hammersmith did not pass off without making mischief. It happens +that my sister Julia is interested in a Home for foundling girls—a semi-private +place, where a dozen children are trained as domestic servants.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I have been through it. It is very neat and pretty; but they really +treat the poor girls as if they ought to be thankful for permission to exist. +Their dresses are so ugly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly. I assure you that presentations are much sought after, and are +very difficult to get. Julia is a patroness. Marian told her about this child +of Marmaduke’s; and it happened that a vacancy had just occurred at the +Home in consequence of one of the girls dying of melancholia and spinal +affection. Julia, who has perhaps more piety than tact, wrote to Marmaduke +offering to present his daughter, and expatiating on the advantages of the Home +to the poor little lost one. In her desire to reclaim Marmaduke also, she +entrusted the letter to George, who undertook to deliver it, and further +Julia’s project by personal persuasion. George described the interview to +me, and shewed me, I am sorry to say, how much downright ferocity may exist +beneath an apparently frank, jovial, reckless exterior like +Marmaduke’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hardly wonder at his refusing. Of course, he might have known +that the motive of the offer was a kind one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Refused! A gentleman can always refuse an offer with dignity. Marmaduke +was outrageous. George—a clergyman—owed his escape from actual violence to the +interference of the woman, and to a timely representation that he had +undertaken to bear the message in order to soften any angry feelings that it +might give rise to. Marmaduke repeatedly applied foul language to his aunt and +to her offer; and George with great difficulty dissuaded him from writing a +most offensive letter to her. Julia was so hurt by this that she complained to +Dora—Marmaduke’s mother—who had up to that time been kept in ignorance of +his doings; and now it is hard to say where the mischief will end. Dora is +overwhelmed by the revelation of the life her son is leading. Marmaduke has +consequently forfeited his father’s countenance, which had to be extended +to him so far as to allow of his occasional appearance at home, in order to +keep Dora in the dark. Now that she is enlightened, of course there is an end +of all that, and he is forbidden the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a lot of mischief! Dear me!” +</p> + +<p> +“So I said to Marian. Had she refused to go up the river with Marmaduke, +as she should have done, all this would not have occurred. She will not see it +in that light, but lays all the blame on her aunt Julia, whose offer fell +somewhat short of her own notions of providing for the child’s +future.” +</p> + +<p> +“How does Marmaduke stand with respect to money? I suppose his father has +stopped his allowance.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He threatened to do it, and went so far as to make his solicitor +write to that effect to Marmaduke, who had the consummate impudence to reply +that he should in that case be compelled to provide for himself by contracting +a marriage of which he could not expect his family to approve. Still, he added, +if the family chose to sever their connexion with him, they could not expect +him to consult their feelings in his future disposal of himself. In plain +English, he threatened to marry this woman if his income was cut off. He +carried his point, too; for no alteration has been made in his allowance. +Indeed, as he has money of his own, and as part of the property is entailed, it +would be easier to irritate him uselessly than to subject him to any material +deprivation.” +</p> + +<p> +“The young scamp! I wonder he was clever enough to take advantage like +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has shewn no lack of acuteness of late. I suspect he is under shrewd +guidance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you ever seen the—the guidance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in person. I seldom enter a theatre now. But I am of course familiar +with her appearance from the photographic portraits of her. They are in all the +shop windows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I think I have noticed them.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Mrs. Douglas, I fear I have paid you a very long visit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why dont you come oftener?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could find time. I have not so much leisure for enjoyment as I +used.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so sure of that. But we are always glad to have a chat with one +another, I know. We are agreed about the dear children, I think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Cordially. Cordially. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<p> +On the morning of the first Friday in May Marian received this letter: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Uxbridge Road, Holland Park, W. +</p> + +<p> +“DEAR MISS LIND: I must begin by explaining why I make this communication +to you by letter instead of orally. It is because I am about to ask you to do +me a favor. If you asked me to do anything for you, then, no matter how much my +judgment might protest against my compliance, I could not without pain to +myself refuse you face to face. I have no right to assume that your heart would +plead on my behalf against your head in this fashion; but, on the other +hand—the wish is father to the thought here—I have no right to assume that it +would not. Therefore, to spare you all influences except the fair ones of your +own interest and inclination, I make my proposal in writing. You will please +put the usual construction on the word ‘proposal.’ What I desire is +your consent to marry me. If your first impulse now is to refuse, I beg you to +do so in plain terms at once, and destroy this letter without reading further. +If you think, on the contrary, that we could achieve a future as pleasant as +our past association has been—to me at least, here is what, as I think, you +have to consider. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a lady, rich, well-born, beautiful, loved by many persons +besides myself, too happily circumstanced to have any pressing inducement to +change your condition, and too fortunately endowed in every way to have reason +to anticipate the least difficulty in changing it to the greatest worldly +advantage when you please. +</p> + +<p> +“What I am and have been, you know. I may estrange from you some of the +society which you enjoy, and I can introduce you to none that would compensate +you for the loss. I am what you call poor: my income at present does not amount +to much more than fifteen hundred pounds; and I should not ask you to marry me +if it were not that your own inheritance is sufficient, as I have ascertained, +to provide for you in case of my early death. You know how my sister is +situated; how your family are likely to feel toward me on her account and my +own; and how impatient I am of devoting much time to what is fashionably +supposed to be pleasure. On the other hand, as I am bidding for a consent and +not for a refusal, I hope you will not take my disadvantages for more, or my +advantages for less, than they are honestly worth. At Carbury Park you often +said that you would never marry; and I have said the same myself. So, as we +neither of us overrate the possibilities of happiness in marriage, perhaps we +might, if you would be a little forbearing with me, succeed in proving that we +have greatly underrated them. As for the prudence of the step, I have seen and +practised too much prudence to believe that it is worth much as a rule of +conduct in a world of accidents. If there were a science of life as there is +one of mechanics, we could plan our lives scientifically and run no risks; but +as it is, we must—together or apart—take our chance: cautiousness and +recklessness divide the great stock of regrets pretty equally. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will wonder at my selfishness in wanting you, for my own +good, to forfeit your present happy independence among your friends, and +involve your fortunes with those of a man whom you have only seen on occasions +when ceremony compelled him to observe his best behavior. I can only excuse +myself by reminding you that no matter whom you marry, you must do so at the +same disadvantages, except as to the approval of your friends, of which the +value is for you to consider. That being so, why should I not profit by your +hazard as well as another? Besides, there are many other feelings impelling me. +I should like to describe them to you, and would if I understood them well +enough to do it accurately. +</p> + +<p> +“However, nothing is further from my intention than to indite a love +letter; so I will return to graver questions. One, in particular, must be +clearly understood between us. You are too earnest to consider an allusion to +religious matters out of place here. I do not know exactly what you believe; +but I have gathered from stray remarks of yours that you belong to what is +called the Broad Church. If so, we must to some extent agree to differ. I +should never interfere in any way with your liberty as far as your actions +concerned yourself only. But, frankly, I should not permit my wife to teach my +children to know Christianity in any other way than that in which an educated +Englishman knows Buddhism. I will not go through any ceremony whatever in a +church, or enter one except to play the organ. I am prejudiced against +religions of all sorts. The Church has made itself the natural enemy of the +theatre; and I was brought up in the theatre until I became a poor workman +earning wages, when I found the Church always taking part against me and my +comrades with the rich who did no work. If the Church had never set itself +against me, perhaps I should never have set myself against the Church; but what +is done is done: you will find me irreligious, but not, I hope, unreasonable. +</p> + +<p> +“I will be at the Academy to-morrow at about four o’clock, as I do +not care to remain longer in suspense than is absolutely necessary; but if you +are not prepared to meet me then, I shall faithfully help you in any effort I +may perceive you make to avoid me. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“I am, dear Miss Lind, <br/> +“Yours sincerely, <br/> +“EDWARD CONOLLY. ” +</p> + +<p> +This letter conveyed to Marian hardly one of the considerations set forth in +it. She thought it a frank, strong, admirable letter, just what she should have +hoped from her highest estimate of him. In the quaint earnestness about +religion, and the exaggerated estimate (as she thought) of the advantages which +she might forfeit by marrying him, there was just enough of the workman to make +them characteristic. She wished that she could make some real sacrifice for his +sake. She was afraid to realize her situation at first, and, to keep it off, +occupied herself during the forenoon with her household duties, with some +pianoforte practice, and such other triflings as she could persuade herself +were necessary. At last she quite suddenly became impatient of further delay. +She sat down in a nook behind the window curtain, and re-read the letter +resolutely. It disappointed her a little, so she read it again. The third time +she liked it better than the first; and she would have gone through it yet +again but for the arrival of Mrs. Leith Fairfax, with whom they had arranged to +go to Burlington House. +</p> + +<p> +“It is really a tax on me, this first day at the Academy,” said +Mrs. Fairfax, when they were at luncheon. “I have been there at the press +view, besides seeing all the pictures long ago in the studios. But, of course, +I am expected to be there.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I were in your place,” said Elinor, “I——” +</p> + +<p> +“Last night,” continued Mrs. Fairfax, deliberately ignoring her, +“I was not in bed until half-past two o’clock. On the night before, +I was up until five. On Tuesday I did not go to bed at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you do such things?” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, I <i>must</i>. John Metcalf, the publisher, came to me on +Tuesday at three o’clock, and said he must have an article on the mango +experiments at Kew ready for the printer before ten next morning. For his +paper, the <i>Fortnightly Naturalist</i>, you know. ‘My dear John +Metcalf,’ I said, ‘I dont know what a mango is.’ ‘No +more do I, Mrs. Leith Fairfax,’ said he: ‘I think it’s +something that blooms only once in a hundred years. No matter what it is, you +must let me have the article. Nobody else can do it.’ I told him it was +impossible. My London letter for the <i>Hari Kari</i> was not even begun; and +the last post to catch the mail to Japan was at a quarter-past six in the +morning. I had an article to write for your father, too. And, as the sun had +been shining all day, I was almost distracted with hay fever. ‘If you +were to go down on your knees,’ I said, ‘I could not find time to +read up the <i>flora</i> of the West Indies and finish an article before +morning.’ He went down on his knees. ‘Now Mrs. Leith +Fairfax,’ said he, ‘I am going to stay here until you +promise.’ What could I do but promise and get rid of him? I did it, too: +how, I dont know; but I did it. John Metcalf told me yesterday that Sir James +Hooker, the president of the Society for Naturalizing the Bread Fruit Tree in +Britain, and the greatest living authority on the subject, has got the credit +of having written my article.” +</p> + +<p> +“How flattered he must feel!” said Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“What article had you to write for papa?” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“On the electro-motor—the Conolly electro-motor. I went down to the City +on Wednesday, and saw it working. It is most wonderful, and very interesting. +Mr. Conolly explained it to me himself. I was able to follow every step that +his mind has made in inventing it. I remember him as a common workman. He +fitted the electric bell in my study four years ago with his own hands. You may +remember that we met him at a concert once. He is a thorough man of business. +The Company is making upward of fifty pounds an hour by the motor at present; +and they expect their receipts to be a thousand a day next year. My article +will be in the <i>Dynamic Statistician</i> next week. Have you seen Sholto +Douglas since he came back from the continent?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to see him. When you meet him next, tell him to call on me. Why +has he not been here? Surely you are not keeping up your old quarrel?” +</p> + +<p> +“What old quarrel?” +</p> + +<p> +“I always understood that he went abroad on your account.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never quarreled with him. Perhaps he did with me, as he has not come +to see us since his return. It used to be so easy to offend him that his +retirement in good temper after a visit was quite exceptional.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, my dear child! that is all nonsense. You must be kind to the +poor fellow. Perhaps he will be at the Academy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not,” said Marian, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean if he cherishes any grudge against me; for he will be very +disagreeable.” +</p> + +<p> +“A grudge against you! Ah, Marian, how little you understand him! What +perverse creatures all you young people are! I must bring about an +<i>éclaircissement</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“I advise you not to,” said Elinor. “If you succeed, no one +will admit that you have done anything; and if you fail, everybody will blame +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is nothing to be <i>éclairci</i>,” said Marian. We are +talking nonsense, which is silly——” +</p> + +<p> +“And French, which is vulgar,” interposed Miss McQuinch, delivering +the remark like a pistol shot at Mrs. Fairfax, who had been trying to convey by +facial expression that she pitied the folly of Elinor’s advice, and was +scandalized by her presumption in offering it. “It is time to start for +the Academy.” +</p> + +<p> +When they arrived at Burlington House, Mrs. Fairfax put on her gold rimmed +spectacles, and led the way up the stairs like one having important business in +a place to which others came for pleasure. When they had passed the turnstiles, +Elinor halted, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“There is no sort of reason for our pushing through this crowd in a gang +of three. Besides, I want to look at the pictures, and not after you to see +which way you go. I shall meet you here at six o’clock, sharp. +Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“What an extraordinary girl!” said Mrs. Fairfax, as Elinor opened +her catalogue at the end, and suddenly disappeared to the right amongst the +crowd. +</p> + +<p> +“She always does so,” said Marian; “and I think she is quite +right. Two people cannot make their way about as easily as one; and they never +want to see the same pictures.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear, consider the impropriety of a young girl walking about by +herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely there is no impropriety in it. Lots of people—all sensible women +do it. Who can tell, in this crowd, whether you are by yourself or not? And +what does it matter if——” +</p> + +<p> +Here Mrs. Fairfax’s attention was diverted by the approach of one of her +numerous acquaintances. Marian, after a moment’s indecision, slipped away +and began her tour of the rooms alone, passing quickly through the first in +order to escape pursuit. In the second she tried to look at the pictures; but +as she now for the first time realized that she might meet Conolly at any +moment, doubt as to what answer she should give him seized her; and she felt a +strong impulse to fly. The pictures were unintelligible to her: she kept her +face turned to the inharmonious shew of paint and gilding only because she +shrank from looking at the people about. Whenever she stood still, and any man +approached and remained near her, she contemplated the wall fixedly, and did +not dare to look round or even to stir until he moved away, lest he should be +Conolly. When she passed from the second room to the large one, she felt as +though she were making a tremendous plunge; and indeed the catastrophe occurred +before she had accomplished the movement, for she came suddenly face to face +with him in the doorway. He did not flinch: he raised his hat, and prepared to +pass on. She involuntarily put out her hand in remonstrance. He took it as a +gift at once; and she, confused, said anxiously: “We must not stand in +the doorway. The people cannot pass us,” as if her action had meant +nothing more than an attempt to draw him out of the way. Then, perceiving the +absurdity of this pretence, she was quite lost for a moment. When she recovered +her self-possession they were standing together in the less thronged space near +a bust of the Queen; and Conolly was saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I have been here half an hour; and I have not seen a single +picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I,” she said timidly, looking down at her catalogue. +“Shall we try to see some now?” +</p> + +<p> +He opened his catalogue; and they turned together toward the pictures and were +soon discussing them sedulously, as if they wished to shut out the subject of +the very recent crisis in their affairs, which was nevertheless constantly +present in their minds. Marian was saluted by many acquaintances. At each +encounter she made an effort to appear unconcerned, and suffered immediately +afterward from a suspicion that the effort had defeated its own object, as such +efforts often do. Conolly had something to say about most of the pictures: +generally an unanswerable objection to some historical or technical inaccuracy, +which sometimes convinced her, and always impressed her with a confiding sense +of ignorance in herself and infallible judgment in him. +</p> + +<p> +“I think we have done enough for one day,” she said at last. +“The watercolors and the sculpture must wait until next time.” +</p> + +<p> +“We had better watch for a vacant seat. You must be tired.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am, a little. I think I should like to sit in some other room. Mrs. +Leith Fairfax is over there with Mr. Douglas—a gentleman whom I know and would +rather not meet just now. You saw him at Wandsworth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That tall man? He has let his beard grow since.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is he. Let us go to the room where the drawings are: we shall have +a better chance of a seat there. I have not seen Sholto for two years; and our +last meeting was rather a stormy one.” +</p> + +<p> +“What happened?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian was a little hurt by being questioned. She missed the reticence of a +gentleman. Then she reproached herself for not understanding that his frank +curiosity was a delicate appeal to her confidence in him, and answered: +“He proposed to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly immediately dropped the subject, and went in search of a vacant seat. +They found one in the little room where the architects’ drawings +languish. They were silent for some time. +</p> + +<p> +Then he began, seriously: “Is it too soon to call you by your own name? +‘Miss Lind’ is distant; but ‘Marian’ might shock you if +it came too confidently without preparation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whichever you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whichever I please!” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the worst of being a woman. Little speeches that are sheer +coquetry when you analyze them, come to our lips and escape even when we are +most anxious to be straightforward.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the same way,” said Conolly, “the most enlightened men +often express themselves in a purely conventional manner on subjects on which +they have the deepest convictions.” This sententious utterance had the +effect of extinguishing the conversation for some moments, Marian being unable +to think of a worthy rejoinder. At last she said: +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Edward, or, familiarly, Ned. Commonly Ted. In America, Ed. With, of +course, the diminutives Neddy, Teddy, and Eddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I should prefer Ned.” +</p> + +<p> +“I prefer Ned myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any other name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but it is a secret. Why people should be plagued with two Christian +names, I do not know. No one would have believed in the motor if they had known +that my name was Sebastian.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sebastian!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush. I was actually christened Edoardo Sebastiano Conolly. My father +used to spell his name Conollj whilst he was out of Italy. I have frustrated +the bounty of my godfathers by suppressing all but the sensible Edward +Conolly.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. Then Marian spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you intend to make our—our engagement known at once?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have considered the point; and as you are the person likely to be +inconvenienced by its publication, I am bound to let you conceal it for the +present, if you wish to. It must transpire sometime: the sooner the better. You +will feel uncomfortably deceitful with such a secret; and as for me, every time +your father greets me cordially in the City I shall feel mean. However, you can +watch for your opportunity. Let me know at once when the cat comes out of the +bag.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will. I think, as you say, the right course is to tell at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly. But from the moment you do so until we are married you will +be worried by remonstrances, entreaties, threats, and what not; so that we +cannot possibly make that interval too short.” +</p> + +<p> +“We must take Nelly into our confidence. You will not object to +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not. I like Miss McQuinch.” +</p> + +<p> +“You really do! Oh, I am so glad. Well, we are accustomed to go about +together, especially to picture galleries. We can come to the Academy as often +as we like; and you can come as often as you like, can you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Opening day, for instance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if you wish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us say between half-past four and five, then. I would willingly be +here when the doors open in the morning; but my business will not do itself +while I am philandering and making you tired of me before your time. The +consciousness of having done a day’s work is necessary to my complete +happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“I, too, have my day’s work to do, silly as it is. I have to +housekeep, to receive visitors, to write notes about nothing, and to think of +the future. We can say half-past four or any later hour that may suit +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Agreed. And now, Marian——” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont let me disturb you,” said Miss McQuinch, at his elbow, to +Marian; “but Mrs. Leith Fairfax will be here with Sholto Douglas +presently; and I thought you might like to have an opportunity of avoiding him. +How do you do, Mr. Conolly?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must see him sooner or later,” said Marian, rising. +“Better face him at once and get it over. I will go back by myself and +meet them.” Then, with a smile at Conolly, she went out through the door +leading to the water-color gallery. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian does not stand on much ceremony with you, Mr. Conolly,” +said Miss McQuinch, glancing at him. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Conolly. “Do you think you could face the Academy +again on Monday at half-past four?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Lind is coming to meet me here at that hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian!” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely. Marian. She has promised to marry me. At present it is a +secret. But it was to be mentioned to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will not be a secret very long if you allow people to overhear you +calling her by her Christian name in the middle of the Academy, as you did me +just now,” said Elinor, privately much taken aback, but resolute not to +appear so. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you overhear us? I should have been more careful. You do not seem +surprised.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just a little, at your audacity. Not in the least at Marian’s +consenting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not mean it in that way at all,” said Elinor resentfully. +“I think you have been very fortunate, as I suppose you would have +married somebody in any case. I believe you are able to appreciate her. +That’s a compliment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I hope I deserve it. Do you think you will ever forgive me for +supplanting the hero Marian deserves?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had let your chance of her slip, I should have despised you, I +think: at least, I should if you had missed it with your eyes open. I am so far +prejudiced in your favor that I think Marian would not like you unless you were +good. I have known her to pity people who deserved to be strangled; but I never +knew her to be attracted by any unworthy person except myself; and even I have +my good points. You need not trouble yourself to agree with me: you could not +do less, in common politeness. As I am rather tired, I shall go and sit in the +vestibule until the others are ready to go home. In the meantime you can tell +me all the particulars you care to trust me with. Marian will tell me the rest +when we go home.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is an undeserved stab,” said Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind: I am always stabbing people. I suppose I like it,” she +added, as they went together to the vestibule. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Mrs. Leith Fairfax had not been wasting her time. She had come upon +Douglas in the large room, and had recognized him by his stature and proud +bearing, in spite of the handsome Assyrian beard he had allowed to grow during +his stay abroad. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been very anxious to see you,” said she, forcing a +conversation upon him, though he had saluted her formally, and had evidently +intended to pass on without speaking. “If your time were not too valuable +to be devoted to a poor hard-working woman, I should have asked you to call on +me. Dont deprecate my forbearance. You are Somebody in the literary world +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed? I was not aware that I had done anything to raise me from +obscurity.” +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you you are very much mistaken, or else very modest. Has no one +told you about the effect your book produced here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing of it, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I never enquire after the +effect of my work. I have lived in comparative seclusion; and I scarcely know +what collection of fugitive notes of mine you honor by describing as a +book.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean your ‘Note on three pictures in last year’s +<i>Salon</i>,’ with the sonnets, and the fragment from your unfinished +drama. Is it finished, may I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not finished. I shall never finish it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you—between ourselves—that I heard one of the foremost +critics of the age say, in the presence of a great poet (whom we both know), +that it was such another fragment as the Venus of Milo, ‘whose lost +arms,’ said he, ‘we should fear to see, lest they should be +unworthy of her.’ ‘You are right,’ said the poet: ‘I, +for one, should shudder to see the fragment completed.’ That is a +positive fact. But look at some of the sonnets! Burgraves says that his +collection of English sonnets is incomplete because it does not contain your +‘Clytemnestra,’ which he had not seen when his book went to press. +You stand in the very forefront of literature—far higher than I, who am—dont +tell anybody—five years older than you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very good. I do not value any distinction of the sort. I write +sometimes because, I suppose, the things that are in me must come out, whether +I will or not. Let us talk of something else. You are quite well I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very far from it. I am never well; but since I never have a +moment’s rest from work, I must bear with it. People expect me to think, +when I have hardly time to eat.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have no time to think, I envy you. But I am truly sorry that your +health remains so bad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. But what is the cause of all this gloomy cynicism, Mr. +Douglas? Why should you, who are young, distinguished, gifted, and already +famous, envy me for having no leisure to think?” +</p> + +<p> +“You exaggerate the sadness of my unfortunate insensibility to the +admiration of the crowd,” said Douglas, coldly. “I am, +nevertheless, flattered by the interest you take in my affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not be, Mr. Douglas,” said Mrs. Fairfax, earnestly, +fearing that he would presently succeed in rebuffing her. “I think you +are much better off than you deserve. You may despise your reputation as much +as you like: that only affects yourself. But when a beautiful girl pays you the +compliment of almost dying of love for you, I think you ought to buy a +wedding-ring and jump for joy, instead of sulking in remote corners of the +continent.” +</p> + +<p> +“And pray, Mrs. Leith Fairfax, what lady has so honored me?” +</p> + +<p> +“You must know, unless you are blind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me. I do not habitually imply what is not the case. I beg you to +believe that I do <i>not</i> know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not know! What moles men are! Poor Marian!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oblige me by taking this seat,” said Douglas, sternly, pointing to +one just vacated. “I shall not detain you many minutes,” he added, +sitting down beside her. “May I understand that Miss Lind is the lady of +whom you spoke just now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Remember that I am speaking to you as a friend, and that I trust to +you not to mention the effort I am making to clear up the misunderstanding +which causes her so much unhappiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you then in Miss Lind’s confidence? Did she ask you to tell me +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Mr. Douglas?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite innocent of any desire to shock or offend you, Mrs. Leith +Fairfax. Does your question imply a negative?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most certainly. Marian ask me to tell! you must be dreaming. Do you +think, even if Marian were capable of making an advance, that <i>I</i> would +consent to act as a go-between? Really, Mr. Douglas!” +</p> + +<p> +“I confess I do not understand these matters; and you must bear with my +ineptitude. If Miss Lind entertains any sentiment for me but one of mistrust +and aversion, her behavior is singularly misleading.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mistrust! Aversion! I tell you she is in love with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you have not, you admit, her authority for saying so, whereas I +<i>have</i> her authority for the contrary.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not understand girls. You are mistaken.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly; but you must pardon me if I hesitate to set aside my own +judgment in deference to your low estimate of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Mrs. Fairfax, her patience yielding a little to +his persistent stiffness: “be it so. Many men would be glad to beg what +you will not be bribed to accept.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt. I trust that when they so humble themselves they may not +encounter a flippant repulse.” +</p> + +<p> +“If they do, it will spring from her unmerited regard for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed slightly, and turned away, arranging his gloves as if about to rise. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray what is that large picture which is skied over there to the +right?” said Mrs. Fairfax, after a pause, during which she had feigned to +examine her catalogue. “I cannot see the number at this distance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you defend her conduct on the ground of that senseless and cruel +caprice which your sex seem to consider becoming to them; or has she changed +her mind in my absence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you are talking of Marian. I do not know what you have to complain +of in her conduct. Mind, she has never breathed a word to me on the subject. I +am quite ignorant of the details of your difference with her. But she has +confessed to me that she is very sorry for what passed—I am abusing her +confidence by telling you so—and I am a woman, with eyes and brains, and know +what the poor girl feels well enough. I will tell you nothing more: I have no +right to; and Marian would be indignant if she knew how much I have said +already. But I know what I should do were I in your place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Expose myself to another refusal, perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfax, learning now for the first time that he had actually proposed to +Marian, looked at him for some moments in silence with a smile which was +assumed to cover her surprise. He thought it expressed incredulity at the idea +of his being refused again. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure?” he began, speaking courteously to her for the first +time. “May I rely upon the accuracy of your impressions on this subject? +I know you are incapable of trifling in a matter which might expose me to +humiliation; but can you give me any guarantee—any—” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not, Mr. Douglas. I am really sorry that I cannot give you a +written undertaking that your suit shall succeed: perhaps that might encourage +you to brave the scorn of a poor child who adores you. But if you need so much +encouragement, I fear you do not greatly relish the prospect of success. +Doubtless it has already struck her that since you found absence from her very +bearable for two years, and have avoided meeting her on your return, her +society cannot be very important to your happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it was her own fault. If she accuses me of having gone away to enjoy +myself, her thoughts are a bitter sarcasm on the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Granted that it was her own fault, if you please. But surely you have +punished her enough by your long seclusion, and can afford to shew a tardy +magnanimity by this time. There she is, I think, just come in at the door on +the left. My sight is so wretched. Is it not she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then let us get up and speak to her. Come.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must excuse me, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I have distinctly given her my +word that I will not intrude upon her again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont be so foolish.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas’s face clouded. “You are privileged to say so,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” said Mrs. Fairfax, frightened. “But when I +think of Marian, I feel like an old woman, and venture to remonstrate with all +the presumption of age. I beg your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed. Then Marian joined them, and Mrs. Fairfax again gave tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you been?” she cried. “You vanished from my side +like a sprite. I have been searching for you ever since.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been looking at the pictures, of course. I am so glad you have +come back, Sholto. I think you might have made time to pay us a visit before +this. You look so strong and well! Your beard is a great improvement. Have you +met Nelly?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think we saw her at some distance,” said Douglas. “I have +not been speaking to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you enjoy yourself while you were away?” +</p> + +<p> +“As best I could.” +</p> + +<p> +“You look as if you had succeeded very fairly. What o’clock is it? +Remember that we have to meet Nelly at the turnstiles at six.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is five minutes to six now, Miss Lind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mr. Douglas. We had better go, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +As they left the room, Mrs. Fairfax purposely lingered behind them. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I right in concluding that you are as frivolous as ever, +Marian?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite,” she replied. “To-day especially so. I am very happy +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Something has happened. I will tell you what it is some day perhaps, but +not now. Something that realizes a romantic dream of mine. The dream has been +hovering vaguely about me for nearly two years; but I never ventured to teach +myself exactly what it was until to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Realized here? in the Academy?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was foreshadowed—promised, at home this morning; but it was realized +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know beforehand that I was coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not until to-day. Mrs. Leith Fairfax said that you would most likely be +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are happy?” +</p> + +<p> +“So much so that I cannot help talking about my happiness to you, who are +the very last person—as you will admit when everything is explained—to whom I +should unlock my lips on the subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why? Am I not interested in your happiness?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so. I hope so. But when you learn the truth, you will be more +astonished than gratified.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare swear that you are mistaken. Is this dream of yours an affair of +the heart?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now you are beginning to ask questions.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will ask no more at present. But if you fear that my long +absence has rendered me indifferent in the least degree to your happiness, you +do me a great injustice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you were not in a very good humor with me when you went +away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will forget that if you wish me to.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do wish you to forget it. And you forgive me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most assuredly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we are the best friends in the world again. This is a great deal +better than meeting and pretending to ignore the very thing of which our minds +are full. You will not delay visiting us any longer now, I hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will call on your father to-morrow morning. May I?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is out of town until Monday. He will be delighted to see you then. He +has been talking to me about you a great deal of late. But if you want to see +him in the morning you had better go to the club. I will write to him to-night +if you like; so that he can write to you and make an appointment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do. Ah, Marian, instinct is better and truer than intellect. I have been +for two years trying to believe all kinds of evil of you; and yet I knew all +the time that you were an angel.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian laughed. “I suppose that under our good understanding I must let +you say pretty things to me. You must write me a sonnet before your enthusiasm +evaporates. I am sure I deserve it as well as Clytemnestra.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will. But I fear I shall tear it up for its unworthiness +afterward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont: I am not a critic. Talking of critics, where has Mrs. Leith +Fairfax gone to? Oh, there she is!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfax came up when she saw Marian look round for her. “My +dear,” she said: “it is past six. We must go. Elinor may be waiting +for us.” +</p> + +<p> +They found Elinor seated in the vestibule with Conolly, at whom Mrs. Fairfax +plunged, full of words. Conolly and Douglas, introduced to one another by +Marian, gravely raised their hats. When they had descended the stairs, they +stood in a group near one of the doors whilst Conolly went aside to get their +umbrellas. Just then Marmaduke Lind entered the building, and halted in +surprise at finding himself among so many acquaintances. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo!” he cried, seizing Douglas’s hand, and attracting the +attention of the bystanders by his boisterous tone. “Here you are again, +old man! Delighted to see you. Didnt spot you at first, in the beard. George +told me you were back. I met your mother in Knightsbridge last Thursday; but +she pretended not to see me. How have you enjoyed yourself abroad, eh? Very +much in the old style, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Douglas. “I trust your people are quite +well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hang me if I know!” said Marmaduke. “I have not troubled +them much of late. How d’ye do, Mrs. Leith Fairfax? How are all the +celebrities?” Mrs. Fairfax bowed coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Dont roar so, Marmaduke,” said Marian. “Everybody is looking +at you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody is welcome,” said Marmaduke, loudly. “Douglas: you +must come and see me. By Jove, now that I think of it, come and see me, all of +you. I am by myself on week-nights from six to twelve; and I should enjoy a +housewarming. If Mrs. Leith Fairfax comes, it will be all proper and right. Let +us have a regular party.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfax looked indignantly at him. Elinor looked round anxiously for +Conolly. Marian, struck with the same fear, moved toward the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Marmaduke,” she said, offering him her hand. +“Good-bye. You are in one of your outrageous humors this +afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“What am I doing?” he replied. “I am behaving myself +perfectly. Let us settle about the party before we go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, coming up to them with the +umbrellas. “This is yours, I think, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening,” said Marmaduke, subsiding. “I——Well, you are +all off, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite time for us, I think,” said Elinor. “Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfax, with a second and more distant bow, passed out with Conolly and +Douglas. Elinor waited a moment to whisper to Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +“First rate,” said Marmaduke, in reply to the whisper; “and +beginning to talk like one o’clock. Oh yes, I tell you!” He shook +Elinor’s hand at such length in his gratitude for the inquiry that she +was much relieved when a servant in livery interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +“Missus wants to speak to you, sir, afore she goes,” said the man. +</p> + +<p> +Elinor shook her head at Marmaduke, and hurried away to rejoin the rest +outside. As they went through the courtyard, they passed an open carriage, in +which reclined a pretty woman with dark eyes and delicate artificial +complexion. Her beauty and the elegance of her dress attracted their attention. +Suddenly Marian became aware that Conolly was watching her as she looked at the +woman in the carriage. She was about to say something, when, to her +bewilderment, Elinor nudged her. Then she understood too, and looked solemnly +at Susanna. Susanna, observing her, stared insolently in return, and Marian +averted her head like a guilty person and hurried on. Conolly saw it all, and +did not speak until they rejoined Mrs. Fairfax and Douglas in Piccadilly. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you propose to go home?” said Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“Walk to St. James’s Street, where the carriage is waiting at the +club; take Uncle Reginald with us; and drive home through the park,” said +Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“I will come with you as far as the club, if you will allow me,” +said Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +Conolly then took leave of them, and stood still until they disappeared, when +he returned to the courtyard, and went up to his sister’s carriage. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Susanna,” said he. “How are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied +carelessly, her eyes filling with tears, nevertheless. +</p> + +<p> +“I hear that I have been an uncle for some time past.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, on the wrong side of the blanket.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is its name?” he said more gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Lucy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it quite well?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose not. According to Nurse, it is always ill.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into the cynical manner in which +he had used to talk with his sister. “Tired of it already?” he +said. “Poor little wretch!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very well off,” she retorted, angrily: “a precious +deal better than I was at its age. It gets petting enough from its father, +heaven knows! He has nothing else to do. I have to work.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have it all your own way at the theatre now, I suppose. You are +quite famous.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, bitterly. “We are both celebrities. Rather +different from old times.” +</p> + +<p> +“We certainly used to get more kicks than halfpence. However, let us hope +all that is over now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who were those women who were with you a minute ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“Cousins of Lind. Miss Marian Lind and Miss McQuinch.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember. She is pretty. I suppose, as usual, she hasnt an idea to +bless herself with. The other looks more of a devil. Now that you are a great +man, why dont you marry a swell?” +</p> + +<p> +“I intend to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord help her then!” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, good-bye. Go on to Soho,” she added, to the coachman, settling +herself fretfully on the cushions. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<p> +On Monday morning Douglas received a note inviting him to lunch at Mr. +Lind’s club. He had spent the greater part of the previous night +composing a sonnet, which he carried with him in his pocket to St. +James’s Street. Mr. Lind received him cordially; listened to an account +of his recent stay abroad; and described his own continental excursions, both +gentlemen expressing great interest at such coincidences as their having put up +at the same hotel or travelled by the same line of railway. When luncheon was +over, Mr. Lind proposed that they should retire to the smoking-room. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to have a few words with you first, as we are alone +here,” said Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said Mr. Lind, assuming a mild dignity in anticipation +of being appealed to as a parent. “Certainly, Sholto.” +</p> + +<p> +“What I have to say, coming so soon after my long absence, will probably +surprise you. I had it in contemplation before my departure, and was only +prevented from broaching it to you then by circumstances which have happily +since lost their significance. When I tell you that my communication has +reference to Marian, you will perhaps guess its nature.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” said Mr. Lind, affecting surprise. “Well, Sholto, +if it be so, you have my heartiest approval. You know what a lonely life her +marriage will entail on me; so you will not expect me to consent without a few +regrets. But I could not desire a better settlement for her. She must leave me +some day. I have no right to complain.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall not be very far asunder, I hope; and it is in Marian’s +nature to form many ties, but to break none.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is an amiable girl, my—my darling child. Does she know anything of +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here at her express request; and there remains to me the pleasure +of getting her own final consent, which I would not press for until armed with +your sanction.” +</p> + +<p> +Except for an involuntary hitch of his eyelids, Mr. Lind looked as if he +believed perfectly in Douglas’s respect for his parental claims. +“Quite right,” he said, “quite right. You have my best +wishes. I have no doubt you will succeed: none. There are, of course, a few +affairs to be settled—a few contingencies to be provided +for—children—accidents—and so forth. No difficulty is likely to arise between +us on that score; but still, these things have to be arranged.” +</p> + +<p> +“I propose a very simple method of arranging them. You are a man of +honor, and more conversant with business than I. Give me your instructions. My +lawyer shall have them within half an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is said like a gentleman and a Douglas, Sholto. But I must consider +before giving you an answer. You have thrown upon me the duty of studying your +position as well as Marian’s; and I must neither abuse your generosity +nor neglect her interest.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will, nevertheless, allow me to consider the conditions as settled, +since I leave them entirely in your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“My own means have been seriously crippled by the extravagance of +Reginald. Indeed both my boys have cost me much money. I had not, like you, the +good fortune to be an only son. I was the fourth son of a younger son: there +was very little left for me. I will treat Marian as liberally as I can; but I +fear I cannot do anything for her that will bear comparison with your +munificence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely I can give her enough. I should prefer to be solely responsible +for her welfare.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no. That would be too bad. Oh no, Sholto: I will give her something, +please God.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you wish, Mr. Lind. We can arrange it to your satisfaction afterward. +Do you intend returning to Westbourne Terrace soon?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid not. I have to go into the City. If you would care to come +with me, I can shew you the Company’s place there, and the working of the +motor. It is well worth seeing. Then you can return with me to the Terrace and +dine with us. After dinner you can talk to Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas consented; and they went to Queen Victoria Street, to a building which +had on each doorpost a brass shield inscribed THE CONOLLY ELECTRO-MOTOR COMPANY +OF LONDON, LIMITED. At the offices, on the first floor, they were received +obsequiously and informed that Mr. Conolly was within. They then went to a door +on which appeared the name of the inventor, and entered a handsomely furnished +office containing several working models of machinery, and a writing-table, +from his seat at which Conolly rose to salute his visitors. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Mr. Lind. How do you do, Mr. Douglas?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Mr. Lind. “You two are acquainted. I did not know +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Conolly, “I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. +Douglas at the Academy yesterday evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed? Marian did not mention that you were there. Well, can we see the +wonders of the place, Mr. Conolly; or do we disturb you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” replied Conolly, turning to one of the models, and +beginning his showman’s lecture with disquieting promptitude. +“Hitherto, as you are no doubt aware, Mr. Douglas, steam has kept +electricity, as a motive power, out of the field; because it is much less +expensive. Even induced magnetic currents, the cheapest known form of electric +energy, can be obtained only by the use of steam power. You generate steam by +the combustion of coal: electricity, without steam, can only be generated by +the combustion of metals. Coal is much cheaper than metal: consider the vast +amount of coal consumed in smelting metals. Still, electricity is a much +greater force than steam: it’s stronger, so to speak. Sixpennorth of +electricity would do more work than sixpennorth of steam if only you could +catch it and hold it without waste. Up to the present the waste has been so +enormous in electric engines as compared with steam engines that steam has held +its own in spite of its inferior strength. What I have invented is, to put it +shortly, an electric engine in which there is hardly any waste; and we can now +pump water, turn mill-stones, draw railway trains, and lift elevators, at a +saving, in fuel and labor, of nearly seventy per cent, of the cost of steam. +And,” added Conolly, glancing at Douglas, “as a motor of +six-horsepower can be made to weigh less than thirty pounds, including fuel, +flying is now perfectly feasible.” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” said Douglas, incredulously. “Does not all +trustworthy evidence prove that flying is a dream?” +</p> + +<p> +“So it did; because a combination of great power with little weight, such +as an eagle, for instance, possesses, could not formerly be realized in a +machine. The lightest known four-horse-power steam engine weighs nearly fifty +pounds. With my motor, a machine weighing thirty pounds will give rather more +than six-horse-power, or, in other words, will produce a wing power competent +to overcome much more than its own gravity. If the Aeronautical Society does +not, within the next few years, make a machine capable of carrying passengers +through the air to New York in less than two days, I will make one +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very wonderful, indeed,” said Douglas, politely, looking askance +at him. +</p> + +<p> +“No more wonderful than the flight of a sparrow, I assure you. We shall +presently be conveyed to the top of this building by my motor. Here you have a +model locomotive, a model steam hammer, and a sewing machine: all of which, as +you see, I can set to work. However, this is mere show. You must always bear in +mind that the novelty is not in the working of these machines, but the +smallness of the cost of working.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas endured the rest of the exhibition in silence, understanding none of +the contrivances until they were explained, and not always understanding them +even then. It was disagreeable to be instructed by Conolly—to feel that there +were matters of which Conolly knew everything and he nothing. If he could have +but shaped a pertinent question or two, enough to prove that he was quite +capable of the subject if he chose to turn his attention to it, he could have +accepted Conolly’s information on the machinery as indifferently as that +of a policeman on the shortest way to some place that it was no part of a +gentleman’s routine to frequent. As it was, he took refuge in his +habitual reserve, and, lest the exhibition should be prolonged on his account, +took care to shew no more interest in it than was barely necessary to satisfy +Mr. Lind. At last it was over; and they returned westward together in a hansom. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a Yankee, I suppose,’” said Douglas, as if ingenuity +were a low habit that must be tolerated in an American. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. They are a wonderful people for that sort of thing. Curious turn of +mind the mechanical instinct is!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is one with which I have no sympathy. It is generally subject to the +delusion that it has a monopoly of utility. Your mechanic hates art; pelts it +with lumps of iron; and strives to extinguish it beneath all the hard and ugly +facts of existence. On the other hand, your artist instinctively hates +machinery. I fear I am an artist.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont think you are quite right there, Sholto. No. Look at the steam +engine, the electric telegraph, the—the other inventions of the century. How +could we get on without them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite as well as Athens got on without them. Our mechanical contrivances +seem to serve us; but they are really mastering us, crowding and crushing the +beauty out of our lives, and making commerce the only god.” +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly admit that the coarser forms of Radicalism have made +alarming strides under the influence of our modern civilization. But the +convenience of steam conveyance is so remarkable that I doubt if we could now +dispense with it. Nor, as a consistent Liberal, a moderate Liberal, do I care +to advocate any retrogression, even in the direction of ancient Greece.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas was seized with a certain impatience of Mr. Lind, as of a well-mannered +man who had never learned anything, and had forgotten all that he had been +taught. He did not attempt to argue, but merely said, coldly: “I can only +say that I wish Fate had made me an Athenian instead of an Englishman of the +nineteenth century.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind smiled complacently: he knew Douglas, if not Athens, better, but was +in too tolerant a humor to say so. Little more passed between the two until +they reached Westbourne Terrace, where Marian and her cousin were dressing for +dinner. When Marian came down, her beauty so affected Douglas that his voice +was low and his manner troubled as he greeted her. He took her in to dinner, +and sat in silence beside her, heedless alike of his host’s commonplaces +and Miss McQuinch’s acridities. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind unceremoniously took a nap after his wine that evening, and allowed +his guest to go upstairs alone. Douglas hoped that Elinor would be equally +considerate, but, to his disappointment, he found her by herself in the +drawing-room. She hastened to explain. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian is looking for some music. She will be back directly.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat down and took an album from the table, saying: “Have you many new +faces here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But we never discard old faces for new ones. It is the old ones +that are really interesting.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not seen this one of Mr. Lind before. It is capital. Ah! this of +you is an old friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. What do you think of the one of Constance on the opposite +page?” +</p> + +<p> +“She looks as if she were trying to be as lugubrious as possible. What +dress is that? Is it a uniform?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. She joined a nursing guild. Didnt Mrs. Douglas tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so. I forgot. She went into a cottage hospital or something of +that kind, did she not?” +</p> + +<p> +“She left it because one of the doctors offended her. He was rather +dreadful. He said that in two months she had contributed more to the mortality +among the patients than he had in two years, and told her flatly that she had +been trained for the drawing-room and ought to stay there. She was glad enough +to have an excuse for leaving; for she was heartily sick of making a fool of +herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Where is she now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Back at Towers Cottage, moping, I suppose. That’s Mr. Conolly the +inventor, there under Jasper.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I perceive. Clever head, rather! A plain, hard nature, with no depths +in it. Is that his wife, with the Swiss bonnet?” +</p> + +<p> +“His wife! Why, that is a Swiss girl, the daughter of a guide at +Chamounix, who nursed Marian when she sprained her ankle. Mr. Conolly is not +married.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought men of his stamp always married early.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He is engaged, and engaged to a lady of very good position.” +</p> + +<p> +“He owes that to the diseased craving of modern women for notoriety of +any sort. What an admirable photograph of Marian! I never saw it before. It is +really most charming. When was it taken?” +</p> + +<p> +“Last August, at Geneva. She does not like it—thinks it too +coquettish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then perhaps she will give it to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will be only too glad, I daresay. You have caught her at a soft +moment to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot find that duet anywhere,” said Marian, entering. +“What! up already, Sholto? Where is papa?” +</p> + +<p> +“I left him asleep in the dining-room. I have just been asking Miss +McQuinch whether she thought you would give me a copy of this carte.” +</p> + +<p> +“That Geneva one. It is most annoying how people persist in admiring it. +It always looks to me as if it belonged to an assortment of popular beauties at +one shilling each. I dont think I have another. But you may take that if you +wish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Douglas, drawing it from the book. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you have a copy of every photograph I have had taken in my +life,” she said, sitting down near him, and taking the album. “I +have several of yours, too. You must get one taken soon for me; I have not got +you with your beard yet. I have a little album upstairs which Aunt Dora gave me +on my eighth birthday; and the first picture in it is you, dressed in flannels, +holding a bat, and looking very stern as captain of your eleven at Eton. I used +to stand in great awe of you then. Do you remember telling me once that +‘Zanoni’ was a splendid book, and that I ought to read it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw! No. I must have been a young fool. But it seems that I had the +grace even then to desire your sympathy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you I read it most reverently down in Wiltshire, where Nelly +kept a select library of fiction concealed underneath her mattress; and I +believed every word of it. Nelly and I agreed that you were exactly like +Zanoni; but she was hardly to blame; for she had never seen you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Things like that make deep impressions on children,” said Elinor, +thoughtfully. “You were a Zanoni in my imagination for years before I saw +you. When we first met you treated me insufferably. If you had known how my +childish fancy had predisposed me to worship you, you might have vouchsafed me +some more consideration, and I might have gone on believing you a demigod to +the end of the chapter. I have hardly forgiven you yet for disenchanting +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” said Douglas sarcastically. “I must have been +sadly lacking in impressiveness. But on the other hand I recollect that you did +not disappoint me in the least. You fully bore out the expectations I had been +led to form of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt I did,” said Elinor. “Yet I protest that my +reputation was as unjust as yours. However, I have outlived my sensitiveness to +this injustice, and have even contracted a bad habit of pretending to act up to +it occasionally before foolish people. Marian: are you sure that duet is not on +the sofa in my room?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the sofa! I looked only in the green case.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go and hunt it out myself. Excuse me for a few minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas was glad to see her go. Yet he was confused when he was alone with +Marian. He strolled to the window, outside which the roof of the porch had been +converted into a summer retreat by a tent of pink-striped canvass. “The +tent is up already,” he said. “I noticed it as we came in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Would you prefer to sit there? We can carry out this little table, +and put the lamp on it. There is just room for three chairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“We need not crowd ourselves with the table,” he said. “There +will be light enough. We only want to talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Marian, rising. “Will you give me that +woolen thing that is on the sofa? It will do me for a shawl.” He placed +it on her shoulders, and they went out. +</p> + +<p> +“I will sit in this corner,” said Marian. “You are too big +for the campstool. You had better bring a chair. I am fond of sitting here. +When the crimson shade is on the lamp, and papa asleep in its roseate glow, the +view is quite romantic: there is something ecstatically snug in hiding here and +watching it.” Douglas smiled, and seated himself as she suggested, near +her, with his shoulder against the stone balustrade. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian,” said he, after a pause: “you remember what passed +between us at the Academy yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean our solemn league and covenant. Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did we not make that covenant before? Life is not so long, nor +happiness so common, that we can afford to trifle away two years of it. I wish +you had told me when I last came here of that old photograph of mine in your +album.” +</p> + +<p> +“But this is not a new covenant. It is only an old one mended. We were +always good friends until you quarrelled and ran away.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was not my fault, Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it must have been mine. However, it does not matter now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right. Prometheus is unbound now; and his despair is only a +memory sanctifying his present happiness. You know why I called on your father +this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was to see the electro-motor in the city, was it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens, Marian!” he said, rising, “what spirit of +woman or spirit of mischief tempts you to coquet with me even now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I really thought that was the reason—besides, of course, your desire to +make papa amends for not having been to see him sooner after your +return.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian!” he said, still remonstrantly. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with sudden dread, and instinctively recognized the +expression in his face. +</p> + +<p> +“You know as well as I,” he continued, “that I went to seek +his consent to our solemn league and covenant, as you call it. If that covenant +were written on your heart as it is on mine, you would not inflict on me this +pretty petty torture. Your father has consented: he is delighted. Now may I +make a guess at that happy secret you told me of yesterday, and promised I +should know one day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop! Wait,” said Marian, very pale. “I must tell you that +secret myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush. Do not be so moved. Remember that your confession is to be +whispered to me alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont talk like that. It is all a mistake. My secret has nothing to do +with you.” Douglas drew back a little way. +</p> + +<p> +“I am engaged to be married.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” he said sternly, advancing a step and looking +down menacingly at her with his hand on the back of his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“I have said what I mean,” replied Marian with dignity. But she +rose quickly as soon as she had spoken, and got past him into the drawing-room. +He followed her; and she turned and faced him in the middle of the room, paler +than before. +</p> + +<p> +“You are engaged to <i>me</i>,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a lie!” he exclaimed, struggling in his rage to break +through the strong habit of self-control. “It is a damnable lie; but it +is the most cruel way of getting rid of me, and therefore the one most +congenial to your heartlessness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto,” said Marian, her cheeks beginning to redden: “you +should not speak to me like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” he cried fiercely, “that it is a lie!” +</p> + +<p> +“Whats the matter?” said Elinor, coming hastily into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto has lost his temper,” said Marian, firmly, her indignation +getting the better of her fear now that she was no longer alone with him. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie,” repeated Douglas, unable to shape a new sentence. +Elinor and Marian looked at one another in perplexity. Then Mr. Lind entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Gently, pray,” said he. “You can be heard all through the +house. Marian: what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer; but Douglas succeeded, after a few efforts, in speaking +intelligibly. “Your daughter,” he said, “with the assistance +of her friend Mrs. Leith Fairfax, and a sufficient degree of direct assurance +on her own part, has achieved the triumph of bringing me to her feet a second +time, after I had unfortunately wounded her vanity by breaking her chains for +two years.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is utterly false,” interrupted Marian, with excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” said Douglas, in a deeper tone and with a more determined +manner, “that she set Mrs. Leith Fairfax on me with a tale of love and +regret for my absence. She herself with her own lips deliberately invited me to +seek your consent to our union. She caused you to write me the invitation I +received from you this morning. She told me that my return realized a dream +that had been haunting her for two years. She begged me to forgive her the +past, and to write her a sonnet, of which she said she was at least more worthy +than Clytemnestra, and of which I say she is at best less worthy than +Cressida.” He took a paper from his pocket as he spoke; and, with a +theatrical gesture, tore it into fragments. +</p> + +<p> +“This is very extraordinary,” said Mr. Lind irresolutely. “Is +it some foolish quarrel, or what is the matter? Pray let us have no more +unpleasantness.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need fear none from me,” said Douglas. “I do not propose +to continue my acquaintance with Miss Lind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Douglas has proposed to marry me; and I have refused him,” +said Marian. “He has lost his temper and insulted me. I think you ought +to tell him to go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gently, Marian, gently. What am I to believe about this?” +</p> + +<p> +“What I have told you,” said Douglas, “I confirm <i>on my +honor</i>, which you can weigh against the pretences of a twice perjured +woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have to speak plainly on my own behalf, Mr. Lind. I regret that you +were not in a position this morning to warn me of your daughter’s notable +secret.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it is a secret, and you are a gentleman, you will hold your +tongue,” interposed Elinor, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Papa,” said Marian: “I became engaged yesterday to Mr. +Conolly. I told Mr. Douglas this in order to save him from making me a +proposal. That is the reason he has forgotten himself. I had not intended to +tell you so suddenly; but this misunderstanding has forced me to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Engaged to Mr. Conolly!” cried Mr. Lind. “I begin to fear +that——Enga——” He took breath, and continued, to Marian: “I forbid +you to entertain any such engagement. Sholto: there is evidently nothing to be +gained by discussing this matter in hot blood. It is some girlish +absurdity—some—some—some—” +</p> + +<p> +“I apologize for having doubted the truth of the excuse,” said +Douglas; “but I see that I have failed to gauge Miss Lind’s +peculiar taste. I beg you to understand, Mr. Lind, that my pretensions are at +an end. I do not aspire to the position of Mr. Conolly’s rival.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are already in the position of Mr. Conolly’s unsuccessful +rival; and you fill it with a very bad grace,” said Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray be silent, Elinor,” said Mr. Lind. “This matter does +not concern you. Marian: go to your room for the present. I shall speak to you +afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian flushed, and repressed a sob. “I wish I were under <i>his</i> +protection now,” she said, looking reproachfully at Douglas as she +crossed the room. +</p> + +<p> +“What can you expect from a father but hostility?” said Elinor, +bitterly. “You are a coward, like all your sex,” she added, turning +to Douglas. Then she suddenly opened the door, and passed out through it with +Marian, whilst the housemaids fled upstairs, the footman shrank into a corner +of the landing, and the page hastily dragged the cook down to the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +The two men, left together in the drawing-room, were for some moments quite at +a loss. Then Mr. Lind, after a preliminary cough or two, said: “Sholto: I +cannot describe to you how shocked I am by what I have just heard. I am deeply +disappointed in Marian. I trusted her implicitly; but of course I now see that +I have been wrong in allowing her so much liberty. Evidently a great deal has +been going on of which I had not any suspicion.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas said nothing. His resentment was unabated; but his rage, naturally +peevish and thin in quality, was subsiding, though it surged back on him at +intervals. But now that he no longer desired to speak passionately, he would +not trust himself to speak at all. Suddenly Mr. Lind broke out with a fury that +astonished him, preoccupied as he was. +</p> + +<p> +“This—this fellow must have had opportunities of thrusting himself into +her society of which I knew nothing. I thought she barely knew him. And if I +had known, could I have suspected her of intriguing with an ill-bred +adventurer! Yes, I might: my experience ought to have warned me that the taint +was in her blood. Her mother did the same thing—left the position I had given +her to run away with a charlatan, disgracing me without the shadow of an excuse +or reason except her own innate love for what was low. I thought Marian had +escaped that. I was proud of her—placed un—unbounded confidence in her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has struck me a blow,” said Douglas, “the infernal +treachery——.” He checked himself, and after a moment resumed in his +ordinary formal manner. “I must leave you, Mr. Lind. I am quite unable at +present to discuss what has passed. Any conventional expressions of regret +would be——Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed and left the room. Mr. Lind, taken aback, did not attempt to detain +him or even return his bow, but stood biting his lips with a frown of +discomfiture and menace. When he was alone, he paced the room several times. +Then he procured some writing materials and sat down before them. He wrote +nothing, but, after sitting for some time, he went upstairs. Passing +Marian’s room he listened. The sharp voice and restless movements of his +niece were the only sounds he heard. They seemed to frighten him; for he stole +on quickly to his own room, and went to bed. Even there he could hear a shrill +note of conversation occasionally from the opposite room, where Marian was +sitting on a sofa, trying to subdue the hysteria which had been gaining on her +since her escape from the balcony; whilst Elinor, seated on the corner of a +drawer which projected from the dressing-table, talked incessantly in her most +acrid tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Henceforth,” she said, “Uncle Reginald is welcome to my +heartiest detestation. I have been waiting ever since I knew him for an excuse +to hate him; and now he has given me one. He has taken part—like a true +parent—against you with a self-intoxicated fool whom he ought to have put out +of the house. He has told me to mind my own business. I shall be even with him +for that some day. I am as vindictive as an elephant: I hate people who are not +vindictive: they are never grateful either, only incapable of any enduring +sentiment. And Douglas! Sholto Douglas! The hero, the Newdigate poet, the +handsome man! What a noble fellow he is when a little disappointment rubs his +varnish off! I am glad I called him a coward to his face. I am thoroughly well +satisfied with myself altogether: at last I have come out of a scene without +having forgotten the right thing to say. You never see people in all their +selfishness until they pretend to love you. See what you owe to your loving +suitor, Sholto Douglas! See what you owe to your loving father, Reginald +Lind!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think that my father should have told me to leave the +room,” said Marian. “It was Sholto’s place to have gone, not +mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Lind, who has so suddenly and deservedly descended from +‘papa’ to ‘my father,’ judiciously sided with the +stronger and richer party.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nelly: I shall be as unhappy after this as even Sholto can desire. I +feel very angry with papa; and yet I have no right to be. I suppose it is +because I am in the wrong. I deceived him about the engagement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bosh! You didnt tell him because you knew you couldnt trust him; and now +you see how right you were.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even so, Nelly, I must not forget all his past care of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“What care has he ever taken of you? He was very little better acquainted +with you than he was with me, when you came to keep house for him and make +yourself useful. Of course, he had to pay for your board and lodging and +education. The police would not have allowed him to leave you to the parish. +Besides, he was proud of having a nice, pretty daughter to dispose of. You were +quite welcome to be happy so long as you did not do anything except what he +approved of. But the moment you claim your independence as a grown woman, the +moment you attempt to dispose of yourself instead of letting him dispose of +you! Bah! <i>I</i> might have been <i>my</i> father’s pet, if I had been +a nonentity. As it was, he spared no pains to make me miserable; and as I was +only a helpless little devil of a girl, he succeeded to his heart’s +content. Uncle Reginald will try to do exactly the same to-morrow, he will come +and bully you, instead of apologizing as he ought. See if he doesnt!” +</p> + +<p> +“If I had as much reason to complain of my childhood as you have, perhaps +I should not feel so shocked and disappointed by his turning on me to-night. +Surely, when he saw me attacked as I was, he ought to have come to my +assistance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any stranger would have taken your part. The footman would, if you had +asked him. But then, James is not your father.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems a very small thing to be bidden to leave the room. But I will +never expose myself to a repetition of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right. But what do you mean to do? for, after all, though parental +love is an imposition, parental authority is a fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will get married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Out of the frying pan into the fire! Certainly, if you are resolved to +marry, the present is as good as another time, and more convenient. But there +must be some legal formalities to go through. You cannot turn into the first +church you meet, and be married off-hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ned must find out all that. I am sadly disappointed and disilluded, +Nelly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Time will cure you as it does everybody; and you will be the better for +being wiser. By the bye, what did Sholto mean about Mrs. Fairfax?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has evidently been telling him a parcel of lies. Do you remember her +hints about him yesterday at lunch? I have not the least doubt that she has +told him you are frantically in love with him. She as good as told you the same +about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! she is not capable of doing such a thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isnt she? We shall see.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know what to think,” said Marian, despondently. “I +used to believe that both you and Ned thought too little of other people; but +it seems now that the world is nothing but a morass of wickedness and +falsehood. And Sholto, too! Who would have believed that he could break out in +that coarse way? Do you remember the day that Fleming, the coachman, lost his +temper with Auntie down at the Cottage. Sholto was exactly like that; not a bit +more refined or dignified.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rather less so, because Fleming was in the right. Let us go to bed. We +can do nothing to-night, but fret, and wish for to-morrow. Better get to sleep. +Resentment does not keep me awake, I can vouch for that: I got well broken in +to it when I was a child. I heard Uncle Reginald going to his room some time +ago. I am getting sleepy, too, though I feel the better for the +excitement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. To bed be it,” said Marian. But she did not sleep at +all as well as Nelly. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<p> +Next morning Mr. Lind rose before his daughter was astir, and went to his club, +where he breakfasted. He then went to the offices in Queen Victoria Street. +Finding the board-room unoccupied, he sat down there, and said to one of the +clerks: +</p> + +<p> +“Go and tell Mr. Conolly that I desire to speak to him, if he is +disengaged. And if anyone wants to come in, say that I am busy here. I do not +wish to be disturbed for half an hour or so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said the clerk, departing. A minute later, he returned, +and said: “Mr. Conly is disengaged; and he says will you be so good as to +come to his room, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you to ask him to come here,” said Mr. Lind. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, thats what he said, sir,” said the clerk, speaking in +official Board School English. “Shloy gow to him and tell him +again?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no: it does not matter,” said Mr. Lind, and walked out through +the office. The clerk held the door open for him, and carefully closed it when +he had passed through. +</p> + +<p> +“Ow, oy sy!” cried the clerk. “This is fawn, this is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wots the row?” said another clerk. +</p> + +<p> +“Woy, owld Lind sends me in to Conly to cam in to him into the +board-room. ‘Aw right,’ says Conly, ‘awsk him to cam in eah +to me.’ You should ’a seen the owld josser’s feaches wnoy +towld im. ‘Oyd zoyred jou to sy e was to cam in eah to me.’ +‘Shloy gow and tell him again?’ I says, as cool as ennything. +‘Now,’ says he, ‘Oil gow myself.’ Thets wot Aw loike in +Conly. He tikes tham fellers dahn wen they troy it on owver im.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Mr. Lind went to Conolly’s room; returned his greeting by a +dignified inclination of the head; and accepted, with a cold “Thank +you,” the chair offered him. Conolly, who had received him cordially, +checked himself. There was a pause, during which Mr. Lind lost countenance a +little. Then Conolly sat down, and waited. +</p> + +<p> +“Ahem!” said Mr. Lind. “I have to speak to you with—with +reference to—to a—a matter which has accidentally come to my knowledge. It +would be painful and unnecessary—quite unnecessary, to go into +particulars.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly remained politely attentive, but said nothing. Mr. Lind began to feel +very angry, but this helped him to the point. +</p> + +<p> +“I merely wish—that is, I quite wish you to understand that any intimacy +that may have arisen between you and—and a member of my family must—must, in +short, be considered to be at an end. My daughter is—I may tell you—engaged to +Mr. Sholto Douglas, whom you know; and therefore—you understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, decisively: “your daughter is +engaged to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind lost his temper, and rose, exclaiming, “I beg you will not +repeat that, either here or elsewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray be seated,” said Conolly courteously. +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing more to say, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly rose, as though the interview were at an end, and seemed to wait for +his visitor to go. +</p> + +<p> +“We understand one another, I presume,” said Mr. Lind, dubiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite, I think,” said Conolly, relenting. “I should +suggest our discussing the matter in full, now that we have a favorable +opportunity—if you will be so good.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind sat down, and said with condescension, “I am quite willing to +listen to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Conolly. “Will you tell me what your +objections are to my engagement with your daughter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had hoped, sir, that your common sense and knowledge of the world +would have rendered an explanation superfluous.” +</p> + +<p> +“They havnt,” said Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind rose to boiling point again. “Oh, Mr. Conolly, I assure you I +have no objection to explain myself: none whatever. I merely wished to spare +you as far as possible. Since you insist on my mentioning what I think you must +be perfectly well aware of, I can only say that from the point of view of +English society our positions are different; and therefore an engagement +between you and any member of my family is unsuitable, and—in short—out of the +question, however advantageous it might be to you. That is all.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind considered he had had the better of that, and leaned back in his chair +more confidently. Conolly smiled and shook his head, appreciative of the +clearness with which Mr. Lind had put his case, but utterly unmoved by it. He +considered for a moment, and then said, weighing his words carefully: +</p> + +<p> +“Your daughter, with her natural refinement and delicate habits, is +certainly not fit to be married to a foul-mouthed fellow, ignorant, dirty, +besotted, and out of place in any company except at the bar in a public house. +That is probably your idea of a workman. But the fact of her having consented +to marry me is a proof that I do not answer to any such description. As you +have hinted, it will be an advantage to me in some ways to have a lady for my +wife; but I should have no difficulty in purchasing that advantage, even with +my present means, which I expect to increase largely in the course of some +years. Do you not underrate your daughter’s personal qualities when you +assume that it was her position that induced me to seek her hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite aware of my daughter’s personal advantages. They are +additional reasons against her contracting an imprudent marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely. But in what respect would her marriage with me be imprudent? +I possess actual competence, and a prospect of wealth. I come of a long lived +and healthy family. My name is, beyond comparison, more widely known than +yours. [Mr. Lind recoiled]. I now find myself everywhere treated with a certain +degree of consideration, which an alliance with your daughter will not +diminish.” +</p> + +<p> +“In fact, you are conferring a great honor on my family by condescending +to marry into it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont understand that way of looking at things, Mr. Lind; and so I +leave you to settle the question of honor as you please. But you must not +condemn me for putting my position in the best possible light in order to +reconcile you to an inevitable fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by an inevitable fact, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“My marriage, of course. I assure you that it will take place.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I shall not permit it to take place. Do you think to ignore me in +the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Practically so. If you give your consent, I shall be glad for the sake +of Marian, who will be gratified by it. But if you withhold it, we must +dispense with it. By opposing us, you will simply—by making Marian’s home +unbearable to her—precipitate the wedding.” Conolly, under the influence +of having put the case neatly, here relaxed his manner so far as to rest his +elbows on the table and look pleasantly at his visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know to whom you are speaking?” said Mr. Lind, driven by +rage and a growing fear of defeat into desperate self-assertion. +</p> + +<p> +“I am speaking,” said Conolly with a smile, “to my future +father-in-law.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a director of this company, of which you are the servant, as you +shall find to your cost if you persist in holding insulting language to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I found any director of this company allowing other than strictly +business considerations to influence him at the Board, I should insist on his +resigning.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind looked at him severely, then indignantly, then unsteadily, without +moving him in the least. At last he said, more humbly: “I hope you will +not abuse your position, Mr. Conolly. I do not know whether you have sufficient +influence over Marian to induce her to defy me; but however that may be, I +appeal to your better feelings. Put yourself in my place. If you had an only +daughter——” +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse my interrupting you,” said Conolly, gently; “but that +will not advance the argument unless you put yourself in mine. Besides, I am +pledged to Marian. If she asks me to break off the match, I shall release her +instantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will bind yourself to do that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help myself. I have no more power to make her marry me than you +have to prevent her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have the authority of a parent. And I must tell you, Mr. Conolly, that +it will be my duty to enlighten my poor child as to the effect a union with you +must have on her social position. You have made the most of your celebrity and +your prospects. She may be dazzled for the moment; but her good sense will come +to the rescue yet, I am convinced.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have certainly spared no pains to persuade her. Unless the habit of +her childhood can induce Marian to defer to your prejudice—you must allow me to +call it so: it is really nothing more—she will keep her word to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind winced, recollecting how little his conduct toward Marian during her +childhood was calculated to accustom her to his influence. “It seems to +me, sir,” he said, suddenly thinking of a new form of reproach, +“that, to use your own plain language, you are nothing more or less than +a Radical.” +</p> + +<p> +“Radicalism is not considered a reproach amongst workmen,” said +Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not fail to let her know the confidence with which you boast of +your power over her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have simply tried to be candid with you. You know exactly how I stand. +If I have omitted anything, ask me, and I will tell you at once.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Kind rose. “I know quite as much as I care to know,” he said. +“I distinctly object to and protest against all your proceedings, Mr. +Conolly. If my daughter marries you, she shall have neither my countenance in +society nor one solitary farthing of the fortune I had destined for her. I +recommend the latter point to your attention.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have considered it carefully, Mr. Lind; and I am satisfied with what +she possesses in her own right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! You have ascertained <i>that</i>, have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should hardly have proposed to marry her but for her entire pecuniary +independence of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed. And have you explained to her that you wish to marry her for the +sake of securing her income?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have explained to her everything she ought to know, taking care, of +course, to have full credit for my frankness.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind, after regarding him with amazement for a moment, walked to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a gentleman,” he said, pausing there for a moment, “and +too old-fashioned to discuss the obligations of good breeding with a Radical. +If I had believed you capable of the cynical impudence with which you have just +met my remonstrances, I should have spared myself this meeting. +Good-morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning,” said Conolly, gravely. When the door closed, he +sprang up and walked to and fro, chuckling, rubbing his hands, and occasionally +uttering a short laugh. When he had sufficiently relieved himself by this +exercise, he sat down at his desk, and wrote a note. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“The Conolly Electro-Motor Company of London, Limited. Queen Victoria +Street, E.C.<br/> + “This is to let your ever-radiant ladyship know that I am fresh from +an encounter with your father, who has retired in great wrath, defeated, but of +opinion that he deserved no better for arguing with a Radical. I thought it +better to put forth my strength at once so as to save future trouble. I send +this post haste in order that you may be warned in case he should go straight +home and scold you. I hope he will not annoy you much.—E.C.” +</p> + +<p> +Having despatched the office boy to Westbourne Terrace with this letter, +Conolly went off to lunch. Mr. Lind went back to his club, and then to +Westbourne Terrace, where he was informed that the young ladies were together +in the drawing-room. Some minutes later, Marian, discussing Conolly’s +letter with Elinor, was interrupted by a servant, who informed her that her +father desired to see her in his study. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for it, Marian!” said Nelly, when the servant was gone. +“Remember that you have to meet the most unreasonable of adversaries, a +parent asserting his proprietary rights in his child. Dont be sentimental. +Leave that to him: he will be full of a father’s anguish on discovering +that his cherished daughter has feelings and interests of her own. Besides, +Conolly has crushed him; and he will try to crush you in revenge.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I were not so nervous,” said Marian. “I am not really +afraid, but for all that, my heart is beating very unpleasantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I were in your place,” said Elinor. “I feel like a +charger at the sound of the trumpet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad, for poor papa’s sake, that you are not,” said +Marian, going out. +</p> + +<p> +She knocked at the study door; and her father’s voice, as he bade her +come in, impressed her more than ever before. He was seated behind the +writing-table, in front of which a chair was set for his daughter. She, +unaccustomed from her childhood to submit to any constraint but that which the +position of a guest, which she so often occupied, had trained her to impose on +herself, was rather roused than awed by this magisterial arrangement. She sat +down with less than her usual grace of manner, and looked at him with her brows +knitted. It was one of the rare moments in which she reminded him of her +mother. An angry impulse to bid her not dare look so at him almost got the +better of him. However, he began prudently with a carefully premeditated +speech. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my duty, Marian,” he said gravely, “to speak of the +statement you made last night. We need not allude to the painful scene which +took place then: better let that rest and be forgotten as soon as possible. But +the discovery of what you have been doing without my knowledge has cost me a +sleepless night and a great deal of anxiety. I wish to reason with you now +quite calmly and dispassionately; and I trust you will remember that I am older +and have far more experience of the world than you, and that I am a better +judge of your interests than you yourself can possibly be. Ahem! I have been +this morning to the City, where I saw Mr. Conolly, and endeavored to make him +understand the true nature of his conduct toward me—and, I may add, toward +you—in working his way clandestinely into an intimacy with you. I shall not +describe to you what passed; but I may say that I have found him to be a person +with whom you could not hope for a day’s happiness. Even apart from his +habits and tastes, which are those of a mere workman, his social (and, I fear, +his religious) views are such as no lady, no properly-minded woman of any +class, could sympathize with. You will be better able to judge of his character +when I tell you that he informed me of his having taken care, before making any +advances to you, to ascertain how much money you had. He boasted in the +coarsest terms of his complete influence over you, evidently without a +suspicion of the impression of venality and indelicacy which his words were +calculated to make on me. Besides, Marian, I am sure you would not like to +contract a marriage which would give me the greatest pain; which would offend +my family; and which would have the effect of shutting you out from all good +society.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are mistaken in him, papa.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg you will allow me to finish, Marian. [He had to think for a moment +before he could substantiate this pretence of having something more to say.] I +have quite made up my mind, from personal observation of Mr. Conolly, that even +an ordinary acquaintance between you is out of the question. I, in short, +refuse to allow anything of the kind to proceed; and I must ask you to respect +my wishes in the matter. There is another subject which I will take this +opportunity of mentioning; but as I have no desire to force your inclinations, +I shall not press you for a declaration of your feelings at present. Sholto +Douglas——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not want to hear <i>anything</i> about Sholto Douglas,” said +Marian, rising. +</p> + +<p> +“I expect you, Marian, to listen to what I have to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“On that subject I will not listen. I have felt very sore and angry ever +since you told me last night to leave the room when Sholto insulted me, as if I +were the aggressor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Angry! I am sorry to hear you say so to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is better to say so than to think so. There is no use in going on +with this conversation, papa. It will only lead to more bitterness between us; +and I had enough of that when I tasted it for the first time last night. We +shall never agree about Mr. Conolly. I have promised to marry him; and +therefore I am not free to withdraw, even if I wished to.” +</p> + +<p> +“A promise made by you without my sanction is not binding. And—listen to +me, if you please—I have obtained Mr. Conolly’s express assurance that if +you wish to withdraw, he is perfectly willing that you should.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, he would not marry me if I did not wish it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he is willing that you should withdraw. He leaves you quite +free.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and, as you told me, he is quite confident that I will keep faith +with him; and so I will. I have had a letter from him since you saw him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” said Mr. Lind, rising also. +</p> + +<p> +“Dont let us quarrel, papa,” said Marian, appealingly. “Why +may I not marry whom I please?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who wants to prevent you, pray? I have most carefully abstained from +influencing you with regard to Sholto Douglas. But this is a totally different +question. It is my duty to save you from disgracing yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the disgrace? Mr. Conolly is an eminent man. I am not poor, and +can afford to marry anyone I can respect. I can respect him. What objection +have you to him? I am sure he is far superior to Sholto.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Douglas is a gentleman, Marian: Mr. Conolly is not; and it is out of +the question for you to ally yourself with a—a member of the proletariat, +however skilful he may be in his handicraft.” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>is</i> a gentleman, papa?” +</p> + +<p> +“A gentleman, Marian, is one who is well born and well bred, and who has +that peculiar tone and culture which can only be acquired by intercourse with +the best society. I think you should know that as well as I. I hope you do not +put these questions from a desire to argue with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I only wish to do what is right. Surely there is no harm in arguing when +one is not convinced.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph! Well, I have said all that is necessary. I am sure that you will +not take any step calculated to inflict pain on me—at least an act of +selfishness on your part would be a new and shocking experience for me. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a very unfair way of putting it, papa. You give me no good +reason for breaking my word, and making myself unhappy; and yet you accuse me +of selfishness in not being ready to do both.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I have already given you my assurance, weighted as it is by my +age, my experience, my regard for your welfare, and, I hope, my authority as a +parent, that both your honor and happiness will be secured by your obeying me, +and forfeited by following your own headstrong inclinations.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian, almost crushed by this, hesitated a moment, twisting her fingers and +looking pitiably at him. Then she thought of Conolly; rallied; and said: +“I can only say that I am sorry to disagree with you; but I am not +convinced.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that you refuse to obey me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot obey you in this matter, papa. I—” +</p> + +<p> +“That is enough,” said Mr. Lind, gravely, beginning, to busy +himself with the writing materials. Marian for a moment seemed about to protest +against this dismissal. Then she checked herself and went out of the room, +closing the door quite quietly behind her, thereby unconsciously terrifying her +father, who had calculated on a slam. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Elinor, when her cousin rejoined her in the +drawing-room: “have you been selfish and disobedient? Have you lacerated +a father’s heart?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is thoroughly unfair,” said Marian. “However, it all +comes to this: he is annoyed at my wanting to marry Ned: and I believe there +will be no more peace for me until I am in a house of my own. What shall we do +in the meantime? Where shall we go? I cannot stay here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? Uncle Reginald will sulk; sit at dinner without speaking to us; +and keep out of our way as much as he can. But you can talk to me: we neednt +mind him. It is he who will be out in the cold, biting his nose to vex his +face. Such a state of things is new to you; but I have survived weeks of it +without a single sympathizer, and been none the worse, except, perhaps, in +temper. He will pretend to be inexorable at first: then he will come down to +wounded affection; and he will end by giving in.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Nelly, I couldnt endure that sort of existence. If people cannot +remain friends they should separate at once. I will not sleep in this house +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hurrah!” cried Miss McQuinch. “That will be beginning the +war with spirit. If I were in your place, I would stay and fight it out at +close quarters. I would make myself so disagreeable that nobody can imagine +what life in this house would be. But your plan is the best—if you really mean +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I mean it. Where shall we go, Nelly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hm! I am afraid none of the family would make us very comfortable under +the circumstances, except Marmaduke. It would be a splendid joke to go to West +Kensington; only it would tell as much against us and Ned as against the Roman +father. I have it! We will go to Mrs. Toplis’s in St. Mary’s +Terrace: my mother always stays there when she is in town. Mrs. Toplis knows +us: if she has a room to spare she will give it to us without making any +bother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that will do. Are you ready to come now?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you can possibly wait five minutes I should like to put on my hat and +change my boots. We will have to come back and pack up when we have settled +about the room. We cannot go without clothes. I should like to have a +nightdress, at least. Have you any money?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have the housekeeping money; but that, of course, I shall not take. I +have thirty pounds of my own.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I have my old stocking, which contains nearly seventeen. Say fifty +in round numbers. That will keep us going very comfortably for a month.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ridiculous! It will last longer than that. Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“We mustnt go, after all. I forgot <i>you</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“What of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where will you go when I am married? You cant live by yourself; and papa +may not welcome you back if you take my part against him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He would not, in any case; so it makes no difference to me. I can go +home if the worst comes to the worst. It does not matter: my present luxurious +existence must come to an end some time or another, whether we go to Mrs. +Toplis’s or not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure Ned will not object to your continuing with me, if I ask +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, poor fellow! He wont object—at first; but he might not like it. You +have no right to inflict me on him. No: I stick to my resolution on that point. +Send for the carriage. It is time for us to be off; and Mrs. Toplis will be +more impressed if we come in state than if we trudge afoot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said Marian, who was standing near the window. “Here +is George, with a face full of importance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Reginald has written to him,” said Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“Then the sooner we go, the better,” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not care to have the whole argument over again with George.” +</p> + +<p> +As they passed through the hall on their way out they met the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, George,” said Elinor, “how are the heathen getting on +in Belgravia? You look lively.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going out, Marian,” he said, solemnly, disregarding his +cousin’s banter. +</p> + +<p> +“We are going to engage a couple of rooms for some errant members of the +family,” said Elinor. “May we give you as a reference?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. I may want to speak to you before I go, Marian. When will you +return?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know. Probably we shall not be long. You will have plenty of +opportunities, in any case.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you walk into the study, please, sir,” said the parlormaid. +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George was closeted with his father for an hour. When he came out, he +left the house, and travelled by omnibus to Westbourne Grove, whence he walked +to a house in Uxbridge Road. Here he inquired for Mr. Conolly, and, learning +that he had just come in, sent up a card. He was presently ushered into a +comfortable room, with a pleasant view of the garden. A meal of tea, +wheatcakes, and fruit was ready on the table. Conolly greeted his visitor +cordially, and rang for another cup. The Rev. George silently noted that his +host dined in the middle of the day and had tea in the evening. Afraid though +as he was of Conolly, he felt strengthened in his mission by these habits, +quite out of the question for Marian. The tea also screwed up his courage a +little; but he talked about the electro-motor in spite of himself until the +cloth was removed, when Conolly placed two easy chairs opposite one another at +the window; put a box of cigarets on a little table close at hand; and invited +his visitor to smoke. But as it was now clearly time to come to business, the +cigaret was declined solemnly. So Conolly, having settled himself in an easy +attitude, waited for the clergyman to begin. The Rev. George seemed at a loss. +</p> + +<p> +“Has your father spoken to you about an interview he had with me this +morning?” said Conolly, good-naturedly helping him out. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That, in fact, is one of the causes of my visit.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe he adheres to the opinion he expressed to you. But I fear he +may not have exhibited that self-control in speaking to you which I fully admit +you have as much right to expect as anyone else.” +</p> + +<p> +“It does not matter. I can quite understand his feeling.” +</p> + +<p> +“It does matter—pardon me. We should be sorry to appear wanting in +consideration for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a trifle. Let us keep the question straight before us. We need +make no show of consideration for one another. I have shown none toward your +family.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I assure you our only desire is to arrange everything in a friendly +spirit.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt. But when I am bent on doing a certain thing which you are +equally bent on preventing, no very friendly spirit is possible except one of +us surrender unconditionally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear me a moment, Mr. Conolly. I have no doubt I shall be able to +convince you that this romantic project of my sister’s is out of the +question. Your ambition—if I may say so without offence—very naturally leads +you to think otherwise; but the prompting of self-interest is not our safest +guide in this life.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the only guide I recognize. If you are going to argue the +question, and your arguments are to prevail, they must be addressed to my +self-interest.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot think you quite mean that, Mr. Conolly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, waive the point for the present: I am open to conviction. You know +what my mind is. I have not changed it since I saw your father this morning. +You think I am wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not wrong. I do not say for a moment that you are wrong. I——” +</p> + +<p> +“Mistaken. Ill-advised. Any term you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly believe that you are mistaken. Let me urge upon you first +the fact that you are causing a daughter to disobey her father. Now that is an +awful fact. May I—appealing to that righteousness in which I am sure you are +not naturally deficient—ask you whether you have reflected on that fact?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not half so awful to me as the fact of a father forcing his +daughter’s inclinations. However, awful is hardly the word for the +occasion. Let us come to business, Mr. Lind. I want to marry your sister +because I have fallen in love with her. You object. Have you any other motive +than aristocratic exclusiveness?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, you quite mistake. I have no such feeling. We are willing to +treat you with every possible consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why object?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we are bound to look to her happiness. We cannot believe that it +would be furthered by an unsuitable match. I am now speaking to you frankly as +a man of the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“As a man of the world you know that she has a right to choose for +herself. You see, our points of view are different. On Sundays, for instance, +you preach to a highly privileged audience at your church in Belgravia; whilst +I lounge here over my breakfast, reading <i>Reynold’s Newspaper</i>. I +have not many social prejudices. Although a workman, I dont look on every +gentleman as a bloodsucker who seizes on the fruits of my labor only to pursue +a career of vice. I will even admit that there are gentlemen who deserve to be +respected more than the workmen who have neglected all their +opportunities—slender as they are—of cultivating themselves a little. You, on +the other hand, know that an honest man’s the noblest work of God; that +nature’s gentlemen are the only real gentlemen; that kind hearts are more +than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood, and so forth. But when your +approval of these benevolent claptraps is brought to such a practical test as +the marriage of your sister to a workman, you see clearly enough that they do +not establish the suitability of personal intercourse between members of +different classes. That being so, let us put our respective philosophies of +society out of the question, and argue on the facts of this particular case. +What qualifications do you consider essential in a satisfactory +brother-in-law?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not bound to answer that; but, primarily, I should consider it +necessary to my sister’s happiness that her husband should belong to the +same rank as she.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see you are changing your ground. I am not in the same rank—after +your sense—as she; but a moment ago you objected to the match solely on the +ground of unsuitability.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the difference?” said the clergyman, with some warmth. +“I have not changed my ground at all. It is the difference in rank that +constitutes the unsuitability. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us see, then, how far you are right—how far suitability is a +question of rank. A gentleman may be, and frequently is, a drunkard, a gambler, +a libertine, or all three combined.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay, Mr. Conolly! You show how little you understand the only true +significance——” +</p> + +<p> +“One moment, Mr. Lind. You are about to explain away the term gentleman +into man of honor, honest man, or some other quite different thing. Let me put +a case to you. I have a fellow at Queen Victoria Street working for thirty +shillings a week, who is the honestest man I know. He is as steady as a rock; +supports all his wife’s family without complaining; and denies himself +beer to buy books for his son, because he himself has experienced what it is to +be without education. But he is not a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, sir. He is a true gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose he calls on you to-morrow, and sends up his name with a request +for an interview. You wont know his name; and the first question you will put +to your servant is ‘What sort of person is he?’ Suppose the servant +knows him, and, sharing your professed opinion of the meaning of the word, +replies ‘He is a gentleman!’ On the strength of that you will order +him to be shewn in; and the moment you see him you will feel angry with your +servant for deceiving you completely as to the sort of man you were to expect +by using the word gentleman in what you call its true sense. Or reverse the +case. Suppose the caller is your cousin, Mr. Marmaduke Lind, and your +high-principled servant by mistaking the name or how not, causes you to ask the +same question with respect to him. The answer will be that Mr. Marmaduke—being +a scamp—is not a gentleman. You would be just as completely deceived as in the +other case. No, Mr. Lind, you might as well say that this workman of mine is a +true lord or a true prince as a true gentleman. A gentleman may be a rogue; and +a knifegrinder may be a philosopher and philanthropist. But they dont change +their ranks for all that.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman hesitated. Then he said timidly, “Even admitting this +peculiar view of yours, Mr. Conolly, does it not tell strongly against yourself +in the present instance?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; and I will presently shew you why not. When we digressed as to the +meaning of the word gentleman, we were considering the matter of suitability. I +was saying that a gentleman might be a drunkard, or, briefly, a scoundrel. A +scoundrel would be a very unsuitable husband for Marian—I perceive I annoy you +by calling her by her name.” +</p> + +<p> +“N—no. Oh, no. It does not matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Therefore gentility alone is no guarantee of suitability. The only +gentlemanliness she needs in a husband is ordinary good address, presentable +manners, sense enough to avoid ridiculous solecisms in society, and so forth. +Marian is satisfied with me on these points; and her approval settles the +question finally. As to rank, I am a skilled workman, the first in my trade; +and it is only by courtesy and forbearance that I suffer any man to speak of my +class as inferior. Take us all, professions and trades together; and you will +find by actual measurement round the head and round the chest, and round our +manners and characters, if you like, that we are the only genuine aristocracy +at present in existence. Therefore I meet your objection to my rank with a +point-blank assertion of its superiority. Now let us have the other objections, +if there <i>are</i> any others.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman received this challenge in silence. Then, after clearing his +throat uneasily twice, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I had hoped, Mr. Conolly, to have been able to persuade you on general +grounds to relinquish your design. But as you are evidently not within reach of +those considerations which I am accustomed to see universally admitted, it +becomes my painful duty to assure you that a circumstance, on the secrecy of +which you are relying, is known to me, and, through me, to my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“What circumstance is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“A circumstance connected with Mr. Marmaduke Lind, whom you mentioned +just now. You understand me, I presume?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you have found that out?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have. It only remains for me to warn my sister that she is about to +contract a close relationship with one who is—I must say it—living in sin with +our cousin.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you suppose will be the result of that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I leave you to imagine,” said the clergyman indignantly, rising. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a bit. You do not understand me yet, I see. You have said that my +views are peculiar. What if I have taken the peculiar view that I was bound to +tell Marian this before proposing to her, and have actually told her?” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely—That is not very likely.” +</p> + +<p> +“The whole affair is not very likely. Our marriage is not likely; but it +is going to happen, nevertheless. She knows this circumstance perfectly well. +You told her yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I! When?” +</p> + +<p> +“The year before last, at Carbury Towers. It is worth your consideration, +too, that by mistrusting Marian at that time, and refusing to give her my +sister’s address, you forced her to appeal to me for help, and so +advanced me from the position of consulting electrician to that of friend in +need. She knew nothing about my relationship to the woman in a state of sin (as +you call it), and actually deputed me to warn your cousin of the risk he was +running by his intimacy with her. Whilst I was away running this queer errand +for her, she found out that the woman was my sister, and of course rushed to +the conclusion that she had inflicted the deepest pain on me. Her penitence was +the beginning of the sentimental side of our acquaintance. Had you recognized +that she was a woman with as good a right as you to know the truth concerning +all matters in this world which she has to make her way through, you would have +answered her question, and then I suppose I should have gone away without +having exchanged a word with her on any more personal matters than induction +coils and ohms of resistance; and in all probability you would have been spared +the necessity of having me for a brother-in-law.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the Rev. George dejectedly, “if what you +say be true, I cannot understand Marian, I can only grieve for her. I shall not +argue with you on the nature of the influence you have obtained over her. I +shall speak to her myself; since you will not hear me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is hardly fair. I have heard you, and am willing to hear more, if +you have anything new to urge.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have certainly listened to my voice, Mr. Conolly. But I fear I have +used it to very little purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will fail equally with Marian, believe me. Even I, whose ability to +exercise influence you admit, never obtained the least over my own sister. She +knew me too well on my worst side and not at all on my best. If, as I presume, +your father has tried in vain, what hope is there for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only my humble trust that a priest may be blessed in his appeal to duty +even where a father’s appeal to natural affection has been +disregarded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said Conolly, kindly, rising as his visitor +disconsolately prepared to go, “you can try. <i>I</i> got on by dint of +dogged faith in myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I get on by lowly faith in my Master. I would I could imbue you with +the same feeling!” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly shook his head; and they went downstairs in silence. +“Hallo!” said he, as he opened the door, “it is raining. Let +me lend you a coat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, no. Not at all. Good-night,” said the clergyman, +quickly, and hastened away through the rain from Conolly’s civilities. +</p> + +<p> +When he arrived at Westbourne Terrace, there was a cab waiting before the +house. The door was opened to him by Marian’s maid, who was dressed for +walking. +</p> + +<p> +“Master is in the drawing-room, sir, with Miss McQuinch,” she said, +meaning, evidently, “Look out for squalls.” +</p> + +<p> +He went upstairs, and found Elinor, with her hat on, standing by the +pianoforte, with battle in her nostrils. Mr. Lind, looking perplexed and angry, +was opposite to her. +</p> + +<p> +“George,” said Mr. Lind, “close the door. Do you know the +latest news?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian has run away!” +</p> + +<p> +“Run away!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Miss McQuinch. “She has fled to Mrs. +Toplis’s, at St. Mary’s Terrace, with—as Uncle Reginald was just +saying—a most dangerous associate.” +</p> + +<p> +“With—?” +</p> + +<p> +“With <i>me</i>, in short.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have counselled her to take this fatal step?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I advised her to stay. But she is not so well used to domestic +discomfort as I am; so she insisted on going. We have got very nice rooms: you +may come and see us, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this a time to display your bitter and flippant humor?” said +the Rev. George, indignantly. “I think the spectacle of a wrecked +home—” +</p> + +<p> +“Stuff!” interrupted Elinor, impatiently. “What else can I +say? Uncle Reginald tells me I have corrupted Marian, and refuses to believe +what I tell him. And now you attack me, as if it were my fault that you have +driven her away. If you want to see her, she is within five minutes walk of +you. It is you who have wrecked her home, not she who has wrecked yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no use in speaking to Elinor, George,” said Mr. Lind, +with the air of a man who had tried it. “You had better go to Marian, and +tell her what you mentioned this afternoon. What has been the result of your +visit?” +</p> + +<p> +“He maintains that she knows everything,” said the Rev. George, +with a dispirited glance at Elinor. “I fear my visit has been worse than +useless.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is impossible that she should know. He lies,” said Mr. Lind. +“Go and tell her the truth, George; and say that I desire her—I order +her—to come back at once. Say that I am waiting here for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Uncle Reginald,” began Elinor, in a softer tone than before, +whilst the clergyman stood in doubt— +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” continued Mr. Lind, “that I must request you, +Elinor, to occupy the rooms you have taken, until you return to your parents. I +regret that you have forced me to take this step; but I cannot continue to +offer you facilities for exercising your influence over my daughter. I will +charge myself with all your expenses until you go to Wiltshire.” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor looked at him as if she despaired of his reason. Then, seeing her cousin +slowly going to the door, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“You dont really mean to go on such a fool’s errand to Marian, +George?” +</p> + +<p> +“Elinor!” cried Mr. Lind. +</p> + +<p> +“What else is it?” said Elinor. “You asserted all your +authority yourself this morning, and only made matters worse. Yet you expect +her to obey you at second hand. Besides, she is bound in honor not to desert +<i>me</i> now; and I will tell her so, too, if I see any sign of her letting +herself be bullied.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear Marian will not pay much heed to what I say to her,” said +the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“If you are coming,” said Elinor, “you had better come in my +cab. Good-night, Uncle Reginald.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay,” said Mr. Lind, irresolutely. “Elinor, I—you—Will you +exercise your influence to induce Marian to return? I think you owe me at least +so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will if you will withdraw your opposition to her marriage and let her +do as she likes. But if you can give her no better reason for returning than +that she can be more conveniently persecuted here than at St. Mary’s +Terrace, she will probably stay where she is, no matter how I may influence +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“If she is resolved to quarrel with me, I cannot help it,” said Mr. +Lind, pettishly. +</p> + +<p> +“You know very well that she is the last person on earth to quarrel with +anyone.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has been indulged in every way. This is the first time she has been +asked to sacrifice her own wishes.” +</p> + +<p> +“To sacrifice her whole life, you mean. It is the first time she has ever +hesitated to sacrifice her own comfort, and therefore the first time you are +conscious that any sacrifice is required. Let me tell her that you will allow +her to take her own course, Uncle Reginald. He is well enough off; and they are +fond of one another. A man of genius is worth fifty men of rank.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell her, if you please, Elinor, that she must choose between Mr. +Conolly and me. If she prefers him, well and good: I have done with her. That +is my last word.” +</p> + +<p> +“So now she has nobody to turn to in the world except him. That is +sensible. Come, cousin George! I am off.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think I should do any good by going,” said the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Then stay where you are,” said Elinor. “Good-night.” +And she abruptly left the room. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a dreadful mistake ever to have allowed that young fury to enter +the house,” said Mr. Lind. “She must be mad. What did <i>he</i> +say?” +</p> + +<p> +“He said a great deal in attempted self-justification. But I could make +no impression on him. We have no feelings in common with a man of his type. No. +He is evidently bent on raising himself by a good marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“We cannot prevent it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, surely we——” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you we <i>cannot</i> prevent it,” repeated Mr. Lind, +turning angrily upon his son. “How can we? What can we do? She will marry +this—this—this—this beggar. I wish to God I had never seen her mother.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman stood by, cowed, and said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“You had better go to that woman of Marmaduke’s,” continued +Mr. Lind, “and try whether she can persuade her brother to commute his +interest in the company, and go back to America, or to the devil. I will take +care that he gets good terms, even if I have to make them up out of my own +pocket. If the worst comes, <i>she</i> must be persuaded to leave Marmaduke. +Offer her money. Women of that sort drive a hard bargain; but they have their +price.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, sir, consider my profession. How can I go to drive a bargain with a +woman of evil reputation?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I must go myself, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no. I will go. Only I thought I would mention it.” +</p> + +<p> +“A clergyman can go anywhere. You are privileged. Come to breakfast in +the morning: we can talk over matters then.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<p> +One morning the Rev. George Lind received a letter addressed in a handwriting +which he did not remember and never thenceforth forgot. Within the envelope he +found a dainty little bag made of blue satin, secured by ribbons of the same +material. This contained a note written on scented paper, edged with gold, and +decorated with a miniature representation of a <i>pierrot</i>, sitting +cross-legged, conning a book, on the open pages of which appeared the letters +L.V. The clergyman recognized the monogram no more than the writing. But as it +was evidently from a lady, he felt a pleasant thrill of expectation as he +unfolded the paper. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Laurel Grove West Kensington<br/> +“Wednesday +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Mr. George<br/> + “I have made poor little Lucy believe that Kew is the most heavenly +place on earth to spend a May morning so Bob has had to promise to row her down +there to-morrow (Thursday) after breakfast and I shall be at home alone from +eleven to one this is very short notice I know but opportunities are scarce and +another might not present itself for a month.<br/> + “Believe me Dear Mr. George +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Yours sincerely<br/> +Lalage Virtue.” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George became thoughtful, and absently put the note in a little rack +over the mantelpiece. Then, recollecting that a prying servant or landlady +might misinterpret it, he transferred it to his pocket. After breakfast, having +satisfied himself before the mirror that his dress was faultless, and his +expression saintly, he went out and travelled by rail from Sloane Square to +West Kensington, whence he walked to Laurel Grove. An elderly maid opened the +gate. It was a rule with the Rev. George not to look at strange women; and this +morning the asceticism which he thought proper to his office was unusually +prominent in his thoughts. He did not look up once while the maid conducted him +through the shrubbery to the house; and he fully believed that he had not seen +at the first glance that she was remarkably plain, as Susanna took care that +all her servants should be. Passing by the drawing-room, where he had been on a +previous occasion, they went on to a smaller apartment at the back of the +house. +</p> + +<p> +“What room is this?” he asked, uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“Missus’s Purjin bodoor, sir,” replied the main. +</p> + +<p> +She opened the door; and the clergyman, entering, found himself in a small +room, luxuriously decorated in sham Persian, but containing ornaments of all +styles and periods, which had been purchased and introduced just as they had +caught Susanna’s fancy. She was seated on a ottoman, dressed in wide +trousers, Turkish slippers, a voluminous sash, a short Greek jacket, a long +silk robe with sleeves, and a turban, all of fine soft materials and rare +colors. Her face was skilfully painted, and her dark hair disposed so as not to +overweight her small head. The clergyman, foolishly resisting a natural impulse +to admire her, felt like St. Anthony struggling with the fascination of a +disguised devil. He responded to her smile of welcome by a stiff bow. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down,” she said. “You mustnt mind this absurd dress: it +belongs to a new piece I am studying. I always study in character. It is the +only way to identify myself with my part, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems a very magnificent dress, certainly,” said the clergyman, +nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for the compliment——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said he, hastily. “I had no such intention.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” said Susanna, with a laugh. “It was merely +an unpremeditated remark: all compliments are, of course. I know all about +that. But do you think it a proper costume?” +</p> + +<p> +“In what sense, may I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it a correct Eastern dress? I am supposed to be one of the wives of +the Caliph Somebody al Something. You have no idea how difficult it is to get a +reliable model for a dress before laying out a heap of money on it. This was +designed in Paris; but I should like to hear it criticized—chronologically, or +whatever you call it—by a scholar.” +</p> + +<p> +“I really do not know, Madam. I am not an Orientalist; and my studies +take a widely different direction from yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course,” said Susanna, with a sigh. “But I assure +you I often wish for your advice, particularly as to my elocution, which is +very faulty. You are such a master of the art.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman bowed in acceptance of the compliment, and began to take heart; +for to receive flattery from ladies in exchange for severe reproof was part of +his daily experience. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come here,” he said, “to have a very serious +conversation with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Doctor. Fire away.” +</p> + +<p> +This sudden whim of conferring on him a degree in divinity, and her change of +manner—implying that she had been laughing at him before—irritated him. +“I presume,” he said, “that you are acquainted with the +movements of your brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of Ned?” said Susanna, frowning a little. “No. What should I +know about him?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is, I believe, about to be married.” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” screamed Susanna, throwing herself back, and making her +bangles and ornaments clatter. “Get out, Doctor. You dont mean it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I mean it. It is not my profession to jest. I must also tell +you that his marriage will make it quite impossible for you to continue here +with my cousin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Who is he going to marry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ahem! He has succeeded in engaging the affections of my sister.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Your sister? Marian Lind?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Susanna uttered a long whistle, and then, with a conviction and simplicity +which prevented even the Rev. George from being shocked, said: “Well, I +<i>am</i> damned! I know more than one fool of a girl who will be sick and +sorry to hear it.” She paused, and added carelessly: “I suppose all +your people are delighted?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know why you should suppose so. We have had no hand in the +matter. My sister has followed her own inclinations.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Let me tell you, young man, that your sister might have gone +farther and fared worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doubtless. However, you will see now how impossible it is that you +should remain in your present—that you should continue here, in fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot,” said the clergyman, accustomed to be bold and stern +with female sinners, “when you are sister-in-law to Miss Lind, live as +you are now doing with her cousin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it would be a scandal. I will say nothing at present of the sin +of it: you will have to account for that before a greater than I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so, Doctor. You dont mind the sin; but when it comes to a +scandal——!” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not say so. I abhor the sin. I have prayed earnestly for your +awakening, and shall do so in spite of the unregenerate hardness of +heart——” +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Doctor! draw it mild, if you please. I am not one of your +parishioners, you know. Perhaps that is the reason your prayers for me have not +met with much attention. Let us stick to business: you may talk shop as much as +you please afterwards. What do you want me to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“To sever your connexion with Marmaduke at once. Believe me, it will not +prove so hard a step as it may seem. You have but to ask for strength to do it, +and you will find yourself strong. It will profit you even more than poor +Marmaduke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will it? I dont see it, Doctor. You think it will profit <i>you</i>: +thats plain enough. But it wont profit me; it wont profit Bob; and it wont by +any means profit the child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not immediately, perhaps, in a worldly sense——” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the sense I mean. Drop all that other stuff: I dont believe in +you parsons: you are about the worst lot going, as far as I can see. Just tell +me this, Doctor. Your sister is a very nice girl, I have no doubt: she would +hardly have snapped up Ned if she wasn’t. But why is she to have +everything her own way?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, listen. Here is a young woman who has had every chance in life +that hick could give her: silk cradles, gold rattles, rank, wealth, schooling, +travelling, swell acquaintances, and anything else she chose to ask for. Even +when she is fool enough to want to get married, her luck sticks to her, and she +catches Ned, who is a man in a thousand—though Lord forbid we should have many +of his sort about! Yet she’s not satisfied. She wants <i>me</i> to give +up my establishment just to keep her family in countenance.” +</p> + +<p> +“She knows nothing of my visit, I assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even if she doesnt, it makes no odds as to the facts. She can go her own +way; and I will go mine. I shant want to visit her; and I dont suppose she will +visit me. So she need trouble herself no more than if there was no such person +as I in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you will find that it will be greatly to your advantage to leave +this house. It is not our intention that you shall suffer in a pecuniary point +of view by doing so. My father is rich——” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that to me? He doesnt want me to go and live with him, does +he?” +</p> + +<p> +“You quite misunderstand me. No such idea ever entered——” +</p> + +<p> +“There! go on. I only said that to get a rise out of you, Doctor. How do +you make out that I should gain by leaving this house?” +</p> + +<p> +“My father is willing to make you some amends for the withdrawal of such +portion of Marmaduke’s income as you may forfeit by ceasing your +connexion with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have come to buy me out, in fact: is that it? What a clever old man +your father must be! Knows the world thoroughly, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I have not offended you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you, Doctor! nobody could be offended with you. Suppose I agree to +oblige you (you have a very seductive High Church way about you) who is to make +Marmaduke amends for such portion of <i>my</i> income as our separation will +deprive <i>him</i> of? Eh? I see that that staggers you a little. If you will +just tot up the rent of this house since we have had it; the price of the +furniture; our expenses, including my carriage and Marmaduke’s horse and +the boat; six hundred pounds of debt that he ran up before he settled down with +me; and other little things; and then find out from his father how much money +he has drawn within the last two years, I think you will find it rather hard to +make the two balance. Your uncle is far too good a man to give Marmaduke money +to spend on me; but he was not too good to keep me playing in the provinces all +through last autumn just to make both ends meet, when I ought to have been +taking my holiday. I wish you would tell his mother, your blessed pious Aunt +Dora, to send Bob the set of diamonds his grandmother left him, instead of +sermons which he never reads.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought Marmaduke had nearly a thousand a year, independently of his +father.” +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand a year! What is that? And your uncle would stop even that, if +he could, to keep it out of my hands. You may tell him that if it didnt come +into my hands it would hardly last a week. Only for the child, and the garden, +and the sort of quiet life he leads here, he would spend a thousand a month. +And look at <i>my</i> expenses! Look at my dresses! I suppose you think that +people wear cotton velvet and glazed calico on the stage, as Mrs. Siddons did +in the old days when they acted by candlelight. Why, between dress and +jewellery, I have about two hundred pounds on my back at the present moment; +and you neednt think that any manager alive will find dresses to that tune. At +the theatre they think me overpaid at fifty pounds a week, although they might +shut up the house to-morrow if my name was taken out of the bills. Tell your +father that so far from my living on Bob, it is as much as I can do to keep +this place going by my work—not to mention the worry of it, which always falls +on the woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly had no idea of the case being as you describe,” said +the clergyman, losing his former assurance. “But would it not then be +better for you to separate?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not. I want my house and home. So does he. If an income is +rather tight, halving it is a very good way to make it tighter. No: if I left +Bob, he would go to the devil; and very likely I should go to the devil, too, +and disgrace you in earnest.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear madam, consider the disgrace at present!” +</p> + +<p> +“What disgrace? When your sister becomes Mrs. Ned, what will be the +difference between her position and mine? Dont look aghast. What will be the +difference?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you do not suppose that she will dispense with the sacrament of +marriage before casting in her lot with your brother!” +</p> + +<p> +“I bet you my next week’s salary that you dont get Ned to enter a +church. He will be tied up by a registrar. Of course, your sister will have the +law of him somehow: she cant help herself. She is not independent; and so she +must be guaranteed against his leaving her without bread and butter. <i>I</i> +can support myself, and may shew Bob a clean pair of heels to-morrow, if I +choose. Even if she has money of her own, she darent stick to her freedom for +fear of society. <i>I</i> snap my fingers at society, and care as little about +it as it cares about me; and I have no doubt she would be glad to do the same +if she had the pluck. I confess I shouldnt like to make a regular legal bargain +of going to live with a man. I dont care to make love a matter of money; it +gives it a taste of the harem, or even worse. Poor Bob, meaning to be +honorable, offered to buy me in the regular way at St. George’s, Hanover +Square, before we came to live here; but, of course, I refused, as any decent +woman in my circumstances would. Understand me now, Doctor: I dont want to give +myself any virtuous airs, or to boast of behaving better than your sister. I +know the world; and I know that she will marry Ned just as much because she +thinks it right as because she cant help herself. But dont you try to make me +swallow any gammon about my disgracing you and so forth. I intend to stay as I +am. I can respect myself; and I dont care whether you or your family respect me +or not. If you dont approve of me, why! nobody asks you to associate with me. +If you want society, you have your own lot to mix with. If I want it, I can +fill this house to-morrow. Not with stupid fine ladies, but with really clever +people, who are not at all shy of me. Look at me at the present moment! I am +receiving a morning visit from the best born and most popular parson in +Belgravia. I wonder, Doctor, what your parishioners would think if they could +see you now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must confess that I do not understand you at all. You seem to see +everything reversed—upside down. You—I—you bewilder me, Miss Conol—” +</p> + +<p> +“Sh! Mademoiselle Lalage Virtue, if you please. Or you may call me +Susanna, if you like, since we are as good as related.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear,” said the clergyman, blushing, “that we have no +common ground on which to argue. I am sorry I have no power to influence +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dont say that. I really like you, Doctor, and would do more for you +than most people. If your father had had the cheek to come himself to offer me +money, and so forth, I would have put him out of the house double quick; +whereas I have listened to you like a lamb. Never mind your hat yet. Have a +bottle of champagne with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont you drink at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“You should. It would give a fillip to your sermons. Let me send you a +case of champagne. Promise to drink a bottle every Sunday in the vestry before +you come out to preach, and I will take a pew for the season in your church. +Thats good of me, isnt it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must go,” said the Rev. George, rising, after hastily pretending +to look at his watch. “Will you excuse me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” she said, rising also, and slipping her hand through +his arm to detain him. “Wait and have some luncheon. Why, Doctor, I +really think youre afraid of me. <i>Do</i> stay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible. I have much business which I am bound——Pray, let me +go,” pleaded the clergyman, piteously, ineffectually struggling with +Susanna, who had now got his arm against her breast. “You must be +mad!” he cried, drops of sweat breaking out on his brow as he felt +himself being pulled helplessly toward the ottoman. She got her knee on it at +last; and he made a desperate effort to free himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how rough you are!” she exclaimed in her softest voice, +adroitly tumbling into the seat as if he had thrown her down, and clinging to +his arms; so that it was as much as he could do to keep his feet as he stooped +over her, striving to get upright. At which supreme moment the door was opened +by Marmaduke, who halted on the threshold to survey the two reproachfully for a +moment. Then he said: +</p> + +<p> +“George: I’m astonished at you. I have not much opinion of parsons +as a rule; but I really did think that <i>you</i> were to be depended +on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marmaduke,” said the clergyman, colouring furiously, and almost +beside himself with shame and anger: “you know perfectly well that I am +actuated in coming here by no motive unworthy of my profession. You +misunderstand what you have seen. I will not hear my calling made a jest +of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right, Doctor,” said Susanna, giving him a gentle pat of +encouragement on the shoulder. “Defend the cloth, always. I was only +asking him to stay to lunch, Bob. Cant you persuade him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do, old fellow,” said Marmaduke. “Come! you must: I havnt +had a chat with you for ever so long. I’m really awfully sorry I +interrupted you. What on earth did you make Susanna rig herself out like that +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue, Bob. Mr. George has nothing to do with my being in +character. This is what came last night in the box: I could not resist trying +it on this morning. I am Zobeida, the light of the harem, if you please. I must +have your opinion of the rouge song, Doctor. Observe. This is a powder puff: I +suppose you never saw such a thing before. I am making up my face for a visit +of the Sultan; and I am apologizing to the audience for using cosmetics. The +original French is improper; so I will give you the English version, by the +celebrated Robinson, the cleverest adapter of the day: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Poor odalisques in captive thrall<br/> +Must never let their charms pall:<br/> + If they get the sack<br/> + They ne’er come back;<br/> +For the Bosphorus is the boss for all<br/> +In this harem, harem, harem, harem, harum scarum place.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Intellectual, isnt it?” +</p> + +<p> +Susanna, whilst singing, executed a fantastic slow dance, stopping at certain +points to clink a pair of little cymbals attached to her ankles, and to look +for a moment archly at the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, hurt and offended into a sincerity of manner which +compelled them to respect him for the first time, “I will not stay; and I +am very sorry I came.” And he left the room, his cheeks tingling. +Marmaduke followed him to the gate. “Come and look us up soon again, old +fellow,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Marmaduke,” said the clergyman: “you are travelling as fast +as you can along the road to Hell.” +</p> + +<p> +As he hurried away, Marmaduke leaned against the gate and made the villas +opposite echo his laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“On my soul, it’s a shame,” said he, when he returned to the +house. “Poor old George!” +</p> + +<p> +“He found no worse than he had made up his mind to find,” said +Susanna. “What right has he to come into my house and take it for +granted, to my face, that I am a disgrace to his sister? One would think I was +a common woman from the streets.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw! What does he know? He is only a molly-coddling parson, poor +fellow. He will give them a rare account of you when he goes back.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let him,” said Susanna. “He can tell them how little I care +for their opinion, anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George took the next train to the City, and went to the offices of the +Electro-Motor Company, where he found his father. They retired together to the +board-room, which was unoccupied just then. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been to that woman,” said the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what does she say?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is an entirely abandoned person. She glories in her shame. I have +never before met with such an example of complete and unconscious depravity. +Yet she is not unattractive. There is a wonderfully clever refinement even in +her coarseness which goes far to account for her influence over +Marmaduke.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt; but apart from her personal charms, about which I am not +curious, is she willing to assist us?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I could make no impression on her at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it cannot be helped. Did you say anything about Conolly’s +selling his interest here and leaving the country?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the clergyman, struck with a sense of remissness. +“I forgot that. The fact is, I hardly had the oppor——” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. It is just as well that you did not: it might have made +mischief.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think it is of the least use to pursue her with any further +overtures. Besides, I really could not undertake to conduct them.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask,” said Mr. Lind, turning on him suddenly, “what +objection you have to Marian’s wishes being consulted in this +matter?” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George recoiled, speechless. +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly think,” said Mr. Lind, more smoothly, “that +Marian might have trusted to my indulgence instead of hurrying away to a +lodging and writing the news in all directions. But I must say I have received +some very nice letters about it. Jasper is quite congratulatory. The <i>Court +Journal</i> has a paragraph this week alluding to it with quite good taste. +Conolly is a very remarkable man; and, as the <i>Court Journal</i> truly enough +remarks, he has won a high place in the republic of art and science. As a +Liberal, I cannot say that I disapprove of Marian’s choice; and I really +think that it will be looked on in society as an interesting one.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind’s son eyed him dubiously for quite a long time. Then he said, +slowly, “Am I to understand that I may now speak of the marriage as a +recognized thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not, pray?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, since you wish it, and it cannot be helped—” The +clergyman again looked at his father, still more dubiously. He saw in his eye +that there would be a quarrel if the interview lasted much longer. So he said +“I must go home now. I have to write my sermon for next Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Do not let me detain you. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George returned to his rooms quite dazed by the novelty of his +sensations. He had always respected his father beyond other men; and now he +knew that his father did not deserve his respect in the least. That was one +conviction uprooted. And Susanna had done something to him—he did not exactly +know what; but he felt altogether a different man from the clergyman of the day +before. He had come face to face with what he called Vice for the first time, +and found it not at all what he had supposed it to be. He had believed that he +knew it to be most dangerously attractive to the physical, but utterly +repugnant to the moral sense; and such fascination he was prepared to resist to +the utmost. But he was attacked in just the opposite way, and thereby so thrown +off his guard that he did not know he was attacked at all; so that he told +himself vaingloriously that the shafts of the enemy had fallen harmlessly from +his breastplate of faith. For he was not in the least charmed by +Susanna’s person. He had detected the paint on her cheeks, and had noted +with aversion a certain unhealthy bloat in her face, and an alcoholic taint in +her breath. He exulted in the consciousness that he had been genuinely +disgusted, not as a matter of duty, but unaffectedly, as a matter of simple +nature. What interested him in her was her novel and bold moral attitude, her +self-respect in the midst of her sin, her striking arguments in favor of an +apparently indefensible course of life. Hers was no common case of loose +living, he felt: there was a soul to be saved there, if only Heaven would raise +her up a friend in some man absolutely proof against the vulgar fascination of +her prettiness. He began to imagine a certain greatness of character about her, +a capacity for heroic repentance as well as for heroic sin. Before long he was +amusing himself by thinking how it might have gone with her if she had him for +her counsellor instead of a gross and thoughtless rake like Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +It is not necessary to follow the wild goose chase which the Rev. +George’s imagination ran from this starting-point to the moment when he +was suddenly awakened, by an unmistakable symptom, to the fact that he was +being outwitted and beglamoured, like the utter novice he was, by a power which +he believed to be the devil. He rushed to the little oratory he had arranged +with a screen in the corner of his sitting-room, and prayed aloud, long and +earnestly. But the hypnotizing process did not tranquilize him as usual. It +excited him, and led him finally to a passionate appeal for pardon and +intercession to a statuet of the Virgin Mother, of whom he was a very devout +adorer. He had always regarded himself as her especial champion in the Church +of England; and now he had been faithless to her, and indelicate into the +bargain. And yet, in spite of his contrition, he felt that he was having a +tremendous spiritual experience, which he would not for worlds have missed. The +climax of it was the composition of his Sunday sermon, the labor of which +secured him a sound sleep that night. It was duly delivered on the following +Sunday morning in this form: +</p> + +<p> +“Dearly beloved Brethren: In the twenty-third verse of the third chapter +of St. Mark’s gospel, we find this question: ‘<i>How can Satan cast +out Satan</i>?’ How can Satan cast out Satan? If you will read what +follows, you will perceive that that question was not answered. My brethren, it +is unanswerable: it never has been, and it never can be answered. +</p> + +<p> +“In these latter days, when the power of Satan has become so vast, when +his empire and throne tower in our midst so that the faithful are cast down by +the exceeding great shadow thereof, and when temples innumerable are open for +his worship, it is no strange thing that many faint-hearted ones should give +half their hearts to Beelzebub, and should hope by the prince of devils to cast +out devils. Yes, this is what is taking place daily around us. Oh, you, who +seek to excuse this book to infidel philosophers by shewing with how much +facility a glib tongue may reconcile it with their so-called science, I tell +you that it is science and not the Bible that shall need that apology in the +great day of wrath. And, therefore, I would have you, my brethren, earnestly +discountenance all endeavors to justify the Word of God by explaining it in +conformity with the imaginations of the men of science. How can Satan cast out +Satan? He cannot; but he can lead you into the sin of adding to and of taking +from the words of this book. He can add plagues unto you, and take away your +part out of the holy city. +</p> + +<p> +“In this great London which we inhabit we are come upon evil day’s. +The rage of the blasphemer, the laugh at the scoffer, the heartless lip-service +of the worldling, and the light dalliance of the daughters of music, are +offered every hour upon a thousand Baal-altars within this very parish. I would +ask some of you who spend your evenings in the playhouses which multiply around +us like weeds sown in the rank soil of human frailty, what justification you +make to yourselves when you are alone in the watches of the night, and your +conscience saith, ‘<i>What went ye out for to see</i>?’ You will +then complain of the bitterness of life, and prate of the refining influences +of music; of the help to spiritual-mindedness given by the exhibition on the +public stage of mockeries of God’s world, wherein some pitiful temporal +triumph of simulated virtue in the last act is the apology for the vicious +trifling that has gone before. And in whom do you there see typified that +virtue which you should shield in your hearts from the contamination of the +theatre? Is it not in some woman whose private life is the scandalous matter of +your whispered conversations, and whose shameless face smirks at you from the +windows of those picture-shops which are a disgrace to our national morality? +Is it from such as she that you will learn to be spiritual-minded? Does she +appear before your carnal crowds repentant, her forehead covered with ashes, +her limbs covered with sackcloth? No! Her brow is glowing with unquenchable +fire to kindle the fuel that the devil has hidden in your hearts. Her raiment +is cloth of gold; and she is not covered with it. Naked and unashamed, she +smiles and weeps in mockery of the virtue which you would persuade yourselves +that she represents to you. Will you learn spiritual-mindedness from the sight +of her eyes, from the sound of her mouth, from the measure of her steps, or +from the music and the dancing that cease not within the doors of her temple? +How can Satan cast out Satan? Whom think ye to deceive by whitening the +sepulchre? Is it yourselves? The devil has blinded you already. Is it God? Who +shall hide anything from Him? I tell you that he who makes the pursuit of +virtue a luxury, and takes refuge from sin, not before the altar, but in the +playhouse, is casting out devils by Beelzebub, the prince of the devils. +</p> + +<p> +“As I look about me in this church; I see many things intended to give +pleasure to the carnal eye. Were the cost of all these dainty robes, this +delicate headgear, these clouds of silk, of satin, of lace, and of sparkling +jewels, were the price of these things brought into the Church’s +treasury, how loudly might the Gospel resound in lands between whose torrid +shores and the tropical sun the holy shade of Calvary has not yet fallen! But, +you will say, it is a good thing to be comely in the house of the Lord. The +sight of what is beautiful elevates the mind. Uncleanness is a vice. This, +then, is how you will war with uncleanness. Not by prayer and holy living. Not +by pouring of your superfluity into the lap of the poor, and entering by the +strait gate upon the narrow path in a garment without seam. No. By the dead and +damning gold; by the purple and by the scarlet; by the brightness of the eyes +that is born of new wine; by the mincing gait and the gloved fingers; and by +the musk and civet instead of the myrrh and frankincense: by these things are +you fain to purge your uncleanness. And will they suffice? Can Satan cast out +Satan? Beware! ‘<i>For though thou wash thee with nitre and take thee +much soap, yet thine iniquity is marked before me, saith the Lord +God</i>.’ There shall come a day when your lace and feathers shall hang +on you as heavy as your chains of gold, to drag you down to him in whose name +you have thought to cast out devils. Do not think that these things are +harmless vanities. Nothing can fill the human heart and be harmless. If your +thoughts be not of God, they will keep your minds distraught from His grace as +effectually as the blackest broodings of crime. ‘<i>Can a maid forget her +ornaments, or a bride her attire? Yet my people have forgotten me days without +number, saith the Lord God</i>.’ Yes, your minds are too puny to +entertain the full worship of God: do you think they are spacious enough to +harbor the worship of Baal side by side with it? Much less dare you pretend +that the Baal altar is erected for the honor of God, that you may come into His +presence comely and clean. It is but a few days since I stood in the presence +of a woman who boasted to me that she bore upon her the value of two hundred +pounds of our money. I cared little for the value of money that was upon her. +But what shall be said of the weight of sin her attire represented? For, those +costly garments were the wages of sin—of hardened, shameless, damnable sin. Yet +there is not before me a finer dress or a fairer face. Will you, my sisters, +trust to the comeliness of visage and splendor of raiment in which such a woman +as this can outshine you? Will you continue to cast out your devils by +Beelzebub, the prince of devils? Be advised whilst there is yet time. Ask +yourself again and again, how can Satan cast out Satan? +</p> + +<p> +“When sin is committed in a great city for wages, is there no fault on +the side of those who pay the wages? There is more than fault: there is crime. +I trust there are few among you who have done such crime. But I know full well +that it may be said of London to-day ‘<i>Thou art full of stirs, a joyous +city: thy slain men are not slain with the sword, nor dead in +battle</i>.’ No. Our young men are slain by the poison of Beelzebub, the +prince of the devils. Nor is the crafty old subterfuge lacking here. There are +lost ones in this town who say, ‘It is by our means that virtue is +preserved to the rich: it is we who appease the wicked rage which would +otherwise wreck society.’ There are men who boast that they have brought +their sins only to the houses of shame, and that they have respected purity in +the midst of their foulness. ‘Such things must be,’ they say: +‘let us alone, lest a worse thing ensue.’ When they are filled full +with sin, they cry ‘Lo! our appetite has gone from us and we are +clean.’ They are willing to slake lust with satiety, but not to combat it +with prayer. They tread one woman into the mire, and excuse themselves because +the garment of her sister is spotless. How vain is this lying homage to virtue! +How can Satan cast out Satan? +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my brethren, this hypocrisy is the curse and danger of our age. The +Atheist, no longer an execration, an astonishment, a curse, and a reproach, +poses now as the friend of man and the champion of right. Those who incur the +last and most terrible curse in this book, do so in the name of that truth for +which they profess to be seeking. Art, profanely veiling its voluptuous +nakedness with the attributes of religion, disguises folly so subtly that it +seems like virtue in the slothful eyes of those who neglect continually to +watch and pray. The vain woman puts on her ornaments to do honor to her +Creator’s handiwork: the lustful man casts away his soul that society may +be kept clean: there is not left in these latter days a sin that does not +pretend to work the world’s salvation, nor a man who flatters not himself +that the sin of one may be the purging of many. To such I say, Look to your own +soul: of no other shall any account be demanded of you. A day shall come in +which a fire shall be kindled among your gods. The Lord shall array Himself +with this land as a shepherd putteth on his garment. Be sure that then if ye +shall say ‘I am a devil; but I have cast out many devils,’ He will +reply unto you, How can Satan cast out Satan? Who shall prompt you to an answer +to that question? Nay, though in His boundless mercy He give you a thousand +years to search, and spread before you all the books of science and sociology +in which you were wont to find excuses for sin, what will it avail you? Will a +scoff, or a quibble over a doubtful passage, serve your turn? No. You cannot +scoff whilst your tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth for fear, and there +will be no passage doubtful in all the Scriptures on that day; for the light of +the Lord’s countenance will be over all things.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book03"></a>BOOK III</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<p> +One Sunday afternoon, as the sun was making rainbows in the cloud of spray +thrown from the fountain in Kew Gardens, Sholto Douglas appeared there amongst +the promenaders on the banks of the pond. He halted on the steps leading down +to the basin, gazing idly at the waterfowl paddling at his feet. A lady in a +becoming grey dress came to the top of the steps, and looked curiously at him. +Somehow aware of this, he turned indifferently, as if to leave, and found that +the lady was Marian. Her ripened beauty, her perfect self-possession, a gain in +her as of added strength and wisdom, and a loss in her as of gentleness +outgrown and timidity overcome, dazzled him for a moment—caused a revulsion in +him which he half recognized as the beginning of a dangerous passion. His +former love for her suddenly appeared boyish and unreal to him; and this ruin +of a once cherished illusion cost him a pang. Meanwhile, there she was, holding +out her hand and smiling with a cool confidence in the success of her advance +that would have been impossible to Marian Lind. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you: I am fairly well. You are quite well, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am in rude health. I hardly knew you at first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I altered?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are growing stout.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed? Time has not been so bounteous to me as to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that I am stouter than you?” She laughed; and the sound +startled him. He got from it an odd impression that her soul was gone. But he +hastened to protest. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. You know I do not. I meant that you have achieved the +impossible—altered for the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you think so. I cling to my good looks desperately now that I +am growing matronly. How is Mrs. Douglas?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is quite well, thank you. Mr. Conolly is, I trust—” +</p> + +<p> +“He is suffering from Eucalyptus on the brain at present. Do not trouble +yourself to maintain that admirable expression of shocked sadness. Eucalyptus +means gum-tree; and Ned is at present studying the species somewhere in the +neighborhood. He came here with that object: he never goes anywhere without an +object. He wants to plant Eucalyptuses round some new works where the people +suffer from ague.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! You mean that he is here in the gardens.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I left him among the trees, as I prefer the flowers. I want to see +the lilies. There used to be some in a hot-house, or rather a hot bath, near +this.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is it on our right. May I go through it with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just as you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. It is a long time since we last met, is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“More than a year. Fifteen months. I have not seen you since I was +married.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas looked rather foolish at this. He was fatter, lazier, altogether less +tenacious of his dignity than of old; and his embarrassment brought out the +change strikingly. Marian liked him all the better for it; he was less +imposing; but he was more a man and less a mere mask. At last, reddening a +little, he said, “I remember our last meeting very well. We were very +angry then: I was infuriated. In fact, when I recognized you a minute ago, I +was not quite sure that you would renew our acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had exactly the same doubt about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“A very unnecessary doubt. Not a sincere one, I am afraid. You know too +well that your least beck will bring me to you at any time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont you think we had better not begin that. I generally repeat my +conversations to Ned. Not that he will mind, if you dont.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas now felt at his ease and in his clement. He was clearly welcome to +philander. Recovering his poise at once, he began, in his finest voice, +“You need not chide me. There can be no mistake on my part now. You can +entangle me without fear; and I can love without hope. Ned is an unrepealed +statute of Forbiddance. Go on, Mrs. Conolly. Play with me: it will amuse you. +And—spiritless wretch that I am!—it will help me to live until you throw me +away, crushed again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to have been quite comfortable without me: at least you look +extremely well. I suspect you are becoming a little lazy and attached to your +dinner. Your old haughtiness seems to have faded into a mere habit. It used to +be the most active principle in you. Are you quite sure that nobody else has +been helping you to live, as you call it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Helping me to forget, you mean. No, not one. Time has taught me the way +to vegetate; and so I no longer need to live. As you have remarked, I have +habits, not active principles. But one at least of these principles is +blossoming again even as I speak. If I could only live as that lily lives +now!” +</p> + +<p> +“In a warm bath?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Floating on the surface of a quiet pool, looking up into your eyes, +with no memory for the past, no anticipation of the future.” +</p> + +<p> +“Delightful! especially for me. I think we had better go and look for +Ned.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were I in his place I would not be absent from your side now—or +ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is to say, if you were in his place, you wouldnt be in his +place—among the gum trees. Perhaps you would be right.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is the only man I have ever stooped to envy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have reason to,” said Marian, suddenly grave. +</p> + +<p> +“I envy him sometimes myself. What would you give to be never without a +purpose, never with a regret, to regard life as a succession of objects each to +be accomplished by so many days’ work; to take your pleasure in trifling +lazily with the consciousness of possessing a strong brain; to study love, +family affection, and friendship as a doctor studies breathing or digestion; to +look on disinterestedness as either weakness or hypocrisy, and on death as a +mere transfer of your social function to some member of the next +generation?” +</p> + +<p> +“I could achieve all that, if I would, at the cost of my soul. I would +not for worlds be such a man, save on one condition.” +</p> + +<p> +“To wit?” +</p> + +<p> +“That only as such could I win the woman I loved.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you would not think so much of an insignificant factor like love if +you were Ned.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask, do you, too, think of love as ‘an insignificant +factor’?” +</p> + +<p> +“I? Oh, I am not a sociologist. Besides, I have never been in +love.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! You have never been in love?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the real, romantic, burning, suicidal love your sonnets used to +breathe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you do not know what love is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You should know whether I do or not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Should I? Then I conclude that you do not. You are growing stout. Your +dress is not in the least neglected. I am certain you enjoy life thoroughly. +No, you have never known love in all its novelistic-poetic outrageousness. That +respectable old passion is a myth.” +</p> + +<p> +“You look for signs that only children shew. When an oak dies, it does +not wither and fall at once as a sapling does. Perhaps you will one day know +what it is to love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so.” +</p> + +<p> +“In any case, you will be able to boast of having inspired the +passion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so—at least, I mean that it is all nonsense. Do look at that +vegetable lobster of a thing, that cactus.” +</p> + +<p> +“In order to set off its ugliness properly, you should see yourself +against the background of palms, with that great fan-like leaf for a halo, +and——” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. I see it all in my mind’s eye by your eloquent +description. You are quite right in supposing that I like compliments; but I am +particular about their quality; and I dont need to be told I am pretty in +comparison with a hideous cactus. You would not have condescended to make such +a speech long ago. You are changed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not toward you, on my honor.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not mean that: I meant toward yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you have taken even that slender note of me. I find you +somewhat changed, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that I shewed it; but it is true. I feel as if Marian +Lind was a person whom I knew once, but whom I should hardly know again.” +</p> + +<p> +“The change in me has not produced that effect. I feel as though Marian +Lind were the history of my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have become quite a master of the art of saying pretty things. You +are nearly as glib at it as Ned.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have the same incentive to admiration.” +</p> + +<p> +“The same! You do not suppose that Ned pays <i>me</i> compliments. He +never did such a thing in his life. No: I first discovered his talent in that +direction at Palermo, where I surprised him in an animated discourse with the +dark-eyed daughter of an innkeeper there. That was the first conversation in +Italian I succeeded in following. A week later I could understand the language +almost as well as he. However, dont let us waste the whole afternoon talking +stuff. I want to ask you about your mother. I should greatly like to call upon +her; but she has never made me any sign since my marriage; and Mrs. Leith +Fairfax tells me that she never allows my name to be mentioned to her. I +thought she was fond of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she was. But she has never forgiven you for making me suffer as you +did. You see she has more spirit than I. She would be angered if she saw me now +tamely following the triumphal chariot of my fair tyrant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Seriously, do you think, if I made a raid on Manchester Square some +morning, I could coax back her old feeling for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you will be quite safe in calling, at all events. Tell me what +day you intend to venture. I know my mother will not oppose me if I shew that I +wish you to be kindly received.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most disinterested of you. Thank you: I will fail or succeed on my own +merits, not on your recommendation. You must not say a word to her about me or +my project.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you command me not to——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do command you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must obey. But I fear that the more submissive I am, the more +imperious you will become.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very likely. And now look along that avenue to the left. Do you see a +man in a brown suit, with straw hat to match, walking towards us at a regular +pace, and keeping in a perfectly straight course? He looks at everybody he +passes as if he were counting them.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is looking back at somebody now, as if he had missed the +number.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so; but that somebody is a woman; doubtless a pretty one, probably +dark. You recognize him, I see. There is a frost come over you which convinces +me that you are preparing to receive him in your old ungracious way. I warn you +that I am accustomed to see Ned made much of. He has caught sight of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“And has just remarked that there is a man talking to his wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right. See his speculative air! Now he no longer attends to us. He +is looking at the passers-by as before. That means that he has recognized you, +and has stowed the observation compactly away in his brain, to be referred to +when he comes up to us.” +</p> + +<p> +“So much method must economize his intellect very profitably. How do you +do, Mr. Conolly? It is some time since we have had the pleasure of +meeting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Glad to see you, Mr. Douglas. We have been away all the winter. Are you +staying in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you will spend an occasional hour with us at Holland Park.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind. Thank you: yes, if Mrs. Conolly will permit +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should make you come home with us now,” said Marian, “but +for this Sunday being a special occasion. Nelly McQuinch is to spend the +evening with us; and as I have not seen her since we came back, I must have her +all to myself. Come next Sunday, if you care to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do,” said Conolly. “Half past three is our Sunday hour. If +you cannot face that, we are usually at home afterwards the entire evening. +Marian: we have exactly fifteen minutes to catch our train.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! let us fly. If we miss it, Nelly will be kept waiting half an +hour.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they parted, Douglas promising to come to them on that day week. +</p> + +<p> +“Dont you think he is growing very fat?” said she, as they walked +away. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. He is beginning to take the world easily. He does not seem to be +making much of his life.” +</p> + +<p> +“What matter, so long as he enjoys it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! He doesnt know what enjoyment means.” +</p> + +<p> +They said nothing further until they were in the train, where Marian sat +looking listlessly through the window, whilst Conolly, opposite, reclining +against the cushions, looked thoughtfully at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ned,” said she, suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that Sholto is more infatuated about me than ever?” +</p> + +<p> +“Naturally. You are lovelier than when he last saw you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are nearly as complimentary as he,” said Marian, blushing with +a gratification which she was very unwilling to betray. “He noticed it +sooner than you. I discovered it myself in the glass before either of +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt you did. What station is this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know.” Then, raising her voice so as to be overheard, she +exclaimed “Here is a stupid man coming into our carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +A young man entered the compartment, and, after one glance at Marian, who +turned her back on him impatiently, spent the remainder of the journey making +furtive attempts to catch a second glimpse of her face. Conolly looked a shade +graver at his wife’s failure in perfect self-control; but he by no means +shared her feelings toward the intrusive passenger. Marian and he were in +different humors; and he did not wish to be left alone with her. +</p> + +<p> +As they walked from Addison Road railway station to their house, Conolly mused +in silence with his eyes on the gardens by the way. Marian, who wished to talk, +followed his measured steps with impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me take your arm, Ned: I cannot keep up with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I am not inconveniencing you,” she said, after a further +interval of silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Hm—no.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I am. It does not matter. I can get on by myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Arm in arm is such an inconvenient and ridiculous mode of locomotion—you +need not struggle in the public street: now that you have got my arm you shall +keep it—I say it is such an inconvenient and ridiculous mode of locomotion that +if you were any one else I should prefer to wheel you home in a barrow. Our +present mode of proceeding would be inexcusable if I were a traction-engine, +and you my tender.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then let me go. What will the people think if they see a great engineer +violating the laws of mechanics by dragging his wife by the arm?” +</p> + +<p> +“They will appreciate my motives; and, in fact, if you watch them, you +will detect a thinly-disguised envy in their countenances. I violate the laws +of mechanics—to use your own sarcastic phrase—for many reasons. I like to be +envied when there are solid reasons for it. It gratifies my vanity to be seen +in this artistic quarter with a pretty woman on my arm. Again, the sense of +possessing you is no longer an abstraction when I hold you bodily, and feel the +impossibility of keeping step with you. Besides, Man, who was a savage only +yesterday, has his infirmities, and finds a poetic pleasure in the touch of the +woman he loves. And I may add that you have been in such a bad temper all the +afternoon that I suspect you of an itching to box my ears, and therefore feel +safer with your arm in my custody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! <i>Indeed</i> I have not been in a bad temper. I have been most +anxious to spend a happy day.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I have been placidly reflective, and not anxious at all. Is that +what has provoked you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not provoked. But you might tell me what your reflections are +about.” +</p> + +<p> +“They would fill volumes, if I could recollect them.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must recollect some of them. From the time we left the station until +a moment ago, when we began to talk, you were pondering something with the +deepest seriousness. What was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I forget.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you forget—just because I want to know. What a crowded road +this is!” She disengaged herself from his arm; and this time he did not +resist her. +</p> + +<p> +“That reminds me of it. The crowd consists partly of people going to the +pro-Cathedral. The pro-Cathedral contains an altar. An altar suggests kneeling +on hard stone; and that brings me to the disease called +‘housemaids’ knee,’ which was the subject of my +reflections.” +</p> + +<p> +“A pleasant subject for a fine Sunday! Thank you. I dont want to hear any +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you will hear more of it; for I am going to have the steps of our +house taken away and replaced by marble, or slate, or something that can be +cleaned with a mop and a pail of water in five minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“My chain of thought began at the door steps we have passed, all whitened +beautifully so as to display every footprint, and all representing an +expenditure of useless, injurious labor in hearthstoning, that ought to madden +an intelligent housemaid. I dont think our Armande is particularly intelligent; +but I am resolved to spare her knees and her temper in future by banishing +hearthstone from our establishment forever. I shudder to think that I have been +walking upon those white steps and flag ways of ours every day without +awakening to a sense of their immorality.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot understand why you are always disparaging Armande. And I hate +an ill-kept house front. None of our housemaids ever objected to hearthstoning, +or were any the worse for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. They would not have gained anything by objecting: they would only +have lost their situations. You need not fear for your house front. I will +order a porch with porphyry steps and alabaster pillars to replace your beloved +hearthstone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. That will be clever. Do you know how easy it is to stain marble? +Armande will be on her knees all day with a bottle of turpentine and a bit of +flannel.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are thinking of inkstains, Marian. You forget that it does not rain +ink, and that Nelly will hardly select the porch to write her novels in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lots of people bring ink on a doorstep. Tax collectors and gasmen carry +bottles in their pockets.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask them into the drawing-room when they call, my dear; or, better +still, dont pay them, so that they will have no need to write a receipt. Let me +remind you that ink shews as much on white hearthstone as it can possibly do on +marble. Yet extensive disfigurements of steps from the visits of tax collectors +are not common.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Ned, you know that you are talking utter nonsense.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear. I think I perceive Nelly looking out of the window for us. +Here she is at the door.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian hastened forward and embraced her cousin. Miss McQuinch looked older; +and her complexion was drier than before. But she had apparently begun to study +her appearance; for her hat and shoes were neat and even elegant, which they +had never been within Marian’s previous experience of her. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You</i> are not changed in the least,” she said, as she gave +Conolly her hand. “I have just been wondering at the alteration in +Marian. She has grown lovely.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been telling her so all day, in the vain hope of getting her into +a better temper. Come into the drawing-room. Have you been waiting for us +long?” +</p> + +<p> +“About fifteen minutes. I have been admiring your organ. I should have +tried the piano; but I did not know whether that was allowable on +Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Why did you not pound it to your heart’s content? Ned +scandalizes the neighbors every Sunday by continually playing. Armande: dinner +as soon as possible, please.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like this house. It is exactly my idea of a comfortable modern +home.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must stay long enough to find out its defects,” said Conolly. +“We read your novel at Verona; but we could not agree as to which +characters you meant to be taken as the good ones.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was only Ned’s nonsense,” said Marian. “Most +novels are such rubbish! I am sure you will be able to live by writing just as +well as Mrs. Fairfax can.” Conolly shewed Miss McQuinch his opinion of +this unhappy remark by a whimsical glance, which she repudiated by turning +sharply away from him, and speaking as affectionately as she could to Marian. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner they returned to the drawing-room, which ran from the front to the +back of the house. Marian opened a large window which gave access to the +garden, and sat down with Elinor on a little terrace outside. Conolly went to +the organ. +</p> + +<p> +“May I play a voluntary while you talk?” he asked. “I shall +not scandalize any one: the neighbors think all music sacred when it is played +on the organ.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have a nice view of the sunset from here,” said Marian, in a +low voice, turning her forehead to the cool evening breeze. +</p> + +<p> +“Stuff!” said Elinor. “We didnt come here to talk about the +sunset, and what a pretty house you have, and so forth. I want to know—good +heavens! what a thundering sound that organ makes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Please dont say anything about it to him: he likes it,” said +Marian. “When he wishes to exalt himself, he goes to it and makes it roar +until the whole house shakes. Whenever he feels an emotional impulse, he vents +it at the organ or the piano, or by singing. When he stops, he is satisfied; +his mind is cleared; and he is in a good-humored, playful frame of mind, such +as <i>I</i> can gratify.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you were always very fond of music. Dont you ever play together, as +we used to do; or sing to one another’s accompaniments?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot. I hardly ever touch the piano when he is in the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Are you afraid of preventing him from having his turn?” +</p> + +<p> +“No: it is not so much that. But—it sounds very silly—if I attempt to +play or sing in his presence, I become so frightfully nervous that I hardly +know what I am doing. I know he does not like my singing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure that is not merely your fancy? It sounds very like +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. At first I used to play a good deal for him, knowing that he was +fond of music, and fancying—poor fool that I was! [here Marian spoke so +bitterly that Nelly turned and looked hard at her] that it was part of a +married woman’s duty in a house to supply music after dinner. At that +time he was working hard at his business; and he spent so much time in the city +that he had to give up playing himself. Besides, we were flying all about +England opening those branch offices, and what not. He always took me with him; +and I really enjoyed it, and took quite an interest in the Company. When we +were in London, although I was so much alone in the daytime, I was happy in +anticipating our deferred honeymoon. Then the time for that paradise came. Ned +said that the Company was able to walk by itself at last, and that he was going +to have a long holiday after his dry-nursing of it. We went first to Paris, +where we heard all the classical concerts that were given while we were there. +I found that he never tired of listening to orchestral music; and yet he never +ceased grumbling at it. He thought nothing of the great artists in Paris. Then +we went for a tour through Brittany; and there, in spite of his classical +tastes, he used to listen to the peasants’ songs and write them down. He +seemed to like folk songs of all kinds, Irish, Scotch, Russian, German, +Italian, no matter where from. So one evening, at a lodging where there was a +piano, I played for him that old arrangement of Irish melodies—you +know—‘Irish Diamonds,’ it is called.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh Lord! Yes, I remember. ‘Believe me if all,’ with +variations.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. He thought I meant it in jest: he laughed at it, and played a lot +of ridiculous variations to burlesque it. I didnt tell him that I had been in +earnest: perhaps you can imagine how I felt about it. Then, after that, in +Italy, he got permission—or rather bought it—to try the organ in a church. It +was growing dusk; I was tired with walking; and somehow between the sense of +repose, and the mysterious twilight in the old church, I was greatly affected +by his playing. I thought it must be part of some great mass or symphony; and I +felt how little I knew about music, and how trivial my wretched attempts must +appear to him when he had such grand harmonies at his fingers’ ends. But +he soon stopped; and when I was about to tell him how I appreciated his +performance, he said, ‘What an abominable instrument a bad organ +is!’ I had thought it beautiful, of course. I asked him what he had been +playing. I said was it not by Mozart; and then I saw his eyebrows go up; so I +added, as a saving clause, that perhaps it was something of his own. ‘My +dear girl,’ said he, ‘it was only an <i>entr’acte</i> from an +opera of Donizetti’s.’ He was carrying my shawl at the time; and he +wrapped it about my shoulders in the tenderest manner as he said this, and made +love to me all the evening to console me. In his opinion, the greatest +misfortune that can happen anyone is to make a fool of oneself; and whenever I +do it, he pets me in the most delicate manner, as if I were a child who had +just got a tumble. When we settled down here and got the organ, he began to +play constantly, and I used to practise the piano in the daytime so as to have +duets with him. But though he was always ready to play whenever I proposed it, +he was quite different then from what he was when he played by himself. He was +all eyes and ears, and the moment I played a wrong note he would name the right +one. Then I generally got worse and stopped. He never lost his patience or +complained; but I used to feel that he was urging me on, or pulling me back, or +striving to get me to do something which I could not grasp. Then he would give +me up in despair, and play on mechanically from the notes before him, thinking +of something else all the time. I practised harder, and tried again. I thought +at first I had succeeded; because our duets went so smoothly and we were always +so perfectly together. But I discovered—by instinct I believe—that instead of +having a musical treat, he was only trying to please me. He thought I liked +playing duets with him; and accordingly he used to sit down beside me and +accompany me faithfully, no matter how I chose to play.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me! Why doesnt he get Rubinstein to play with him, since he is so +remarkably fastidious?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not so much mechanical skill that I lack; but there is something—I +cannot tell what it is. I found it out one night when we were at Mrs. +Saunders’s. She is an incurable flirt; and she was quite sure that she +had captivated Ned, who is always ready to make love to anyone that will listen +to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“A nice sort of man to be married to!” +</p> + +<p> +“He only does it to amuse himself. He does not really care for them: I +almost wish he did, sometimes; but it is often none the less provoking. What is +worse, no amount of flirtation on my part would make <i>him</i> angry. What +happened at Mrs. Saunders’s was this. The Scotts, of Putney, were there; +and the first remark Ned made to me was, ‘Who is the woman that knows how +to walk?’ It was Mrs. Scott: you know you used to say she moved like a +panther. Afterward Mrs. Scott sang ‘Caller Herrin’ in that vulgar +Scotch accent that leaks out occasionally in her speech, with Ned at the piano. +Everybody came crowding in to listen; and there was great applause. I cannot +understand it: she is as hard and matter-of-fact as a woman can be: I dont +believe the expression in her singing comes one bit from true feeling. I heard +Ned say to her, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Scott: no Englishwoman has the secret of +singing a ballad as you have it.’ I knew very well what that meant. +<i>I</i> have not the secret. Well, Mrs. Scott came over to me and said +‘Mr. Conolly is a very _pair_tinaceous man. He persuaded me into shewing +him the way the little song is sung in Scotland; and I stood up without +thinking. And see now, I have been _rag_uilarly singing a song in company for +the first time in my life.’ Of course, it was a ridiculous piece of +affectation. Ned talked about Mrs. Scott all the way home, and played +‘Caller Herrin’ four times next day. That finished my domestic +musical career. I have never sung for him since, except once or twice when he +has asked me to try the effect of some passage in one of his +music-books.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you never sing when you go out, as you used to?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only when he is not with me, or when people force me to. If he is in the +room, I am so nervous that I can hardly get through the easiest song. He never +offers to accompany me now, and generally leaves the room when I am asked to +sing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he sees the effect his presence has on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even so, he ought to stay. He used to like <i>me</i> to listen to +<i>him</i>, at first.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss McQuinch looked at the sunset with exceeding glumness. There was an +ominous pause. Then she said, abruptly, “You remember how we used to +debate whether marriage was a mistake or not. Have you found out?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know.” +</p> + +<p> +“That sounds rather as if you did know. Are you quite sure you are not in +low spirits this evening? He was bantering you about being out of temper when +you came in. Perhaps you quarrelled at Kew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quarrel! He quarrel! I cannot explain to you how we are situated, Nelly. +You would not understand me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose you try. For instance, is he as fond of you as he was before you +married him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss McQuinch shrugged herself impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Really I do not, Nelly. He has changed in a way—I do not quite know how +or why. At first he was not very ceremonious. He used to make remarks about +people, and discuss everything that came into his head quite freely before me. +He was always kind, and never grumbled about his dinner, or lost his temper, or +anything of that kind; but—it was not that he was coarse exactly: he was not +that in the least; but he was very open and unreserved and plain in his +language; and somehow I did not quite like it. He must have found this out: he +sees and feels everything by instinct; for he slipped back into his old manner, +and became more considerate and attentive than he had ever been before. I was +made very happy at first by the change; but I do not think he quite understood +what I wanted. I did not at all object to going down to the country with him on +his business trips; but he always goes alone now; and he never mentions his +work to me. And he is too careful as to what he says to me. Of course, I know +that he is right not to speak ill of anybody; but still a man need not be so +particular before his wife as before strangers. He has given up talking to me +altogether: that is the plain truth, whatever he may pretend. When we do +converse, his manner is something like what it was in the laboratory at the +Towers. Of course, he sometimes becomes more familiar; only then he never seems +in earnest, but makes love to me in a bantering, half playful, half sarcastic +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are rather hard to please, perhaps. I remember you used to say that +a husband should be just as tender and respectful after marriage as before it. +You seem to have broken poor Ned into this; and now you are not +satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nelly, if there is one subject on which girls are more idiotically +ignorant than on any other, it is happiness in marriage. A courtier, a lover, a +man who will not let the winds of heaven visit your face too harshly, is very +nice, no doubt; but he is not a husband. I want to be a wife and not a fragile +ornament kept in a glass case. He would as soon think of submitting any project +of his to the judgment of a doll as to mine. If he has to explain or discuss +any serious matter of business with me, he does so apologetically, as if he +were treating me roughly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear, you see, when he tried the other plan, you did not like +that either. What is the unfortunate man to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know. I suppose I was wrong in shrinking from his confidence. I +am always wrong. It seems to me that the more I try to do right, the more +mischief I contrive to make.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is all pretty dismal, Marian. What sort of conduct on his part +would make you happy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there are so many little things. He makes me jealous of everything +and everybody. I am jealous of the men in the city—I was jealous of the +sanitary inspector the other day—because he talks with interest to them. I know +he stays in the city later than he need. It is a relief to me to go out in the +evening, or to have a few people here once or twice a week; but I am angry +because I know it is a relief to him too. I am jealous even of that organ. How +I hale those Bach fugues! Listen to the maddening thing twisting and rolling +and racing and then mixing itself up into one great boom. He can get on with +Bach: he can’t get on with me. I have even condescended to be jealous of +other women—of such women as Mrs. Saunders. He despises her: he plays with her +as dexterously as she thinks she plays with him; but he likes to chat with her; +and they rattle away for a whole evening without the least constraint. She has +no conscience: she talks absolute nonsense about art and literature: she flirts +even more disgustingly than she used to when she was Belle Woodward; but she is +quickwitted, like most Irish people; and she enjoys a broad style of jesting +which Ned is a great deal too tolerant of, though he would as soon die as +indulge in it before me. Then there is Mrs. Scott, who is just as shrewd as +Belle, and much cleverer. I have heard him ask her opinion as to whether he had +acted well or not in some stroke of business—something that I had never heard +of, of course. I wish I were half as hard and strong and self-reliant as she +is. <i>Her</i> husband would be nothing without her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I was right all along, Marian. Marriage <i>is</i> a mistake. +There is something radically wrong in the institution. If you and Ned cannot be +happy, no pair in the world can.” +</p> + +<p> +“We might be very happy if——” Marian stopped to repress a sob. +</p> + +<p> +“Anybody might be very happy If. There is not much consolation in Ifs. +You could not be better off than you are unless you could be Marian Lind again. +Think of all the women who would give their souls to have a husband who would +neither drink, nor swear at them, nor kick them, nor sulk whenever he was kept +waiting half a minute for anything. You have no little pests of +children——” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had. That would give us some interest in common. We sometimes +have Lucy, Marmaduke’s little girl, up here; and Ned seems to me to be +fond of her. She is a very bold little thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw Marmaduke last week. He is not half so jolly as he was.” +</p> + +<p> +“He lives in chambers in Westminster now, and only comes out in this +direction occasionally to see Lucy. I am afraid <i>she</i> has taken to +drinking. I believe she is going to America. I hope she is; for she makes me +uncomfortable when I think of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does your—your Ned ever speak of her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He used to, before he changed as I described. Now, he never mentions +her. Hush! Here he is.” +</p> + +<p> +The sound of the organ had ceased; and Conolly came out and stood between them. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you like my consoler, as Marian calls it?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean the organ?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wasn’t listening to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You should have: I played the great fugue in A minor expressly for your +entertainment: you used to work at Liszt’s transcription of it. The organ +is only occasionally my consoler. For the most part I am driven to it by habit +and a certain itching in my fingers. Marian is my real consoler.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she has just been telling me,” said Elinor. Conolly’s +surprise escaped him for just a moment in a quick glance at Marian. She +colored, and looked reproachfully at her cousin, who added, “I am sure +you must be a nuisance to the neighbors.” +</p> + +<p> +“Probably,” said Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think you should play so much on Sunday,” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“I know. [Marian winced.] Well, if the neighbors will either melt down +the church bells they jangle so horribly within fifteen yards or so of my +unfortunate ears, or else hang them up two hundred feet high in a beautiful +tower where they would sound angelic, as they do at Utrecht, then perhaps I +will stop the organ to listen to them. Until then, I will take the liberty of +celebrating the day of rest with such devices as the religious folk cannot +forbid me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray do not begin to talk about religion, Ned.” +</p> + +<p> +“My way of thinking is too robust for Marian, Miss McQuinch. I admit that +it does not, at first sight, seem pretty or sentimental. But I do not know how +even Marian can prefer the church bells to Bach.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by ‘<i>even</i> Marian’?” said +Elinor, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have said, ‘Marian, who is tolerant and kind to everybody +and everything.’ I hope you have forgiven me for carrying her off from +you, Miss McQuinch. You are adopting an ominous tone toward me. I fear she has +been telling you of our quarrels, and my many domestic shortcomings.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Elinor. “As far as I can judge from her account, +you are a monotonously amiable husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Hm! Would you like your coffee out here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not stir, Marian: I will ring for it.” +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone, Marian said “Nelly: for Heaven’s sake say nothing +that could make the slightest coldness between Ned and me. I am clinging to him +with all my heart and soul; and you must help me. Those sharp things that you +say to him stab me cruelly; and he is clever enough to guess everything I have +said to you from them.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I cannot keep myself from making mischief, I shall go away,” +said Elinor. “Dont suppose I am in a huff: I am quite serious. I have an +unlucky tongue; and my disposition is such that when I see that a jug is +cracked, I feel more inclined to smash and have done with it than to mend it +and handle it tenderly ever after. However, I hope your marriage is not a +cracked jug yet.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<p> +On the following Wednesday Douglas called on his mother at Manchester Square in +the afternoon. As if to emphasize the purely filial motive of his visit, he +saluted his mother so affectionately that she was emboldened to be more +demonstrative with him than she usually ventured to be. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling boy,” she said, holding him fondly for a moment, +“this is the second visit you have paid your poor old mother this week. I +want to speak to you about something, too. Marian has been with me this +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Has she gone?” said Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” said Mrs. Douglas. “Did you know she was +coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“She mentioned to me that she intended to come,” he replied, +carelessly; “but she bade me not to tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That accounts for your two visits. Well, Sholto, I do not blame you for +spending your time in gayer places than this.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not reproach me for neglecting you, mother. You know my +disposition. I am seldom good company for any one; and I do not care to come +only to cast a damp on you and your friends when I am morose. I hope you +received Marian kindly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not expect to see her; and I told her so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“But it made no difference. There is no holding her in check now, Sholto; +she cares no more for what I say than if I was her father or you. What could I +do but kiss and forgive her? She got the better of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Douglas, gloomily. “She has a wonderful +face.” +</p> + +<p> +“The less you see of her face, the better, Sholto. I hope you will not go +to her house too often.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you doubt my discretion, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Sholto. But I am afraid of any unpleasantness arising between +you and that man. These working men are so savage to their wives, and so +jealous of gentlemen. I hardly like your going into his house at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Absurd, mother! You must not think that he is a navvy in fustian and +corduroys. He seems a sensible man: his address is really remarkably good, +considering what he is. As to his being savage, he is quite the reverse. His +head is full of figures and machinery; and I am told that he does nothing at +home but play the piano. He must bore Marian terribly. I do not want to go to +his house particularly; but Marian and he are, of course, very sensitive to +anything that can be construed as a slight; and I shall visit them once or +twice to prevent them from thinking that I wish to snub Conolly. He will be +glad enough to have me at his dinner-table. I am afraid I must hurry away now: +I have an appointment at the club. Can I do anything for you in town?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you, Sholto. I thought you would have stayed with me for a cup +of tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, dear mother, no: not to-day. I promised to be at the +club.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you promised, of course, you must go. Good-bye. You will come again +soon, will you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Some day next week, if not sooner. Good-bye, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas left Manchester Square, not to go to his club, where he had no real +appointment, but to avoid spending the afternoon with his mother, who, though a +little hurt at his leaving her, was also somewhat relieved by being rid of him. +They maintained toward one another an attitude which their friends found +beautiful and edifying; but, like artists’ models, they found the +attitude fatiguing, in spite of their practice and its dignity. +</p> + +<p> +At Hyde Park Corner, Douglas heard his name unceremoniously shouted. Turning, +he saw Marmaduke Lind, carelessly dressed, walking a little behind him. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going to?” said Marmaduke, abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask?” said Douglas, never disposed to admit the right +of another to question him. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to have a talk with you. Come and lunch somewhere, will +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if you wish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go to the South Kensington Museum.” +</p> + +<p> +“The South——! My dear fellow, why not suggest Putney, or the Star and +Garter? Why do you wish to go westward from Hyde Park in search of +luncheon?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a particular reason. I am to meet someone at the Museum this +afternoon; and I want to ask your advice first. You might as well come; +it’s only a matter of a few minutes if we drive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as you please. I have not been to the Museum for years.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. Come al——oh, damn! There’s Lady Carbury and Constance +coming out of the Park. Dont look at them. Come on.” +</p> + +<p> +But Constance, sitting a little more uprightly than her mother, who was supine +upon the carriage cushions, had seen the two gentlemen as they stood talking. +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma,” she said, “there’s Marmaduke and Sholto +Douglas.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where???” said the Countess, lifting her head quickly. +“Josephs, drive slowly. Where are they, Constance?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are going away. I believe Marmaduke saw us. There he is, passing +the hospital.” +</p> + +<p> +“We must go and speak to them. Look pleasant, child; and dont make a fool +of yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely youll not speak to him, mamma! You dont expect me——” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense. I heard a great deal about him the other day. He has moved +from where he was living, and is quite reformed. His father is very ill. Do as +I tell you. Josephs, stop half way to the hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” said Marmaduke, finding himself out-manoeuvred: +“come back. There they are right ahead, confound them. What are they up +to?” +</p> + +<p> +“It cannot be helped,” said Douglas. “There is no escape. You +must not cross: it would be pointedly rude.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke went on grumbling. When he attempted to pass, the Countess called his +name, and greeted him with smiles. +</p> + +<p> +“We want to know how your father is,” she said. “We have had +such alarming accounts of him. I hope he is better.” +</p> + +<p> +“They havnt told me much about him,” said Marmaduke. “There +was deuced little the matter with the governor when I saw him last.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wicked prodigal! What shall we do to reform him, Mr. Douglas? He has not +been to see us for three years past, and during that time we have had the worst +reports of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never asked me to go and see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Silly fellow! Did you expect me to send you invitations and leave cards +on you, who are one of ourselves? Come to-morrow to dinner. Your uncle the +Bishop will be there; and you will see nearly all the family besides. You +cannot plead that you have not been invited now. Will you come?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I cant stand the Bishop. Besides, I have taken to dining in the +middle of the day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come after dinner, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma,” said Constance, peevishly, “can’t you see that +he does not want to come at all? What is the use of persecuting him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I assure you,” said Marmaduke. “It’s only the +Bishop I object to. I’ll come after dinner, if I can.” +</p> + +<p> +“And pray what is likely to prevent you?” said the Countess. +</p> + +<p> +“Devilment of some sort, perhaps,” he replied. “Since you +have all given me a bad name, I dont see why I should make any secret of +earning it.” +</p> + +<p> +The Countess smiled slyly at him, implying that she was amused, but must not +laugh at such a sentiment in Constance’s presence. Then, turning so as to +give the rest of the conversation an air of privacy, she whispered, “I +must tell you that you no longer have a bad name. It is said that your wild +oats are all sown, and I will answer for it that even the Bishop will receive +you with open arms.” +</p> + +<p> +“And dry my repentant tears on his apron, the old hypocrite,” said +Marmaduke, speaking rather more loudly than before. “Well, we must be +trotting. We are going to the South Kensington Museum—to improve our +minds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, that is where we are going; at least, Constance is. She is going to +work at her painting while I pay a round of visits. Wont you come with +us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you: I’d rather walk. A man should have gloves and a proper +hat for your sort of travelling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! you look very nice. Besides, it is only down the Brompton +Road.” +</p> + +<p> +“The worst neighborhood in London to be seen in with me. I know all sorts +of queer people down Brompton way. I should have to bow to them if we met; and +that wouldnt do before <i>her</i>,”—indicating Constance, who was +conversing with Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“You are incorrigible: I give you up. Good-bye, and dont forget to-morrow +evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” said Marmaduke, as the carriage drove off, “what +she’s saying about me to Constance now.” +</p> + +<p> +“That you are the rudest man in London, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Serve her right! I hate her. I have got so now that I can’t stand +that sort of woman. You see her game, dont you; she can’t get Constance +off her hands; and she thinks there’s a chance of me still. How well she +knows about the governor’s state of health! And Conny, too, grinning at +me as if we were the best friends in the world. If that girl had an ounce of +spirit she would not look on the same side of the street with me.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas, without replying, called a cab. Marmaduke’s loud conversation +was irksome in the street, and it was now clear that he was unusually excited. +At the museum they alighted, and passed through the courts into the grill-room, +where they sat down together at a vacant table, and ordered luncheon. +</p> + +<p> +“You were good enough to ask my advice about something,” said +Douglas. “What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Marmaduke, “I am in a fix. Affairs have become +so uncomfortable at home that I have had to take up my quarters +elsewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that you had been living at home. I thought your father +and you were on the usual terms.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father! Look here: I mean home—<i>my</i> home. My place at +Hammersmith, not down at the governor’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I beg your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, you know all about my establishment there with Lalage Virtue? +her real name is Susanna Conolly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true, then, that she is a cousin of Marian’s husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“Cousin! She’s his sister, and Marian’s sister-in-law.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never believed it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s true enough. But thats not the mischief. Douglas: I tell you +she’s the cleverest woman in London. She can do anything she likes. She +can manage a conversation with any foreigner in his own language, whether she +knows it or not. She gabbles Italian like a native. She can learn off her part +in a new piece, music and all, between breakfast and luncheon, any day. She can +cook: she can make a new bonnet out of the lining of an old coat: she can drive +a bargain with a Jew. She says she never learns a thing at all unless she can +learn it in ten minutes. She can fence, and shoot. She can dance anything in +the world. I never knew such a mimic as she is. If you saw her take off the +Bones at the Christy Minstrels, you’d say she was the lowest of the low. +Next minute she will give herself the airs of a duchess, or do the ingenuous in +a style that would make Conny burst with envy. To see her preaching like George +would make you laugh for a week. There’s nothing she couldnt do if she +chose. And now, what do you think she has taken to? Liquor. Champagne by the +gallon. She used to drink it by the bottle: now she drinks it by the dozen—by +the case. She wanted it to keep up her spirits. That was the way it began. If +she felt down, a glass of champagne would set her up. Then she was always +feeling down, and always setting herself up. At last feeling down came to mean +the same thing as being sober. You dont know what a drunken woman is, Douglas, +unless youve lived in the same house with one.” Douglas recoiled, and +looked very sternly at Marmaduke, who proceeded more vehemently. +“She’s nothing but a downright beast. She’s either screaming +at you in a fit of rage, or clawing at you in a fit of fondness that makes you +sick. When she falls asleep, there she is, a besotted heap tumbled anyhow into +bed, snoring and grunting like a pig. When she wakes, she begins planning how +to get more liquor. Think of what you or I would feel if we saw our mothers +tipsy. By God, that child of mine wouldnt believe its eyes if it saw its mother +sober. Only for Lucy, I’d have pitched her over long ago. I did all I +could when I first saw that she was overdoing the champagne. I swore I’d +break the neck of any man I caught bringing wine into the house. I sacked the +whole staff of servants twice because I found a lot of fresh corks swept into +the dustpan. I stopped drinking at home myself: I got in doctors to frighten +her: I tried bribing, coaxing, threatening: I knocked her down once when I +caught her with a bottle in her hand; and she fell with her head against the +fender, and frightened me a good deal more than she hurt herself. It was no +use. Sometimes she used to defy me, and say she <i>would</i> drink, she didnt +care whether she was killing herself or not. Other times she cried; implored me +to save her from destroying herself; asked me why I didnt thrash the life out +of her whenever I caught her drunk; promised on her oath never to touch another +drop. The same evening she would be drunk again, and, when I taxed her with it, +say that she wasn’t drunk, that she was sick, and that she prayed the +Almighty on her knees to strike her dead if she had a bottle in the house. Aye, +and the very stool she knelt on would be a wine case with a red cloth stuck to +it with a few gilt-headed nails to make it look like a piece of furniture. Next +day she would laugh at me for believing her, and ask me what use I supposed +there was in talking to her. How she managed to hold on at the theatre, I dont +know. She wouldnt learn new parts, and stuck to old ones that she could do in +her sleep, she knew them so well. She would go on the stage and get through a +long part when she couldnt walk straight from the wing to her dressing-room. Of +course, her voice went to the dogs long ago; but by dint of screeching and +croaking she pulls through. She says she darent go on sober now; that she knows +she should break down. The theatre has fallen off, too. The actors got out of +the place one by one—they didnt like playing with her—and were replaced by a +third-rate lot. The audiences used to be very decent: now they are all cads and +fast women. The game is up for her in London. She has been offered an +engagement in America on the strength of her old reputation; but what is the +use of it if she continues drinking.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very sad,” said Douglas, with cold disgust, perfunctorily +veiled by a conventional air of sympathy. “But if she is irreclaimable, +why not leave her?” +</p> + +<p> +“So I would, only for the child. I <i>have</i> left her—at least, +I’ve taken lodgings in town; but I am always running out to Laurel Grove. +I darent trust Lucy to her; and she knows it; for she wouldnt let me take the +poor little creature away, although she doesnt care two straws for it. She +knows that it gives her a grip over me. Well, I have not seen her for a week +past. I have tried the trick of only going out in the evening when she has to +be at the theatre. And now she has sent me a long letter; and I dont exactly +know what to do about it. She swears she has given up drinking—not touched a +spoonful since I saw her last. She’s as superstitious as an old woman; +and yet she will swear to that lie with oaths that make <i>me</i> +uncomfortable, although I am pretty thick-skinned in religious matters. Then +she goes drivelling on about me having encouraged her to drink at first, and +then turned upon her and deserted her when I found out the mischief I had done. +I used to stand plenty of champagne, but I am sure I never thought what would +come of it. Then she says she gave up every friend in the world for me: broke +with her brother, and lost her place in society. <i>Her</i> place in society, +mind you, Douglas! Thats not bad, is it? Then, of course, I am leaving her to +die alone with her helpless child: I might have borne with her a little longer: +she will not trouble me nor anyone else much more; and so on. The upshot is +that she wants me to come back. She says I ought to be there to save the child +from her, if I dont care to save her from herself; that I was the last +restraint on her; and that if I dont come she will make an end of the business +by changing her tipple to prussic acid. The whole thing is a string of maudlin +rot from beginning to end; and I believe she primed herself with about four +bottles of champagne to write it. Still, I dont want to leave her in the lurch. +You are a man who stand pretty closely on your honor. Do you think I ought to +go back? I may tell you that as regards money she is under no compliment to me. +Her earnings were a good half of our income; and she saved nothing out of them. +In fact, I owe her some money for two or three old debts she paid for me. We +always shared like husband and wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly understand your hesitation, Lind. You can take the little girl +out of her hands; allow her something; and be quit of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats very easy to say; but I cant drag her child away from her if she +insists on keeping it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, so much the better for you. It would be a burden to you. Pay her +for its maintenance: that is probably what she wants.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Marmaduke, impatiently. “You dont understand. +Youre talking as if I were a rake living with a loose woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas looked at him doubtfully. “I confess I do not understand,” +he said. “Perhaps you will be good enough to explain.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very simple. I went to live with her because I fell in love +with her, and she wouldnt marry me. She had a horror of marriage; and I was +naturally not very eager for it myself. Matters must be settled between us as +if we were husband and wife. Paying her off is all nonsense. She doesnt want +money; and I want the child; so she has the advantage of me. Only for the drink +I would go back to her to-morrow; but I cant stand her when she is not sober. I +bore with it long enough; and now all I want is to get Lucy out of her hands +and be quit of her, as you say—although it seems mean to leave her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She must certainly be a very extraordinary woman if she refused to marry +you. Are you sure she is not married already?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bosh! Not she. She likes to be independent; and she has a sort of +self-respect—not like Constance and the old Countess, who hunted me long enough +in the hope of running me down at last in a church.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you offered her marriage, that certainly frees you from the least +obligation to stay with her. She reserved liberty to leave you; and, of course, +the same privilege was implied on your part. If you have no sentimental wish to +return to her, you are most decidedly not bound in honor to.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m fond enough of her when she is sober; but I loathe her when +she is fuddled. If she would only give up drinking, we might make a fresh +start. But she wont.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not think of doing that. Get rid of her, my dear fellow. This +marriage of Marian’s has put the affair on a new footing altogether. I +tell you candidly, I think that under the circumstances your connexion with +Conolly’s sister is a disgraceful one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hang Conolly! Everybody thinks of Marian, and nobody of Susanna. I have +heard enough of that side of the question. Marian married him with her eyes +open.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to say that she knew?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course she did. Conolly told her, fairly enough. He’s an +extraordinary card, that fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Reginald Lind told my mother that the discovery was made by accident +after the marriage, and that they were all shocked by it. It was he who said +that it was Conolly’s <i>cousin</i> that you were with.” +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Rej. is an old liar. So are most of the family: I never believe a +word they say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian must have been infatuated. I advise you to break the connexion. +She will be glad to give you the child if she sees that you are resolved to +leave her. She only holds on because she hopes to make it the means of bringing +you back.” +</p> + +<p> +“I expect youre about right. She wants me to meet her here to-day at half +past three. Thats the reason I came.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that it now wants twenty minutes of four?” +</p> + +<p> +“Whew! So it does. I had better go and look for her. I’m very much +obliged to you, old fellow, for talking it over with me. I suppose you dont +want to meet her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be in the way at present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke, leaving Douglas in the grill-room, went upstairs to the picture +galleries, where several students were more or less busy at their easels. Lady +Constance was in the Sheepshanks gallery, copying “Sterne’s +Maria,” by Charles Landseer, as best she could. She had been annoyed some +minutes before by the behavior of a stout woman in a rich costume of black +silk, who had stopped for a moment to inspect her drawing. Lady Constance, by a +look, had made her aware that she was considered intrusive, whereupon she had +first stared Lady Constance out of countenance, and then deliberately scanned +her work with an expression which conveyed a low opinion of its merit. Having +thus revenged herself, she stood looking uneasily at the door for a minute, and +at last wandered away into the adjoining gallery. A few minutes later Marmaduke +entered, looking round as if in search of someone. +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am,” said Constance to him, playfully. +</p> + +<p> +“So I see,” said Marmaduke, recognizing her with rueful +astonishment. “You knew I was looking for you, did you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I did, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Youre clever, so you are. What are you doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont you see? I am copying a picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it’s very pretty. Which one are you copying?” +</p> + +<p> +“What an impertinent question! You can tell my poor copy well enough, +only you pretend not to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, now that I look closely at it, I fancy it’s a little like +Mary the maid of the inn there.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not Mary: it’s Maria—Sterne’s Maria.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Do you read Sterne?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” said Constance, looking very serious. +</p> + +<p> +“Then what do you paint his Maria for? How do you know whether she is a +fit subject for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, sir! You must not interrupt my work.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you have lots of fun here over your art studies, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“You, and all the other girls here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I am sure I dont know any of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right, too, your ladyship. Dont make yourself cheap. I hope none +of the low beggars ever have the audacity to speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know anything about them,” said Lady Constance, pettishly. +“All I mean is that they are strangers to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most likely theyll remain so. You all seem to stick to the little +pictures tremendously. Why dont you go in for high art? There’s a big +picture of Adam and Eve! Why dont you paint that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you soon be leaving town?” she replied, looking steadily at +her work, and declining to discuss Adam and Eve, who were depicted naked. +Receiving no reply, she looked round, and saw Marmaduke leaving the room with +the woman in the black silk dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that girl?” said Susanna, as they went out. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s Lady Constance, whom I was to have married.” +</p> + +<p> +“I guessed as much when I saw you talking to her. She is a true English +lady, heaven bless her! I took the liberty of looking at her painting; and she +stared at me as if I had bitten her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is a little fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will not be such a little fool as to try to snub me again, I think. +Bob: did you get my letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I got it, or I shouldnt be here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I dont believe a word of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s plain speaking.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no use mincing matters. You are just as likely to stop drinking +as you are to stop breathing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I shall stop breathing before long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very likely, at your present rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will be a relief to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be a relief to everybody, and a release for yourself. You have +made me miserable for a year past; and now you expect me to be frightened at +the prospect of being rid of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont expect you to be frightened. I expect you to do what all men do: +throw me aside as soon as I have served your turn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Of course, <i>you</i> are the aggrieved party. Where’s +Lucy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know, and I dont care.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I want to know; and I do care. Is she at home?” +</p> + +<p> +“How do I know whether she is at home or not. I left her there. Very +likely she is with her Aunt Marian, telling stories about her mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is better there than with you. What harm has she done you that you +should talk about her in that way?” +</p> + +<p> +“No harm. I dont object to her being there. She has very pleasant +conversations with Mrs. Ned, which she retails to me at home. ‘Aunty +Marian: why do you never drink champagne? Mamma is always drinking it.’ +And then, ‘Mamma: why do you drink so much wine? Aunty Marian never +drinks any.’ Good heavens! the little devil told me this morning by way +of consolation that she always takes care not to tell her Aunty that I get +drunk.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you do to her for saying it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont lose your temper. I didnt strangle her, nor even box her ears. Why +should I? She only repeats what you teach her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She repeats what her eyes and ears teach her. If she learned the word +from me, she learned the meaning from you. A nice lesson for a child hardly +three years old.” +</p> + +<p> +Susanna sat down on a bench, and looked down at her feet. After a few moments, +she tightened her lips; rose; and walked away. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo! Where are you going to?” said Marmaduke, following her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to get some drink. I have been sober and miserable ever +since I wrote to you. I have not got much thanks for it, except to be made more +miserable. So I’ll get drunk, and be happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, you shant,” said Marmaduke, seizing her arm, and forcibly +stopping her. +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter to you whether I do or not? You say you won’t +come back. Then leave me to go my own way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here! you sit down,” he said, pushing her into a chair. “I +know your game well enough. You think you have me safe as long as you have the +child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thats it, is it? Why dont you go out; take a cab; and go to Laurel +Grove for her? There is nothing to prevent you taking her away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a good mind to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, <i>do</i> it. I wont stop you. Why didnt you do it long ago? Her +home is no place for her. I’m not fit to have charge of her. I have no +fancy for having her talking about me, and most likely mimicking me to other +people.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats exactly what I want to arrange with you to do, if you will only be +reasonable. Listen. Let us part friends, Susanna, since there is no use in our +going on together. You must give me the child. It would only be a burden to +you; and I can have it well taken care of. You can keep the house just as it +is: I will pay the rent of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What good is the house to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you hear me out? It will be good to you to live in, I +suppose; or you can set it on fire, and wipe it off the face of the earth, for +what I care. I can give you five hundred pounds down——” +</p> + +<p> +“Five hundred pounds! And what will you live on until your October +dividends come in? On credit, I suppose. Do you think you can impose on me by +flourishing money before me? I will never take a halfpenny from you; no, not if +I starve for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats all nonsense, Susanna. You must.” +</p> + +<p> +“Must I? Do you think you can make me take your money as you made me sit +down here? by force!” +</p> + +<p> +“I only offer you what I owe you. Those debts——” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont want what you owe me. If you think it mean to leave me, you shant +plaster up your conscience with bank notes. You would like to be able to say in +your club that you treated me handsomely.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont think it mean to leave you, not a bit of it. Any other man would +have left you months ago. If I had married that little fool inside there, and +she had taken to drink, I wouldnt have stood it a week. I have stood it from +you nearly a year. Can you expect me to stay under the same roof with you, with +the very thought of you making me sick and angry? I was looking at some of your +old likenesses the other day; and I declare that it is enough to make a man cry +to look at your face now and listen to your voice. When you used to lecture me +for losing a twenty pound note at billiards, and coming home half screwed—no +man shall ever see me drunk again—I little thought which of us would be the +first to go to the dogs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not trouble you long.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the use of harping on that? I have seen you drunk so often that +I should almost be glad to see you dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop!” said Susanna, rising. “All right: you need say no +more. Talking will not remedy matters; and it makes me feel pretty much as if +you were throwing big stones at my heart. Youre in the right, I suppose: +I’ve chosen to make a beast of myself, and I must take the consequences. +You can have the child. I will send for my things: you wont see me at Laurel +Grove again. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont say another word, Bob. Good-bye.” He took her hand +irresolutely. She drew it quickly away; nodded to him; and went out, whilst he +stood wondering whether it would be safe—seeing that he did not desire a +reconciliation—to kiss her good-bye. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<p> +On Sunday afternoon Douglas walked, facing a glorious sunset, along Uxbridge +Road to Holland Park, where he found Mrs. Conolly, Miss McQuinch, and +Marmaduke. A little girl was playing in the garden. They were all so +unconstrained, and so like their old selves, that Douglas at once felt that +Conolly was absent. +</p> + +<p> +“I am to make Ned’s excuses,” said Marian. “He has some +pressing family affairs to arrange.” She seemed about to explain further; +but Marmaduke looked so uneasily at her that she stopped. Then, resuming gaily, +she added, “I told Ned that he need not stand on ceremony with you. Fancy +my saying that of you, the most punctilious of men!” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right. I am glad that Mr. Conolly has not suffered me to interfere +with his movements,” he replied, with a smile, which he suppressed as he +turned and greeted Miss McQuinch with his usual cold composure. But to +Marmaduke, who seemed much cast down, he gave an encouraging squeeze of the +hand. Not that he was moved by the misfortunes of Marmaduke; but he was thawed +by the beauty of Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall have a pleasant evening,” continued Marian. “Let us +fancy ourselves back at Westbourne Terrace again. Reminiscences make one feel +so deliciously aged and sad. Let us think that it is one of our old Sunday +afternoons. Sholto had better go upstairs and shave, to heighten the +illusion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for me, since I cannot see myself, particularly if I have to call +you Mrs. Conolly. If I may call you Marian, as I used to do, I think that our +conversation will contain fewer reminders of the lapse of time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said Marian, disregarding an anxious glance from +Elinor. “What else should you call me? We were talking about +Nelly’s fame when you came in. The colonial edition of her book has just +appeared. Behold the advertisement!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a newspaper open on the table; and Marian pointed to one of its +columns as she spoke. Douglas took it up and read the following: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +Now Ready, a New and Cheaper Edition, crown 8vo, 5s. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE WATERS OF MARAH, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +BY ELINOR MCQUINCH. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Superior to many of the numerous tales which find a ready sale at + the railway bookstall.” <i>Athenaeum</i>.<br/> + “There is nothing to fatigue, and something to gratify, the idle +reader.” <i>Examiner</i>.<br/> + “There is a ring of solid metal in ‘The Waters of +Marah.’” <i>Daily Telegraph</i>.<br/> + “Miss McQuinch has fairly established her claim to be considered the +greatest novelist of the age.” <i>Middlingtown Mercury.</i> +<br/> + “Replete with thrilling and dramatic incident….. Instinct with +passion and pathos.” <i>Ladies’ Gazette</i>. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +TABUTEAU & SON, COVENT GARDEN. +</p> + +<p> +“That is very flattering,” said Douglas, as he replaced the paper +on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Highly so,” said Elinor. “Coriolanus displaying his wounds +in the Forum is nothing to it.” And she abruptly took the paper, and +threw it disgustedly behind the sofa. Just then a message from the kitchen +engaged Marian’s attention, and Douglas, to relieve her from her guests +for the moment, strolled out upon the little terrace, whither Marmaduke had +moodily preceded him. +</p> + +<p> +“Still in your difficulties, Lind?” he said, with his perfunctory +air of concern, looking at the garden with some interest. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m out of my difficulties clean enough,” said Marmaduke. +“There’s the child among the currant bushes; and I am rid of her +mother: for good, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“So much the better! I hope it has not cost you too much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a rap. I met her in the museum after our confab on Wednesday, and +told her what you recommended: that I must have the child, and that she must +go. She said all right, and shook hands. I havnt seen her since.” +</p> + +<p> +“I congratulate you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont feel comfortable about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Absurd, man! What better could you have done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats just what I say. It was her own fault; I did all in my power. I +offered her five hundred pounds down. She wouldnt have it, of course; but could +I help that? Next day, when she sent her maid for her things, I felt so uneasy +that I came to Conolly, and told him the whole affair. He behaved very decently +about it, and said that I might as well have left her six months ago for all +the good my staying had done or was likely to do. He has gone off to see her +to-day—she is in lodgings somewhere near the theatre; and he will let me know +in case any money is required. I should like to know what they are saying to +one another about me. They’re a rum pair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let us eat and drink; for to-morrow we die,” said Douglas, +with an unnatural attempt at humor. “Marian seems happy. We must not +spoil her evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: she is always in good spirits when he is away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me that they dont pull together. I think she is afraid of +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You dont mean to say that he ill-treats her?” said Douglas, +fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“No: I dont mean that he thrashes her, or anything of that sort. And yet +he is just that sort of chap that I shouldnt be surprised at anything he might +do. As far as ordinary matters go, he seems to treat her particularly well. But +Ive noticed that she shuts up and gets anxious when he comes into the room; and +he has his own way in everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all? He embarrasses her by his behavior, I suppose. Perhaps she +is afraid of his allowing his breeding to peep out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not she. His manners are all right enough. Besides, as he is a genius +and a celebrity and all that, people dont expect him to be conventional. He +might stand on his head, if he chose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto,” said Marian, joining them: “have you spoken to +little Lucy?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are unacquainted with the most absolute imp on the face of the +earth,” said Elinor. “You neednt frown, Marmaduke: it is you who +have made her so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave her alone,” said Marmaduke to Marian, who was about to call +the child. “Petting babies is not in Douglas’s line: she will only +bore him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” said Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“It does not matter whether she bores him or not,” said Marian. +“He must learn to take a proper interest in children. Lucy: come +here.” +</p> + +<p> +Lucy stopped playing, and said, “What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I ask you to, dear,” said Marian, gently. +</p> + +<p> +The child considered for a while, and then resumed her play. Miss McQuinch +laughed. Marmaduke muttered impatiently, and went down the garden. Lucy did not +perceive him until he was within a few steps of her, when she gave a shrill cry +of surprise, and ran to the other side of a flower-bed too wide for him to +spring across. He gave chase; but she, with screams of laughter, avoided him by +running to and fro so as to keep on the opposite side to him. Feeling that it +was undignified to dodge his child thus, he stopped and bade her come to him; +but she only laughed the more. He called her in tones of command, entreaty, +expostulation, and impatience. At last he shouted to her menacingly. She placed +her thumbnail against the tip of her nose; spread her fingers; and made him a +curtsy. He uttered an imprecation, and returned angrily to the house, saying, +between his teeth: +</p> + +<p> +“Let her stay out, since she chooses to be obstinate.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is really too bad to-day,” said Marian. “I am quite +shocked at her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is quite right not to come in and be handed round for inspection +like a doll,” said Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“She is very bold not to come when she is told,” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, from your point of view,” said Elinor. “I like bold +children.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke was sulky and Marian serious for some time after this incident. They +recovered their spirits at dinner, when Marian related to Douglas how she had +become reconciled to his mother. Afterward, Marmaduke suggested a game at +whist. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, not on Sunday,” said Marian. “Whist is too +wicked.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what the dickens <i>may</i> we do?” said Marmaduke. +“May Nelly play <i>écarté</i> with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, please dont play for money. And dont sit close to the front +window.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come along, then, Nell. You two may sing hymns, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you could sing, Sholto,” said Marian. “It is an age +since we last had a game of chess together. Do you still play?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Douglas; “I shall be delighted. But I fear you +will beat me now, as I suppose you have been practising with Mr. +Conolly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Playing with Ned! No: he hates chess. He says it is a foolish expedient +for making idle people believe they are doing something very clever when they +are only wasting their time. He actually grumbled about the price of the table +and the pieces; but I insisted on having them, I suppose in remembrance of +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is kind of you to say that, Marian. Will you have black or +white?” +</p> + +<p> +“White, please, unless you wish me to be always making moves with your +men.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now. Will you move?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I had rather you began. Remember our old conditions. You are not +to checkmate me in three moves; and you are not to take my queen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. You may rely upon it I shall think more of my adversary than +of my game. Check.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! You have done it in three moves. That is not fair. I won’t +play any more unless you take back that.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I assure you it is not checkmate. My bishop should be at the other +side for that. There! of course, that will do.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a noise Marmaduke makes over his cards! I hope the people next door +will not hear him swearing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible. You must not move that knight: it exposes your king. Do you +know, I think there is a great charm about this house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed? Yes, it is a pretty house.” +</p> + +<p> +“And this sunset hour makes it additionally so; Besides, it is +inexpressibly sad to see you here, a perfectly happy and perfectly beautiful +mistress of this romantic foreign home.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Sholto?” +</p> + +<p> +“I call it a foreign home because, though it is yours, I have no part nor +lot in it. Remember, we are only playing at old times to-night. Everything +around, from the organ to the ring on your finger, reminds me that I am a +stranger here. It seems almost unkind of you to regret nothing whilst I am full +of regrets.” +</p> + +<p> +“Check,” said Marian. “Mind your game, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Flippant!” exclaimed Douglas, impatiently moving his king. +“I verily believe that if your husband were at the bottom of the Thames +at this moment, you would fly off unconcernedly to some other nest, and break +hearts with as much indifference as ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you would not make suggestions of that sort, Sholto. You make me +uncomfortable. Something <i>might</i> happen to Ned. I wish he were home. He is +very late.” +</p> + +<p> +“Happy man. You can be serious when you think about him. I envy +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Sholto Douglas stoop to envy any mortal! Prodigious!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: it has come to that with me. Why should I not envy him? His career +has been upward throughout. He has been a successful worker in the world, where +I have had nothing real to do. When the good things I had been dreaming of and +longing for all my life came in his path, he had them for the mere asking. I +valued them so highly that when I fancied I possessed them, I was the proudest +of men. I am humble enough now that I am beggared.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are really talking the greatest nonsense.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt I am. Still in love, Marian, you see. There is no harm in +telling you so now.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary, it is now that there is harm. For shame, Sholto!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not ashamed. I tell you of my love because now you can listen to me +without uneasiness, knowing that it is no longer associated with hope, or +desire, or anything but regret. You see that I do not affect the romantic +lover. I eat very well; I play chess; I go into society; and you reproach me +for growing fat.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian bent over the chessboard for a moment to hide her face. Then she said in +a lower voice, “I have thoroughly convinced myself that there is no such +thing as love in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“That means that you have never experienced it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you already that I have never been in love, and that I dont +believe a bit in it. I mean romantic love, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“I verily believe that you have not. The future has one more pang in +store for me; for you will surely love some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am getting too old for that, I fear. At what age, pray, did you +receive the arrow in your heart?” +</p> + +<p> +“When I was a boy, I loved a vision. The happiest hours of my life were +those in which I was slowly, tremulously daring to believe that I had found my +vision at last in you. And then the dreams that followed! What a career was to +have been mine! I remember how you used to reproach me because I was austere +with women and proud with men. How could I have been otherwise? I contrasted +the gifts of all other women with those of my elect, and the lot of all other +men with my own. Can you wonder that, doing so, I carried my head among the +clouds? You must remember how unfamiliar failure was to me. At school, at +Oxford, in society, I had sought distinction without misgiving, and attained it +without difficulty. My one dearest object I deemed secure long before I opened +my lips and asked expressly for it. I think I walked through life at that time +like a somnambulist; for I have since seen that I must have been piling mistake +upon mistake until out of a chaos of meaningless words and smiles I had woven a +Paphian love temple. At the first menace of disappointment—a thing as new and +horrible to me as death—I fled the country. I came back with only the ruins of +the doomed temple. You were not content to destroy a ruin: the feat was too +easy to be glorious. So you rebuilt it in one hour to the very dome, and +lighted its altars with more than their former radiance. Then, as though it +were but a house of cards—as indeed it was nothing else—you gave it one +delicate touch and razed it to its foundations. Yet I am afraid those altar +lamps were not wholly extinguished. They smoulder beneath the ruins +still.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder why they made you the Newdigate poet at Oxford, Sholto: you mix +your metaphors most dreadfully. Dont be angry with me: I understand what you +mean; and I am very sorry. I say flippant things because I must. How <i>can</i> +one meet seriousness in modern society except by chaff?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not angry. I had rather you did not understand. The more flippant +you are, the more you harden my heart; and I want it to be as hard as the +nether millstone. Your pity would soften me; and I dread that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe it does every man good to be softened. If you ever really felt +what you describe, you greatly over-estimated me. What can you lose by a little +more softness? I often think that men—particularly good men—make their way +through the world too much as if it were a solid mass of iron through which +they must cut—as if they dared not relax their hardest edge and finest temper +for a moment. Surely, that is not the way to enjoy life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps not. Still, it is the way to conquer in life. It may be pleasant +to have a soft heart; but then someone is sure to break it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not believe much in broken hearts. Besides, I do not mean that men +should be too soft. For instance, sentimental young men of about twenty are +odious. But for a man to get into a fighting attitude at the barest suggestion +of sentiment; to believe in nature as something inexorable, and to aim at being +as inexorable as nature: is not that almost as bad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know any such man? You must not attribute that sort of hardness +to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no; I was not thinking of you. I was not thinking of anyone in fact. +I only put a case. I sometimes have disputes with Ned on the subject. One of +his cardinal principles is that there is no use in crying for spilt milk. I +always argue that as irremediable disasters are the only ones that deserve or +obtain sympathy, he might as well say that there is no use in crying for +anything. Then he slips out of the difficulty by saying that that was just what +he meant, and that there is actually no place for regret in a well-regulated +scheme of life. In debating with women, men brazen out all the ridiculous +conclusions of which they are convicted; and then they say that there is no use +in arguing with a woman. Neither is there, because the woman is always +right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; because she suffers her heart to direct her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are just as bad as the rest of your sex, I see. Where you cannot +withold credit from a woman, you give it to her heart and deny it to her +head.” +</p> + +<p> +“There! I wont play any more,” said Miss McQuinch, suddenly, at the +other end of the room. “Have you finished your chess, Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +“We are nearly done. Ring for the lamps, please, Nelly. Let us finish, +Sholto.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose turn is it to move? I beg your pardon for my inattention.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine—no, yours. Stop! it must be mine. I really dont know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor do I. I have forgotten my game.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then let us put up the board. We can finish some other night.” +</p> + +<p> +It had become dark by this time; and the lamps were brought in whilst Douglas +was replacing the chessmen in their box. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said Marian, “let us have some music. Marmaduke: will +you sing Uncle Ned for us? We have not heard you sing for ages.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe it is more than three years since that abominable concert at +Wandsworth; and I have not heard you sing since,” said Elinor. +</p> + +<p> +“I forget all my songs—havnt sung one of them for months. However, here +goes! Have you a banjo in the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Marian. “I will play an accompaniment for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. See here: you need only play these three chords. When one +sounds wrong, play another. Youll learn it in a moment.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke’s voice was not so fresh, nor his fun so spontaneous, as at +Wandsworth; but they were not critical enough to appreciate the difference: +they laughed like children at him. Elinor was asked to play; but she would not: +she had renounced that folly, she said. Then, at Douglas’s request, +Marian sang, in memory of Wandsworth, “Rose, softly blooming.” When +she had finished, Elinor asked for some old melodies, knowing that Marian liked +these best. So she began gaily with The Oak and the Ash and Robin Adair. After +that, finding both herself and the others in a more pathetic vein, she sang +them The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington, and The Banks of Allan Water, +at the end of which Marmaduke’s eyes were full of tears, and the rest sat +quite still. She paused for a minute, and then broke the silence with Auld +Robin Gray, which affected even Douglas, who had no ear. As she sang the last +strain, the click of a latchkey was heard from without. Instantly she rose; +closed the pianoforte softly; and sat down at some distance from it. Her action +was reflected by a change in their behavior. They remembered that they were not +at home, and became more or less uneasily self-conscious. Elinor was the least +disturbed. Conolly’s first glance on entering was at the piano: his next +went in search of his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said, surprised. “I thought somebody was +singing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear no!” said Elinor drily. “You must have been +mistaken.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so,” said he, smiling. “But I have been listening +carefully at the window for ten minutes; and I certainly dreamt that I heard +Auld Robin Gray.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian blushed. Conolly did not seem to have been moved by the song. He was +alert and loquacious: before he had finished his greeting and apology to +Douglas, they all felt as little sentimental as they had ever done in their +lives. Marian, after asking whether he had dined, became silent, and dropped +the pretty airs of command which, as hostess, she had worn before. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any news?” said Marmaduke at last. “Douglas knows +the whole business. We are all friends here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only what we expected,” said Conolly. “Affairs are exactly +as they were. I called to-day at her address—” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you get it?” said Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +“I wrote for it to her at the theatre.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did she send it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. But she did not give me any encouragement to call on her, +and, in fact, evidently did not want to see me. Her appearance has altered very +much for the worse. She is a confirmed dipsomaniac; and she knows it. I advised +her to abstain in future. She asked me, in her sarcastic, sisterly way, whether +I had any other advice to give her. I told her that if she meant to go on, her +proper course was to purchase a hogshead of brandy; keep it by her side; and +condense the process of killing herself, which may at present take some years, +into a few days.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Ned, you did not really say that to her!” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“I did indeed. The shocking part of the affair is not, as you seem to +think, my giving the advice, but that it should be the very best advice I could +have given.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think I would have said so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most likely not,” said Conolly, with a smile. “You would +have said something much prettier. But dipsomania is not one of the pretty +things of life; nor can it by any stretch of benevolent hypocrisy be made to +pass as one. When Susanna and I get talking, we do not waste time in trying to +spare one another’s feelings. If we did, we should both see through the +attempt and be very impatient of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she tell you what she intends to do?” said Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +“She has accepted an American engagement. When that draws to a close, it +will, she says, be time enough for her to consider her next step. But she has +no intention of leaving the stage until she is compelled.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has she any intention of reforming her habits?” said Elinor, +bluntly. +</p> + +<p> +“I should say every intention, but no prospect of doing so. Dipsomaniacs +are always intending to reform; but they rarely succeed. Has Lucy been put to +bed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lucy is in disgrace,” said Elinor. Marian looked at her +apprehensively. +</p> + +<p> +“In disgrace!” said Conolly, more seriously. “How so?” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor described what had taken place in the garden. When she told how the +child had disregarded Marian’s appeal, Conolly laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Lucy has no sense of how pretty she would have looked toddling in +obediently because her aunt asked her to,” he said. “She is, like +all children, very practical, and will not assist in getting up amiable little +scenes without good reason rendered.” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor glanced at Marian, and saw that though Douglas was speaking to her in a +low voice, she was listening nervously to her husband. So she said sharply, +“It is a pity you were not here to tell us what to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Apparently it is,” said Conolly, complacently. +</p> + +<p> +“What would you have done?” said Marian suddenly, interrupting +Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” said Conolly, looking round at her in surprise, +“I should have answered her question—told her what she was wanted for. If +I asked you to do anything, and you enquired why, you would be extremely +annoyed if I answered, ‘because I ask you.’” +</p> + +<p> +“I would not ask why,” said Marian. “I would do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would be very nice of you,” said Conolly; “but you +cannot: expect such a selfish, mistrustful, and curious animal as a little +child to be equally kind and confiding. Lucy is too acute not to have learned +long since that grown people systematically impose on the credulity and +helplessness of children.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats true,” said Elinor, reluctantly. Marian turned away and +quietly resumed her conversation with Douglas. After a minute she strolled with +him into the garden, whither Marmaduke had already retired to smoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Has the evening been a pleasant one, Miss McQuinch?” said Conolly, +left alone with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: we have had a very pleasant evening indeed. We played chess and +<i>écarté</i>; and we all agreed to make old times of it. Marmaduke sang for +us; and Marian had us nearly in tears with those old ballads of hers.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then I came in and spoiled it all. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not. Why do you say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Merely a mischievous impulse to say something true: jealousy, perhaps, +because I missed being here earlier. You think, then, that if I had been here, +the evening would have been equally pleasant, and Marian equally happy in her +singing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont you like Marian’s singing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Could you not have refrained from that most indiscreet question?” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to have. It came out unawares. Do not answer it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would make matters worse. And there is no reason whatever why the +plain truth should not be told. When I was a child I heard every day better +performances than Marian’s. She believes there is something pretty and +good in music, and patronizes it accordingly to the best of her ability. I do +not like to hear music patronized; and when Marian, lovely as she is, gives her +pretty renderings of songs which I have heard a hundred times from singers who +knew what they were about, then, though I admire her as I must always, my +admiration is rather increased than otherwise when she stops; because then I am +no longer conscious of a deficiency which even my unfortunate sister could +supply.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your criticism of her singing sounds more sincere than your admiration +of her loveliness. I am not musician enough to judge. All I know is that her +singing is good enough for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you are displeased because it is not good enough for me; but how +can I help myself? Poor Marian——” +</p> + +<p> +“Do hush!” said Elinor. “Here she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not be in such a hurry, Duke,” said Marian. “What +can it matter to you how late you get back?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Marmaduke. “I’ve got to write home. The +governor is ill; and my mammy will send me a five-sheet sermon if I neglect +writing to-night. You will keep Lucy for another week, wont you? Box her ears +if she gives you any cheek. She wants it: she’s been spoiled.” +</p> + +<p> +“If we find we can do no better than that with her, we shall hand her +back to you,” said Conolly. Then the visitors took their leave. Marian +gently pressed Douglas’s hand and looked into his eyes as he bade her +farewell. Elinor, seeing this, glanced uneasily at Conolly, and unexpectedly +met his eye. There was a gleam of cynical intelligence in it that did not +reassure her. A few minutes later she went to bed, leaving the couple alone +together. Conolly looked at his wife for a moment with an amused expression; +but she closed her lips irresponsively, and went to the table for a book which +she wanted to bring upstairs. She would have gone without a word had he not +spoken to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian: Douglas is in love with you.” +</p> + +<p> +She blushed; thought a moment; and said quietly, “Very well. I shall not +ask him to come again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +She colored more vividly and suddenly, and said, “I thought you cared. I +beg your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” he replied, amiably: “if you exclude everybody who +falls in love with you, we shall have no one in the house but blind men.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you like men to be in love with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It makes the house pleasant for them; it makes them attentive to +you; and it gives you great power for good. When I was a romantic boy, any good +woman could have made a saint of me. Let them fall in love with you as much as +they please. Afterwards they will seek wives according to a higher standard +than if they had never known you. But do not return the compliment, or your +influence will become an evil one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ned: I had not intended to tell you this; but now I will. Sholto Douglas +not only loves me, but he told me so to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. A man always does tell it, sooner or later.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian sat down on the sofa and looked at him for some time gravely and a +little wistfully. “I think,” she said, “I should feel very +angry if any woman made such a confession to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“A Christian British lady does not readily forgive a breach of +convention; nor a woman an invasion of her privileges, even when they have +become a burden to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by that?” she said, rising. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian,” he said, looking straight at her: “are you +dissatisfied?” +</p> + +<p> +“What reason have I to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind the reasons. Are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said she, steadfastly. +</p> + +<p> +He smiled indulgently; pressed her hand for a moment against his cheek; and +went out for the short walk he was accustomed to take before retiring. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<p> +In October Marian was at Sark, holiday making at the house of Hardy +McQuinch’s brother, who had recently returned to England with a fortune +made in Australia. Conolly, having the house at Holland Park to himself, fitted +a spare room as a laboratory, and worked there every night. One evening, +returning home alone a little before five o’clock, he shut himself into +this laboratory, and had just set to work when Armande, the housemaid, +interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Leith Fairfax, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly had had little intercourse with Mrs. Fairfax since before his marriage, +when he had once shewn her the working of his invention at Queen Victoria +Street; and as Marian had since resented her share of Douglas’s second +proposal by avoiding her society as far as possible without actually +discontinuing her acquaintance, this visit was a surprise. Conolly looked +darkly at Armande, and went to the drawing-room without a word. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>How</i> do you do, Mr. Conolly?” said Mrs. Fairfax, as he +entered. “I need not ask: you are looking so well. Have I disturbed +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have—most agreeably. Pray sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know your time is priceless. I should never have ventured to come, but +that I felt sure you would like to hear all the news from Sark. I have been +there for the last fortnight. Marian told me to call on you the moment I +returned.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Conolly, convinced that this was not true. “She +promised to do so in her last letter.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfax, on the point of publishing a few supplementary fictions, checked +herself, and looked suspiciously at him. +</p> + +<p> +“The air of Sark has evidently benefited you,” he said, as she +paused. “You are looking very well—I had almost said charming.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfax glanced archly at him, and said, “Nonsense! but, indeed, the +trip was absolutely necessary for me. I should hardly have been alive had I +remained at work; and poor Willie McQuinch was bent on having me.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has been described to me as an inveterate lion hunter.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not at all pleasant, I assure you, to be persecuted with +invitations from people who wish to see a real live novelist. But William +McQuinch’s place at Sark is really palatial. He is called Sarcophagus on +account of his wealth. A great many people whom he knew were staying in the +island, besides those in the house with us. Marian was the beauty of the place. +How every one admires her! Why do you not go down, Mr. Conolly?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am too busy. Besides, it will do Marian good to be rid of me for a +while.” +</p> + +<p> +“Absurd, Mr. Conolly! You should not leave her there by herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“By herself! Why, is not the place full?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but I do not mean that. There is nobody belonging to her +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“You forget. Miss McQuinch is her bosom friend. There is Marmaduke, her +cousin; and his mother, her Aunt Dora. Then, is there not Mr. Sholto Douglas, +one of her oldest and most attached friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Is Mr. Douglas in charge of her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt he will take charge of her, if she is overtaken by her second +childhood whilst he is there. Meanwhile, she is in charge of herself, is she +not? And there is hardly any danger of her feeling lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Sholto Douglas will provide against that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your opinion confirms the accounts I have had from other sources. It +appears that Mr. Douglas is very attentive to my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very, indeed, Mr. Conolly. You must not think that I am afraid of +anything—anything—” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—Oh, you know what I mean. Anything wrong. At least, not exactly +wrong, but—” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything undomestic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. You see, Marian’s position is a very difficult one. She is so +young and so good looking that she is very much observed; and it seems so +strange her being without her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty ladies whose husbands are never seen, often get talked about in +the world, do they not?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is just what I mean. How cleverly you get everything out of me, Mr. +Conolly! I called here without the faintest idea of alluding to Marian’s +situation; and now you have made me say all sorts of things. What a fortune you +would have made at the bar!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must apologize, I did not mean to cross-examine you. Naturally, of +course, you would not like to make me uneasy about Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the very last thing I should desire. But now that it has slipped +out, I really think you ought to go to Sark.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! I rather infer that I should be very much in the way.” +</p> + +<p> +“The more reason for you to go, Mr. Conolly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. The attentions of a husband are stale, +unsuited to holiday time. Picture to yourself my arrival at Sark with the +tender assurance in my mouth, ‘Marian, I love you.’ She would +reply, ‘So you ought. Am I not your wife?’ The same advance from +another—Mr. Douglas, for instance—would affect her quite differently, and much +more pleasantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Conolly; is this indifference, or supreme confidence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither of these conjugal claptraps. I merely desire that Marian should +enjoy herself as much as possible; and the more a woman is admired, the happier +she is. Perhaps you think that, in deference to the general feeling in such +matters, I should become jealous.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfax again looked doubtfully at him. “I cannot make you out at +all, Mr. Conolly,” she said submissively. “I hope I have not +offended you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least. I take it that having observed certain circumstances +which seemed to threaten the welfare of one very dear to you (as, I am aware, +Marian is), the trouble they caused you found unpremeditated expression in the +course of a conversation with me.” Conolly beamed at her, as if he +thought this rather neatly turned. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly so. But I do not wish you to think that I have observed anything +particular.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not. Still, you think there would be no harm in my writing to +Marian to say that her behavior has attracted your notice, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, Mr. Conolly, you must not mention <i>me</i> in the matter! +You are so innocent—at least so frank, so workmanlike, if I may say so, in your +way of dealing with things! I would not have Marian know what I have said—I +really did not notice anything—for worlds. You had better not write at all, but +just go down as if you went merely to enjoy yourself; and dont on any account +let Marian suspect that you have heard anything. Goodness knows what mischief +you might make, in your—your ingenuousness!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I should have thought that the opinion of an old and valued friend +like yourself would have special weight with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know nothing about it. Clever engineer as you are, you do not +understand the little wheels by which our great machine of society is +worked.” +</p> + +<p> +“True, Mrs. Leith Fairfax,” he rejoined, echoing the cadence of her +sentence. “Educated as a mere mechanic, I am still a stranger to the +elegancies of life. I usually depend on Marian for direction; but since you +think that it would be injudicious to appeal to her in the present +instance——” +</p> + +<p> +“Out of the question, Mr. Conolly.” +</p> + +<p> +“—I must trust to your guidance in the matter. What do you +suggest?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfax was about to reply, when the expression which she habitually wore +like a mask in society, wavered and broke. Her lip trembled: her eyes filled +with tears: she rose with a sniff that was half a sob. When she spoke, her +voice was sincere for the first time, and at the sound of it Conolly’s +steely, hard manner melted, and his inhuman self-possession vanished. +</p> + +<p> +“You think,” she said, “that I came here to make mischief. I +did not. Marian is nothing to me: she does not even like me; but I dont want to +see her ruin herself merely because she is too inexperienced to know when she +is well off. I have had to fight my way in London: and I know what it is, and +what the world is. She is not fit to take charge of herself. Good-bye, Mr. +Conolly: you are a great deal too young yourself to know the danger, for all +your cleverness. You may tell her that I came here and gossipped against her, +if you like. She will never speak to me again; but if it saves her, I dont +care. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mrs. Fairfax,” he said, with entire frankness, “I am +now deeply and sincerely obliged to you.” And in proof that he was +touched, he kissed her hand with the ease and grace of a man who had been +carefully taught how to do it. Mrs. Fairfax recovered herself and almost +blushed as he went with her to the door, chatting easily about the weather and +the Addison Road trains. +</p> + +<p> +She was not the last visitor that evening. She had hardly been fifteen minutes +gone when the Rev. George presented himself, and was conducted to the +laboratory, where he found Conolly, with his coat off, surrounded by apparatus. +The glowing fire, comfortable chairs, and preparations for an evening meal, +gladdened him more than the presence of his brother-in-law, with whom he never +felt quite at ease. +</p> + +<p> +“You wont mind my fiddling with these machines while I talk,” said +Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, not at all. I shall witness your operations with great +interest. You must not think that the wonders of science are indifferent to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you are going on to Sark, you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. May I ask whether you will be persuaded to come?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, for certain. I have other fish to fry here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it would renovate your health to come for a few days.” +</p> + +<p> +“My health is always right as long as I have work. Did you meet Mrs. +Fairfax outside?” +</p> + +<p> +“A—yes. I passed her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You spoke to her, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“A few words. Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what she came here for?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. But stay. I am wrong. She mentioned that she came for a book she +lent you.” +</p> + +<p> +“She mentioned what was not true. What did she say to you about +Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she—She was just saying that it is perhaps as well that I should +go down to Sark at once, as Marian is quite alone.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman looked so guilty as he said this that Conolly laughed outright at +him. “You mean,” he said, “that Marian is <i>not</i> quite +alone. Well, very likely Douglas occupies himself a good deal with her. If so, +there may be some busybody or another down there fool enough to tell her that +people are talking about her. That would spoil her holiday; so it is lucky that +you are going down. No one will take it upon themselves to speak to her when +you are there; and if they say anything to you, you can let it in at one ear +and out at the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is, of course, unless I should see her really acting +indiscreetly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had better tell you beforehand what you will see if you keep your eyes +open. You will see very plainly that Douglas is in love with her. Also that she +knows that he is in love with her. In fact, she told me so. And you will see +she rather likes it. Every married woman requires a holiday from her husband +occasionally, even when he suits her perfectly.” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George stared. “If I follow you aright—I am not sure that I +do—you impute to Marian the sin of entertaining feelings which it is her duty +to repress.” +</p> + +<p> +“I impute no sin to her. You might as well tell a beggar that he has no +right to be hungry, as a woman that it is her duty to feel this and not to feel +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Marian has been educated to feel only in accordance with her +duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“So have you. How does it work? However,” continued Conolly, +without waiting for an answer, “I dont deny that Marian shews the effects +of her education. They are deplorably evident in all her conscientious +actions.” +</p> + +<p> +“You surprise and distress me. This is the first intimation I have +received of your having any cause to complain of Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! I dont complain of her. But what you call her education, as +far as I can make it out, appears to have consisted of stuffing her with lies, +and making it a point of honor with her to believe them in spite of sense and +reason. The sense of duty that rises on that sort of foundation is more +mischievous than downright want of principle. I dont dispute your right, you +who constitute polite society, to skin over all the ugly facts of life. But to +make your daughters believe that the skin covers healthy flesh is a crime. Poor +Marian thinks that a room is clean when all the dust is swept out of sight +under the furniture; and if honest people rake it out to bring it under the +notice of those whose duty it is to remove it, she is disgusted with them, and +ten to one accuses them of having made it themselves. She doesnt know what sort +of world she is in, thanks to the misrepresentations of those who should have +taught her. She will deceive her children in just the same way, if she ever has +any. If she had been taught the truth in her own childhood, she would know how +to face it, and would be a strong woman as well as an amiable one. But it is +too late now. The truth seems natural to a child; but to a grown woman or man, +it is a bitter lesson in the learning, though it may be invigorating when it is +well mastered. And you know how seldom a hard task forced on an unwilling pupil +<i>is</i> well mastered.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is truth?” said the clergyman, sententiously. +</p> + +<p> +“All that we know, Master Pilate,” retorted Conolly with a laugh. +“And we know a good deal. It may seem small in comparison with what we +dont know; but it is more than any one of us can hold, for all that. We know, +for instance, that the world was not planned by a sentimental landscape +gardener. If Marian ever learns that—which she may, although I am neither able +nor willing to teach it to her—she will not thank those who gave her so much +falsehood to unlearn. Until then, she will, I am afraid, do little else than +lay up a store of regrets for herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is very strange. We always looked upon Marian as an exceptionally +amiable girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she is, unfortunately. There is no institution so villainous but she +will defend it; no tyranny so oppressive but she will make a virtue of +submitting to it; no social cancer so venomous but she will shrink from cutting +it out, and plead that it is a comfortable thing, and much better as it is. She +knows that she disobeyed her father, and that he deserved to be disobeyed; yet +she condemns other women who are disobedient, and stands out against Nelly +McQuinch in defence of the unselfishness of parental love. She knows that the +increased freedom of movement allowed to her as a married woman has been +healthy for her; yet she looks coldly at other young women who assert their +right to freedom, and are not afraid to walk through the streets without a +sheepdog, human or otherwise, at their heels. She knows that marriage is not +what she expected it to be, and that it gives me many unfair advantages over +her; and she knows also that ours is a happier marriage than most. Nevertheless +she will encourage other girls to marry; she will maintain that the chain which +galls her own wrists so often is a string of honeysuckles; and if a woman +identifies herself with any public movement for the lightening of that chain, +she wont allow that that woman is fit to be admitted into decent society. There +is not one of these shams to which she clings that I would not like to take by +the throat and shake the life out of; and she knows it. Even in that she has +not the consistency to believe me wrong, because it is undutiful and out of +keeping with the honeysuckles to lack faith in her husband. In order to blind +herself to her inconsistencies, she has to live in a rose-colored fog; and what +with me constantly, in spite of myself, blowing this fog away on the one side, +and the naked facts of her everyday experience as constantly letting in the +daylight on the other, she must spend half the time wondering whether she is +mad or sane. Between her desire to do right and her discoveries that it +generally leads her to do wrong, she passes her life in a wistful melancholy +which I cant dispel. I can only pity her. I suppose I could pet her; but I hate +treating a woman like a child: it means giving up all hope of her becoming +rational. She may turn for relief any day either to love or religion; and for +her own sake I hope she will choose the first. Of the two evils, it is the +least permanent.” And Conolly, having disburdened himself, resumed his +work without any pretence of waiting for the clergyman’s comments. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Rev. George, cautiously, “I do not think I +have quite followed your opinions, which seem to me to be exactly upside down, +as if they were projected upon the retina of your mind’s eye—to use +Shakspear’s happy phrase—just as they would be upon your—your real eye, +you know. But I can assure you that your view of Marian is an entirely mistaken +one. You seem to think that she does not give in her entire adherence to the +doctrines of the Establishment. This is a matter which I venture to say you do +not understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Admitted,” interposed Conolly, hastily. “Here is my +workman’s tea. Are you fond of scones?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly know. Anything—the simplest fare, will satisfy me.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it does me, when I can get nothing better. Help yourself, +pray.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly did not sit down to the meal, but worked whilst the clergyman ate. +Presently the Rev. George, warmed by the fire and cheered by the repast, +returned to the subject of his host’s domestic affairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said, “I am sure that a few judicious words would +lead to an explanation between you and Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“I also think that a few words might do so. But they would not be +judicious words.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? Can it be injudicious to restore harmony in a household?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; but that would not be the effect of an explanation, because the +truth is not likely to reconcile us. If I were to explain the difficulty to a +man, he would argue. But Marian would just infer that I despised her, and +nothing else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no! Oh dear no! A few kind words; an appeal to her good sense; a +little concession on both sides——” +</p> + +<p> +“All excellent for a pair estranged by a flash of temper, or a +mother-in-law, or a trifle of jealousy, or too many evenings spent at the club +on the man’s part, or too many dances with a gallant on the +woman’s; but no good for us. We have never exchanged unkind words: there +are no concessions to be made: her good sense is not at fault. Besides, these +few kind words that are supposed to be such a sovereign remedy for all sorts of +domestic understandings are generally a few kind fibs. If I told them, Marian +wouldnt believe them. Fibs dont make lasting truces either. No: the situation +is graver than you think. Just suppose, for instance, that you undertake to +restore harmony, as you call it! what will you say to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it would depend on circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you know the circumstances on which it depends. How would you +begin?” +</p> + +<p> +“There are little ways of approaching delicate subjects with women. For +instance, I might say, casually, that it was a pity that a pair so happily +situated as you two should not agree perfectly.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would get no further; for Marian would never admit that we do not +agree. She does not know what her complaint is, and therefore feels bound in +honor to maintain that she has nothing to complain of. She is not the woman to +cast reproach on me for a discontent she cannot explain. Or, if she could +explain it, how much wiser should you be? <i>I</i> have explained; and you +confess you cannot understand me. The difference between us is neither her +fault nor mine; and all the explanations in the world will not remove +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you would allow me to appeal to her religious duty——” +</p> + +<p> +“Religion! She doesnt believe in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” exclaimed the clergyman, unaffectedly shocked. +“Surely, surely——” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen. To me, believing in a doctrine doesnt mean holding up your hand +and saying, ‘Credo.’ It means habitually acting on the assumption +that the doctrine is true. Marian thinks it wrong not to go to church; and she +will hold up her hand and cry ‘Credo’ to the immortality of her +soul, or to any verse in the New Testament. The shareholders of our concern in +the city will do the same. But do they or she ever act on the assumption that +they are immortal, or that riches are dross, or that class prejudice is +damnable? Never. They dont believe it. You will find that Marian has been +thoroughly trained to separate her practice from her religious professions; and +if you allude to the inconsistency she will instinctively feel that you are +offending against good taste. In short, her ‘Credo’ doesnt mean +faith: it means church-going, which is practised because it is respectable, and +is respectable because it is a habit of the upper caste. But church-going is +church-going; and business is business, as Marian will soon let you know if you +meddle with <i>her</i> business. However, we need not argue about that: we know +one another’s views and can agree to differ.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be false to my duty as a Christian priest if I made any such +agreement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so; but, at any rate, we cant spend all our lives over the same +argument. No, as I was saying, take my advice, and let Marian alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what do you intend to do, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>can</i> I do but wait? Experience must wear out some of her +illusions. She will at least find out that she is no worse off than other +women, and better off than some of them. Since the job cannot be undone, we +must try how making the best of it will work. I am pretty hopeful myself. How +are affairs getting on at your chapel? I am told that the sermons of your +<i>locum tenens</i> send the congregation asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is not at his best in the pulpit. A good fellow! a most loving man +but not able to grapple with a large congregation. After all, I am obliged to +confess that very few of our cloth are. The power of preaching is quite an +exceptional one; and it is a gift as well as a trust. I humbly believe that the +power of the tongue comes of a higher ordination than the +bishop’s.” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing further was said about Marian. The clergyman’s object in visiting +Conolly was, it presently appeared, to borrow a portmanteau. When he was gone, +Conolly returned to the laboratory, and wrote the following letter: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“My dear Marian +</p> + +<p> +“I have just had two unexpected visits, one from Mrs. Fairfax, and one +from George. Mrs. L.F. said you asked her to call and give me the news. When I +told her, without blushing, that you had written to prepare me for her visit, +she was rather put out, justly thinking me to mean that I did not believe her. +As this is fully the thirty-sixth falsehood in which you have detected good +Mrs. F., I fear you will be compelled, in spite of your principle of believing +the best of everybody, to regard her in future as a not invariably accurate +woman. She came with the object of making me go down to Sark. You were so young +and so much admired: Mr. Douglas was so attentive: you should not be left +entirely alone, and so forth. You will be angry with her; but she thinks +Douglas so irresistible that she is genuinely anxious about you: I believe she +really meant well this time. As to our reverend brother, his portmanteau burst +in the train coming from Edinburgh; so he came to borrow mine, having +apparently resolved to wear out those of all his friends before buying a new +one. Unfortunately, he met Mrs. F. down the road; and she urged him to go down +to Sark just as she had urged me. Now as George is incapable of holding his +tongue when he ought, I feel sure that unless I tell you what Mrs. F. said, he +will anticipate me. Otherwise I should not have mentioned it until your return, +for fear of annoying you and spoiling your visit. So if his reverence hints or +lectures, you will know what he means and not heed him. Mrs. F’s +confidences have probably not been confined to me; but were I in your place, I +should not make the slightest change in my conduct in consequence. At all +events, if you feel constrained to display any sudden accession of reserve +toward Douglas, tell him the reason; because if you dont, he will ascribe the +change to coquetry. +</p> + +<p> +“I have turned the spare room on the first floor into a laboratory, and +am sitting in it now. I’m thinking of fitting it up like a studio, and +having private views of my inventions, as Scott has of his pictures. +Parson’s man came with some flowers the other day, and informed me that +three balls, to the first of which he was invited, took place in the house +while I was away. One or two trifling dilapidations, and the fact that somebody +has been tampering with the locks of the organ and piano, dispose me to believe +this tale. Parson’s man declares that he was too virtuous to come to the +two last entertainments after finding out that the first was a clandestine one; +but I believe he made himself disagreeable, and was not invited. Probably he +quarrelled with some military follower of Armande’s; for he was +particularly bitter on the subject of a common soldier making free in a +gentleman’s house. I have not said anything to the two culprits; but I +have contrived to make them suspect that I know all; and they now do their duty +with trembling diligence. Some man sat on the little walnut table and broke it; +but no other damage worth mentioning has been done. The table was absurdly +repaired with a piece of twine, and pushed into the recess between the organ +and the front window, whence I sometimes amuse myself by the experiment of +pulling it into broad daylight. It is always pushed back again before I return +in the evening. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you off for money? I have plenty of loose cash just now. Madame +called last Monday, and asked Matilda, who opened the door, when you would be +back. Thereupon I interviewed her. I must say she is loyal to her clients; for +I had great difficulty in extracting her bill, which was, of course, what she +called about. She evidently recognizes the necessity of keeping husbands in the +dark in such matters. One of the items was for the lace on your +maccaroni-colored body, which, as I chanced to remember, you supplied yourself. +After a brief struggle she deducted it; so I paid her the balance: only 35£ +13s. 9d. +</p> + +<p> +“When are you coming back to me? After Sark I fear you will find home a +little dull. Nevertheless, I should like to see you again. Come back before +Christmas, at any rate. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Yours, dear Marian, in solitude,<br/> +“NED.” +</p> + +<p> +The answer came two days later than return of post, and ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Melbourne House, Sark,<br/> +“Sunday. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“My dear Ned +</p> + +<p> +“How very provoking about the servants! I do not mind Matilda so much; +but I do think it hard that we could not depend on Armande, considering all the +kindness we have shewn her. I can scarcely believe that she would have acted so +badly unless she were led away by Matilda, whom I will pack off the moment I +return. As to Armande, I will give her another chance; but she shall have a +sharp talking to. I am quite sure that a great deal more mischief has been done +than you noticed. If the carpet was danced on for three nights by men in heavy +boots, it must be in ribbons. It is really too bad. I do not want any money. +Indeed the twenty pounds you sent me last was quite unnecessary, as I have +nearly sixteen left. What a rogue Madame is to try and make you pay for my +lace! I am sorry you paid the bill. She had no business to call for her money: +she is <i>never</i> paid so soon by <i>anybody</i>. We have had great fun down +here. It has been one continual garden party all through; and the weather is +still lovely. Mr. McQuinch is very colonial: but I think his ways make the +house pleasanter than if he were still English. Carbury is quite stupid in +comparison to this place. I have danced more than I ever did in my life before; +and now we are so tired of frivolity that if any one ventures to strum a waltz +or propose a game, we all protest. We tried to get up some choral music; but it +was a failure. On Friday, George, who is looked on as a great man here, was +asked to give us a Shakespeare reading. He was only too glad to be asked; for +he had heard Simonton, the actor, read at a bazaar in Scotland, and was full of +Richard the Third in consequence. He was not very bad; but his imitation of +Simonton was so obvious and so queerly mixed with his own churchy style that he +seemed rather monotonous and affected. At least I thought so. I was dreadfully +uncomfortable during the reading because of Marmaduke, who behaved +scandalously. There were some schoolboys present; and he not only encouraged +them to misbehave themselves, but was worse than any of them himself. At last +he pretended to be overcome by the heat, and went out of the room, to my great +relief; but when the passage about the early village cock came, he crew outside +the door, where he had been waiting expressly to do it. Nobody could help +laughing; and the boys screamed so that Mr. McQuinch took two of them out by +the collar. I believe he was glad of the excuse to go out and laugh himself. +George was very angry, and no wonder! He will hardly speak to Marmaduke, who, +of course, denies all knowledge of the interruption; but George knows better. +All the Hardy McQuinches are down here. Uncle Hardy is rather stooped from +rheumatism. Nelly is now the chief personage in the family: Lydia and Jane are +nowhere beside her. They are good-humored, bouncing girls; but they are +certainly not brilliant. I hope it is not Aunt Dora’s walnut table that +is broken. Was it not mean of Parson’s man to tell on Armande? I think, +since you have plenty of loose cash, we might venture on a set of those +curtains we saw at Protheroe’s, for the drawing-room. I can easily use +the ones that are there now for <i>portières</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not think that I have written this all at once. I shall be able +to finish to-day, as it is Sunday, and I have made an excuse to stay away from +church. George is to preach; and somehow I never feel toward the service as I +ought when he officiates. I know you will laugh at this. +</p> + +<p> +“The first part of your letter must have a paragraph all to itself. I +hardly know what to say. I could not have believed that Mrs. Leith Fairfax +would have behaved as she has done. I was so angry at first that for fully an +hour I felt ill; and I spoke quite wickedly to George the day after he arrived, +because he said that Sholto had better not take me down to dinner, although his +doing so was quite accidental. I know you will believe me when I tell you that +I was quite unconscious that he had been unusually attentive to me; and I was +about to write you an indignant denial, only I shewed Nelly your letter, and +she crushed me by telling me she had noticed it too. We nearly had a quarrel +about it; but she counted up the number of times I had danced with him and sat +beside him at dinner; and I suppose an evil-minded woman looking on might think +what Mrs. Leith Fairfax thought. But there is no excuse for her. She knows that +Sholto and I have been intimate since we were children; and there is something +odious in her, of all people, pretending to misunderstand us. What is worse, +she was particularly friendly and confidential with me while she was here; and +although I tried to keep away from her at first, she persisted in conciliating +me, and persuaded me that Douglas had entirely mistaken what she said that +other time. Who could have expected her to turn round and calumniate me the +moment my back was turned! How can people do such things! I hope we shall not +meet her again; for I will never speak to her. I have not said anything to +Douglas. How could I? It would only make mischief. I feel that the right course +is to come home as soon as I can, and in the meantime to avoid him as much as +possible. So you may expect me on Saturday next. Mr. McQuinch is quite dismayed +at my departure, which he says will be the signal for a general breaking up; +but this I cannot help. I shall be glad to go home, of course. Still, I am +sorry to leave this place, where we have all been so jolly. I will write and +let you know what train I shall come by; but you need not trouble to meet me, +unless you like: I can get home quite well by myself. After all, it is just as +well that I am getting away. It <i>was</i> pleasant enough; but now I feel +utterly disgusted with everything and everybody. I find I must stop. They have +just come in from church; and I must go down. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Your affectionate<br/> +“MARIAN.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<p> +One Saturday afternoon in December Marian and Elinor sat drinking tea in the +drawing-room at Holland Park. Elinor was present as an afternoon caller: she no +longer resided with the Conollys. Marian had been lamely excusing herself for +not having read Elinor’s last book. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray dont apologize,” said Elinor. “I remember the time when +you would have forced yourself to read it from a sense of duty; and I am too +delighted to find that nonsense washing out of you at last to feel the wound to +my vanity. Oh, say no more, my dear you can read it still whenever you please. +Brother George read it, and was shocked because the heroine loves the villain +and tells him so without waiting to be asked. It is odd that long ago, when I +believed so devoutly in the tender passion, I never could write a really +flaming love story.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont begin to talk like that,” said Marian, crossly. “People +<i>do</i> fall in love, fortunately for them. It may be injudicious; and it may +turn out badly; but it fills up life in a way that all the barren philosophy +and cynicism on earth cannot. Do you think I would not rather have to regret a +lost love than to repine because I had been too cautious to love at all? The +disappointments of love warm the heart more than the triumphs of +insensibility.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats rather a good sentence,” said Elinor. “Your talk is +more classical than my writing. But what would the departed Marian Lind have +said?” +</p> + +<p> +“The departed Marian Lind was so desperately wise that she neglected that +excellent precept, ‘Be not righteous over much, neither make thyself over +wise; why shouldest thou destroy thyself?’ I took up the Bible last night +for the first time since my marriage; and I thought what fools we two used to +be when we made up our minds to avoid all the mistakes and follies and feelings +of other people, and to be quite superior and rational. ‘He that +observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not +reap.’ It is all so true, in spite of what Ned says. We were very clever +at observing the wind and regarding the clouds; and what are we the better for +it? How much irreparable mischief, I wonder, did we do ourselves by letting our +little wisdoms stifle all our big instincts! Look at those very other people +whom we despised; how happy they are, in spite of their having always done +exactly what their hearts told them!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think we are pretty well off as people go. I know I am. Certainly it +was part of our wisdom that marriage was a bad thing; and I grant that though +you married in obedience to your instincts you are as well off as I. But I dont +see that we are the worse for having thought a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did <i>not</i> marry in obedience to my instincts, Nelly; and you know +it. I made a disinterested marriage with a man whom I felt I could respect as +my superior. I was convinced then that a grand passion was a folly.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what do you think now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that I did not know what I was talking about.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you were in love with Ned when you married him, and long +enough before that, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I loved him. I love him still.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you, really? To hear you, one would think that you only respected him +as a superior.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no right to say that. You dont understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps not. Would you mind explaining?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not mean anything particular; but there are two kinds of love. +There is a love which one’s good sense suggests—a sort of moral +approval——” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor laughed. “Go on,” she said. “What is the other +sort?” +</p> + +<p> +“The other sort has nothing to do with good sense. It is an overpowering +impulse—a craving—a faith that defies logic—something to look forward to +feeling in your youth, and look back to with a kindling heart in your +age.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Isnt the difference between the two sorts much the same as the +difference between the old love and the new?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I will take another cup of tea. You neednt stop flying out at +me, though: I dont mind it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me. I did not mean to fly out at you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s rather odd that we so seldom meet now without getting on this +subject and having a row. Has that struck you at all?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian turned to the fire, and remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me, Marian. You are in the blues. Why dont you go to Ned, and +tell him that he is a cast-iron walking machine, and that you are unhappy, and +want the society of a flesh-and-blood man? Have a furious scene with him, and +all will come right.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very easy to talk. I could not go to him and make myself +ridiculous like that: the words would choke me. Besides, I am not +unhappy.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a lie! You wicked woman! A moment ago you were contemning all +prudence; and now you will not speak your mind because you are afraid of being +ridiculous. What is that but observing the wind and regarding the clouds, I +should like to know?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you would not speak harshly to me, even in jest. It hurts +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Serve you right! I am not a bit remorseful. No matter: let us talk of +something else. Where did those flowers come from?” +</p> + +<p> +“Douglas sent them. I am going to the theatre to-night; and I wanted a +bouquet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very kind of him. I wonder he did not bring it himself. He rarely misses +an excuse for coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say that, Nelly? He comes here very seldom, except on Sunday; +and that is a regular thing, just as your coming is.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was here on Tuesday; you saw him at Mrs. Saunders’s on +Wednesday; he was at your at-home on Thursday; and he sends a bouquet on +Saturday.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help meeting him out; and not to invite him to my at-home would +be to cut him. Pray are you growing spiteful, like Mrs. Leith Fairfax?” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian: you got out of bed at the wrong side this morning; and you have +made that mistake oftener since your return from Sark than in all your life +before. Douglas has become a lazy good-for-nothing; and he comes here a great +deal too often. Instead of encouraging him to dangle after you as he does, and +to teach you all those finely turned sentiments about love which you were +airing a minute ago, you ought to make him get called to the bar, or sent into +Parliament, or put to work in some fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nelly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Bother Nelly! It is true; and you know it as well as I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“If he fancies himself in love with me, I cannot help it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can help his following you about.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot. He does not follow me about. Why does not Ned object? He knows +that Sholto is in love with me; and he does not care.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if it is only to make Ned jealous, then I have nothing more to say: +you may flirt away as hard as you please. There’s a knock at the door, +just in time to prevent us from quarrelling. I know whose knock it is, +too.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian had flushed slightly at the sound; and Elinor, with her feet stretched +out before her, lapped the carpet restlessly with her heels, and watched her +cousin sourly as Douglas entered. He was in evening dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening,” said Elinor. “So you are going to the +theatre, too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” said Douglas. “Is any one coming with us? Shall we +have the pleasure of your company?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Elinor, drily. “I thought Mr. Conolly was +perhaps going with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be very glad, I am sure, if he will,” said Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“He will not,” said Marian. “I doubt if he will come home +before we start.” +</p> + +<p> +“You got my flowers safely, I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, thank you. They are beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“They need be, if you are to wear them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I will go,” said Elinor, “if you can spare me. +Marian has been far from amiable; and if you are going to pay her compliments, +I shall very soon be as bad as she. Good-bye.” Douglas gratefully went +with her to the door. She looked very hard at him, and almost made a grimace as +they parted; but she said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad she went,” said Marian, when Douglas returned. +“She annoys me. Everything annoys me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are leading an impossible life here, Marian,” he said, putting +his hand on her chair and bending over her. “Whilst it lasts, everything +will annoy you; and I, who would give the last drop of my blood to spare you a +moment’s pain, shall never experience the delight of seeing you +happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“What other life can I lead?” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas made an impulsive movement, as though to reply; but he hesitated, and +did not speak. Marian was not looking at him. She was gazing into the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto,” she said, after an interval of silence, “you must +not come here any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are too idle. You come here too often. Why do you not become a +barrister, or go into Parliament, or at least write books? If Nelly can succeed +as an author, surely you can.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have left all that behind me. I am a failure: you know why. Let us +talk no more of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not go on like that,” said Marian, pettishly. “I dont +like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid to say or do anything, you are so easily distressed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know I am very cross. Elinor remarked it too. I think you might +bear with me, Sholto.” Here, most unexpectedly, she rose and burst into +tears. “When my whole life is one dreary record of misery, I cannot +always be patient. I have been forbearing toward you many times.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas was at first frightened; for he had never seen her cry before. Then, as +she sat down again, and covered her face with her handkerchief, he advanced, +intending to kneel and put his arm about her; but his courage failed: he only +drew a chair to the fire, and bent over, as he sat beside her, till his face +was close to hers, saying, “It is all the fault of your mad marriage. You +were happy until then. I have been silent hitherto; but now that I see your +tears, I can no longer master myself. Listen to me, Marian. You asked me a +moment since what other life was open to you. There is a better life. Leave +England with me; and—and——” Marian had raised her head; and as she looked +steadily at him, he stopped, and his lips became white. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” she said. “I am not angry. What else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing else except happiness.” His voice died away: there was a +pause. Then, recovering himself, he went on with something of his +characteristic stateliness. “There is no use in prolonging your present +life; it is a failure, like mine. Why should you hesitate? You know how seldom +the mere letter of duty leads to either happiness or justice. You can rescue me +from a wasted existence. You can preserve your own heart from a horrible slow +domestic decay. <i>He</i> will not care: he cares for nothing: he is morally +murdering you. You have no children to think of. I love you; and I offer you +your choice of the fairest spots in the wide world to pass our future in, with +my protection to ensure your safety and comfort there, wherever it may be. You +know what a hollow thing conventional virtue is. Who are the virtuous people +about you? Mrs. Leith Fairfax, and her like. If you love me, you must know that +you are committing a crime against nature in living as you are with a man who +is as far removed from you in every human emotion as his workshop is from +heaven. You have striven to do your duty by him in vain. He is none the +happier: we are unutterably the more miserable. Let us try a new life. I have +lived in society here all my days, and have found its atmosphere most +worthless, most selfish, most impure. I want to be free—to shake the dust of +London off my feet, and enter on a life made holy by love. You can respond to +such an aspiration: you, too, must yearn for a pure and free life. It is within +our reach: you have but to stretch out your hand. Say something to me. Are you +listening?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems strange that I should be listening to you quite calmly, as I +am; although you are proposing what the world thinks a disgraceful +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does it matter what the world thinks? I would not, even to save myself +from a wasted career, ask you to take a step that would really disgrace you. +But I cannot bear to think of you looking back some day over a barren past, and +knowing that you sacrificed your happiness to Fashion—an idol. Do you remember +last Sunday when we discussed that bitter saying that women who have sacrificed +their feelings to the laws of society secretly know that they have been fools +for their pains? <i>He</i> did not deny it. You could give no good reason for +disbelieving it. You know it to be true; and I am only striving to save you +from that vain regret. You have shewn that you can obey the world with grace +and dignity when the world is right. Shew now that you can defy it fearlessly +when it is tyrannical. Trust your heart, Marian—my darling Marian: trust your +heart—and mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“For what hour have you ordered the carriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“The carriage! Is that what you say to me at such a moment? Are you still +flippant as ever?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite serious. Say no more now. If I go, I will go deliberately, +and not on the spur of your persuasion. I must have time to think. What hour +did you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seven.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is time for me to dress. You will not mind waiting here +alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you would only give me one hopeful word, I think I could wait happily +forever.” +</p> + +<p> +“What can I say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Say that you love me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am striving to discover whether I have always loved you or not. +Surely, if there be such a thing as love, we should be lovers.” +</p> + +<p> +He was chilled by her solemn tone; but he made a movement as if to embrace her. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, stopping him. “I am his wife still. I have +not yet pronounced my own divorce.” +</p> + +<p> +She left the room; and he walked uneasily to and fro Until she returned, +dressed in white. He gazed at her with quickened breath as she confronted him. +Neither heeded the click of her husband’s latchkey in the door without. +</p> + +<p> +“When I was a little boy, Marian,” he said, gazing at her, “I +used to think that Paul Delaroche’s Christian martyr was the most +exquisite vision of beauty in the world. I have the same feeling as I look at +you now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marian reminds me of that picture too,” said Conolly. “I +remember wondering,” he continued, smiling, as they started and turned +toward him, “why the young lady—she was such a perfect lady—was martyred +in a ball dress, as I took her costume to be. Marian’s wreath adds to the +force of the reminiscence.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I recollect aright,” said Marian, taking up his bantering tone +with a sharper irony, “Delaroche’s martyr shewed a fine sense of +the necessity of having her wrists gracefully tied. I am about to follow her +example by wearing these bracelets, which I can never fasten. Be good enough to +assist me, both of you.” +</p> + +<p> +She extended a hand to each; and Conolly, after looking at the catch for a +moment, closed it dexterously at the first snap. “By the bye,” he +said, whilst Douglas fumbled at the other bracelet, “I have to run away +to Glasgow to-night by the ten train. We shall not see one another again until +Monday evening.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas’s hand began to shake so that the gold band chafed Marian’s +arm. “There, there,” she said, drawing it away from him, “you +do it for me, Ned. Sholto has no mechanical genius.” Her hand was quite +steady as Conolly shut the clasp. “Why must you go to Glasgow?” +</p> + +<p> +“They have got into a mess at the works there; and the engineer has +telegraphed for me to go down and see what is the matter. I shall certainly be +back on Monday. Have something for me to eat at half past seven. I am sorry to +be away from our Sunday dinner, Douglas; but you know the popular prejudice. If +you want a thing done, see to it yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto has been very eloquent this evening on the subject of popular +prejudices,” said Marian. “He says that to defy the world is a +proof of honesty.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it is,” said Conolly. “I get on in the world by defying +its old notions, and taking nobody’s advice but my own. Follow +Douglas’s precepts by all means. Do you know that it is nearly a quarter +to eight?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Let us go. We shall be late.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not see you to-morrow, Douglas. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” said Douglas, keeping at some distance; for he did +not care to offer Conolly his hand before Marian now. “Pleasant +journey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. Hallo! [Marian had impatiently turned back.] What have you +forgotten?” +</p> + +<p> +“My opera-glass,” said Marian. “No, thanks: you would not +know where to look for it: I will go myself.” +</p> + +<p> +She went upstairs; and Conolly, after a pause, followed, and found her in their +bedroom, closing the drawer from which she had just taken the opera-glass. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian,” he said: “you have been crying to-day. Is anything +wrong? or is it only nervousness?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only nervousness,” said Marian. “How did you find out that I +had been crying? it was only for an instant, because Nelly annoyed me. Does my +face shew it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It does to me, not to anyone else. Are you more cheerful now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am all right. I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly recoiled, disconcerted. “Why?” he said. “Do you +wish——?” He recovered himself, and added, “It is too cold, my dear; +and I must travel very fast. I shall be busy all the time. Besides, you are +forgetting the theatre and Douglas, who, by the bye, is catching cold on the +steps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I had better go with Douglas, since it will make you +happier.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go with Douglas, my dear one, if it will make <i>you</i> happier,” +said he, kissing her. To his surprise, she threw her arm round him, held him +fast by the shoulder, and looked at him with extraordinary earnestness. He gave +a little laugh, and disengaged himself gently, saying, “Dont you think +your nervousness is taking a turn rather inconvenient for Douglas?” She +let her hands fall; closed her lips; and passed quietly out. He went to the +window and watched her as she entered the carriage. Douglas held the door open +for her; and Conolly, looking at him with a sort of pity, noted that he was, in +his way, a handsome man and that his habit of taking himself very seriously +gave him a certain, dignity. The brougham rolled away into the fog. Conolly +pulled down the blind, and began to pack his portmanteau to a vigorously +whistled accompaniment. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<p> +Conolly returned from Glasgow a little before eight on Monday evening. There +was no light in the window when he entered the garden. Miss McQuinch opened the +door before he reached it. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” he said. “Going the moment I come in!” Then, +seeing her face by the hall lamp, he put down his bag quickly, and asked what +the matter was. +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know whether anything is the matter. I am very glad you have +returned. Come into the drawing-room: I dont want the servants to hear us +talking.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no light here,” he said, following her in. “Is it +possible you have been waiting in the dark?” +</p> + +<p> +He lit a candle, and was about to light a lamp when she exclaimed impatiently, +“Oh, I did not notice it: what does it matter? Do let the lamp alone, and +listen to me.” He obeyed, much amused at her irritation. +</p> + +<p> +“Where has Marian gone to?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she out?” he said, suddenly grave. “You forget that I +have come straight from Glasgow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been here since three o’clock. Marian sent me a note not to +come on Sunday—that she should be out and that you were away. But they tell me +that she was at home all yesterday, except for two hours when she was out with +Sholto. She packed her trunks in the evening, and went away with them. She told +the cabman to drive to Euston. I dont know what it all means; and I have been +half distracted waiting here for you. I thought you would never come. There is +a note for you on your dressing-table.” +</p> + +<p> +He pursed his lips a little and looked attentively at her, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Wont you go and open it?” she said anxiously. “It must +contain some explanation.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid the explanation is obvious.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no right to say that. How do you know? If you are not going to +read her letter, you had better say so at once. I dont want to pry into it: I +only want to know what is become of Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall read it by all means. Will you excuse me whilst I fetch +it?” +</p> + +<p> +She stamped with impatience. He smiled and went for the letter, which, after a +brief absence, he placed unopened on the table before her, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose this is it. I laid my hand on it in the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to open it?” she said, hardly able to contain +herself. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +He had not raised his voice; but it struck her that he was in a rage. His +friendly look and quiet attitude first reassured, then, on second thoughts, +exasperated her. +</p> + +<p> +“Why wont you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I really dont know. Somehow, I am not curious. It interests you. Pray +open it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will die first. If it lie there until I open it, it will lie there +forever.” +</p> + +<p> +He opened the envelope neatly with a paper cutter, and handed her the +enclosure. She kept down her hands stubbornly. He smiled a little, still +presenting it. At last she snatched it, much as she would have liked to snatch +a handful of his hair. Having read it, she turned pale, and looked as she had +used to in her childhood, when in disgrace and resolute not to cry. “I +had rather have had my two hands cut off,” she said passionately, after a +pause. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very sad for you,” said Conolly, sympathetically. “He +is an educated man; but I cannot think that he has much in him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is a selfish, lying, conceited hound. Educated, indeed! And what are +<i>you</i> going to do, may I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eat my supper. I am as hungry as a bear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you had better, I think. Good-evening.” He seemed to know +that she would not leave; for he made no movement to open the door for her. On +her way out, she turned, and so came at him with her fists clenched, that for a +moment he was doubtful whether she would not bodily assault him. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you a brute, or a fool, or both?” she said, letting her temper +loose. “How long do you intend to stand there, doing nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>can</i> I do, Miss McQuinch?” he said, gently. +</p> + +<p> +“You can follow her and bring her back before she has made an utter idiot +of herself with that miserable blackguard. Are you afraid of him? If you are, I +will go with you, and not let him touch you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” he said, good-humoredly. “But you see she does +not wish to live with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God, man, what woman do you think <i>could</i> wish to live with +you! I suppose Marian wanted a human being to live with, and not a calculating +machine. You would drive any woman away. If you had feeling enough to have +kicked him out of the house, and then beaten her black and blue for encouraging +him, you would have been more of a man than you are: she would have loved you +more. You are not a man: you are a stone full of brains—such as they are! +Listen to me, Mr. Conolly. There is one chance left—if you will only make +haste. Go after them; overtake them; thrash him within an inch of his life; and +bring her back and punish her how you please so long as you shew her that you +care. You can do it if you will only make up your mind: he is a coward; and he +is afraid of you: I have seen it in his eye. You are worth fifty of him—if you +would only not be so cold blooded—if you will only go—<i>dear</i> Mr. +Conolly—youre not really insensible—you will, wont you?” +</p> + +<p> +This, the first tender tone he had ever heard in her voice, made him look at +her curiously. “What does the letter say?” he asked, still quietly, +but inexorably. +</p> + +<p> +She snatched it up again. “Here,” she said. “‘<i>Our +marriage was a mistake. I am going away with Douglas to the other side of the +world. It is all I can do to mend matters. Pray forget me</i>.’ That is +what her letter says, since you condescend to ask.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is too late, then. You felt that as you read it, I think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she cried, sitting down in a paroxysm of grief, but unable +to weep. “It is too late; and it is all your fault. What business had you +to go away? You knew what was going to happen. You intended it to happen. You +wanted it to happen. You are glad it has happened; and it serves you right. +‘<i>Pray forget her</i>.’ Oh, yes, poor girl! she need not trouble +about that. I declare there is nothing viler, meaner, cowardlier, selfisher on +earth than a man. Oh, if we had only done what we always said we would do—kept +free from you!” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a good plan,” said Conolly, submissively. +</p> + +<p> +“Was it? How were we to know that you were not made of flesh and blood, +pray? There, let me go. [The table was between them; but she rose and shook off +an imaginary detaining hand.] I dont want to hear anything more about it. I +suppose you are right not to care. Very likely she was right to go, too; so we +are all right, and everything is for the best, no doubt. Marian is ruined, of +course; but what does that matter to you? She was only in your way. You can +console yourself with your—” Here Armande came in; and Elinor turned +quickly to the fireplace and stood there, so that the housemaid should not see +her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Your dinner, sir,” said Armande, with a certain artificiality of +manner that was, under the circumstances, significant. “There is a nice +fire in the laboratory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Conolly. “Presently, Armande.” +</p> + +<p> +“The things will spoil if you wait too long, sir. The mistress was very +particular with me and cook about it.” And Armande, with an air of +declining further responsibility, went out. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I do without Marian?” said Conolly. “Not one +woman in a hundred is capable of being a mistress to her servants. She saved me +all the friction of housekeeping.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are beginning to feel your loss,” said Elinor, facing him +again. “A pleasant thing for a woman of her talent to be thrown away to +save you the friction of housekeeping. If you had paid half the attention to +her happiness that she did to your dinners you would not be in your present +predicament.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you really calculated that it is twice as easy to make a woman +happy as to feed a man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Calc—! Yes, I have. I tell you that it is three times as easy—six times +as easy: more fool the woman! You can make a woman happy for a week by a word +or a kiss. How long do you think it takes to order a week’s dinners? I +suppose you consider a kiss a weakness?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid—judging by the result—that I am not naturally clever at +kissing.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I should think not, indeed. Then you had better go and do what you +<i>are</i> clever at—eat your dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss McQuinch: did you ever see an unfortunate little child get a severe +fall, and then, instead of a little kindly petting, catch a sound whacking from +its nurse for daring to startle her and spoil its clothes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what is the point of that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You remind me a little of the nurse. I have had a sort of fall this +evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now you are going to pretend to be hurt, I suppose; because you dont +care to be told that it is your own fault. That is a common experience with +children, too. I tell you plainly that I dont believe you are hurt at all; +though you may not be exactly pleased—just for the moment. However, I did not +mean to be uncivil. If you are really sorry, I am at least <i>as</i> sorry. I +have not said all I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“What more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing of any use to say. I see I am wasting my time here—and no doubt +wasting yours too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think you have had your turn. If you are not thoroughly +satisfied, pray go on for ten minutes longer: your feelings do you credit, as +the phrase goes. Still, do not forget that you thought just the same of me a +week ago; and that if you had said as much then you might have prevented what +has happened. Giving me a piece of your mind now is of no use except as far as +it relieves you. To Marian or me or anyone else it does no good. So when you +have said your worst, we cannot do better, I think, than set our wits to work +about our next move.” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor received this for a moment in dudgeon. Then she laughed sourly, and +said, “There is some sense in that. I am as much to blame as anybody: I +dont deny it—if that is any comfort to you. But as to the next move, you say +yourself that it is too late to do anything; and I dont see that you can do +much.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is so. But there are a few things to be faced. First, I have to set +Marian and myself free.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“Divorce her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Divorce!” Elinor looked at him in dismay. He was unmoved. Then her +gaze fell slowly, and she said: “Yes: I suppose you have a right to +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“She also.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that she may marry him—from a sense of duty. That will be so happy +for her!” +</p> + +<p> +“She will have time, before she is free to find out whether she likes him +or not. There will be a great fuss in the family over the scandal.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you care about that? <i>I</i> dont.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. However, thats a detail. Marian will perhaps write to you. If so, +just point out to her that her five hundred a year belongs to her still, and +makes her quite independent of him and of me. That is all, I think. You need +take no pains now to conceal what has happened: the servants below know it as +well as we: in a week it will be town talk.” +</p> + +<p> +Elinor looked wistfully at him, her impetuosity failing her as she felt how +little effect it was producing. Yet her temper rather rose than fell at him. +There was a much more serious hostility than before in her tone as she said: +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to have been thoroughly prepared for what has happened. I do +not want any instructions from you as to what I shall write to Marian about her +money affairs: I want to know, in case she takes it into her head to come back +when she has found what a fool she has made of herself, whether I may tell her +that you are glad to be rid of her, and that there is no use in her humiliating +herself by coming to your door and being turned away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I explain the situation to you from my point of view?” said +he. At the sound of his voice she looked up in alarm. The indulgent, +half-playful manner which she had almost lost the sense of because it was so +invariable with him in speaking to ladies was suddenly gone. She felt that the +real man was coming out now without ceremony. He was quick to perceive the +effect he had produced. To soften it, he placed a comfortable chair on the +hearthrug, and said, in his ordinary friendly way: “Sit nearer the fire: +we can talk more comfortably. Now,” he continued, standing with his back +to the mantelpiece, “let me tell you, Miss McQuinch, that when you talk +of my turning people away from my door you are not talking fair and square +sense to me. I dont turn my acquaintances off in that way, much less my +friends; and a woman who has lived with me as my wife for eighteen months must +always be a rather particular friend. I liked her before I was her husband, and +I shall continue to like her when I am no longer her husband. So you need have +no fear on that score. But I wont remain her husband. You said just now that I +knew what was going to happen; that I intended it to happen, wanted it to +happen, and am glad it happened. There is more truth in that than you thought +when you said it. For some time past Marian has been staying with me as a +matter of custom and convenience only, using me as a cover for her philandering +with Douglas, and paying me by keeping the house very nicely for me. I had +asked myself once or twice how long this was to last. I was in no hurry for the +answer; for although I was wifeless and had no one to live with who really +cared for me, I was quite prepared to wait a couple of years if necessary, on +the chance of our making it up somehow. But sooner or later I should have +insisted on closing our accounts and parting; and I am not sorry now that the +end has come, since it was inevitable; though I am right sorry for the way it +has come. Instead of eloping in the conventional way, she should have come to +an understanding with me. I could easily have taken her for a trip in the +States, where we could have stopped a few months in South Dakota and got +divorced without any scandal. I have never made any claims on her since she +found out that she didnt care for me; and she might have known from that that I +was not the man to keep her against her will and play dog in the manger with a +fellow like Douglas. However, thats past praying for now. She has had enough of +me; and I have had more than enough of her set and her family, except that I +should like to remain good friends with you. You are the only one of the whole +lot worth your salt. It is understood, of course, that you take Marian’s +part against me on all issues; but will you be friends as far as is consistent +with that?” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Nelly, shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“Shake hands on it; and I’ll tell you something else that will help +you to understand me better,” he said, holding out his hand. She gave +hers; and when the bargain was struck, he turned to the fire and seated himself +on the edge of the table. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that when I married,” he resumed, “I was promoted +to mix in fashionable society for the first time. Of course you do: that was +the whole excitement of the affair for the family. You know the impression I +made on polite society better, probably, than I do. Now tell me: do you know +what impression polite society made on me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dont understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it has never occurred even to you, sharp as you are, that I +could have taken society otherwise than at its own valuation of itself, as +something much higher, more cultivated and refined than anything that I had +been accustomed to. Well, I never believed in that much at any time; but it was +not until I had made a <i>mésalliance</i> for Marian’s sake that I +realized how infinitely beneath me and my class was the one I had married +into.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mésalliance!</i>—with Marian! I take back the shake hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mésalliance</i> with her class, for her sake: I made the distinction +purposely. Now what am I, Miss McQuinch? A worker. I belonged and belong to the +class that keeps up the world by its millions of serviceable hands and +serviceable brains. All the pride of caste in me settles on that point. I admit +no loafer as my equal. The man who is working at the bench is my equal, whether +he can do my day’s work or not, provided he is doing the best he can. But +the man who does not work anyhow, and the class that does not work, is a class +below mine. When I annoyed Marian by refusing to wear a tall hat and cuffs, I +did so because I wanted to have it seen as I walked through Piccadilly and St. +James’s Street that I did not belong there, just as your people walk +through a poor street dressed so as to shew that they dont belong there. To me +a man like your uncle, Marian’s father, or like Marmaduke or Douglas, +loafing idly round spending money that has been made by the sweat of men like +myself, are little better than thieves. They get on with the queerest +makeshifts for self-respect: old Mr. Lind with family pride. Douglas with +personal vanity, and Marmaduke with a sort of interest in his own appetites and +his own jollity. Everything is a sham with them: they have drill and etiquet +instead of manners, fashions instead of tastes, small talk instead of +intercourse. Everything that is special to them as distinguished from workers +is a sham: when you get down to the real element in them, good or bad, you find +that it is something that is common to them and to all civilized mankind. The +reason that this isnt as clear to other workmen who come among them as it is to +me is that most workmen share their ignorance of the things they affect +superiority in. Poor Jackson, whom you all call the Yankee cad, and who is not +a cad at all in his proper place among the engineers at our works, believes in +the sham refinements he sees around him at the at-homes he is so fond of. He +has no art in him—no trained ear for music or for fine diction, no trained eye +for pictures and colors and buildings, no cultivated sense of dignified +movement, gesture, and manner. But he knows what fashionable London listens to +and looks at, and how it talks and behaves; and he makes that his standard, and +sets down what is different from it as vulgar. Now the difference between me +and him is that I got an artistic training by accident when I was young, and +had the natural turn to profit by it. Before I ever saw a West End Londoner I +knew beautiful from ugly, rare from common, in music, speech, costume, and +gesture; for in my father’s operatic and theatrical companies there did +come now and then, among the crowd of thirdraters, a dancer, an actor, a +scenepainter, a singer, or a bandsman or conductor who was a fine artist. +Consequently, I was not to be taken in like Jackson by made-up faces, trashy +pictures, drawling and lounging and strutting and tailoring, drawing-room +singing and drawing-room dancing, any more than by bad ventilation and +unwholesome hours and food, not to mention polite dram drinking, and the round +of cruelties they call sport. I found that the moment I refused to accept the +habits of the rich as standards of refinement and propriety, the whole illusion +of their superiority vanished at once. When I married Marian I was false to my +class. I had a sort of idea that my early training had accustomed me to a +degree of artistic culture that I could not easily find in a working girl, and +that would be quite natural to Marian. I soon found that she had the keenest +sense of what was ladylike, and no sense of what was beautiful at all. A +drawing, a photograph, or an engraving sensibly framed without a white mount +round it to spoil it pained her as much as my wrists without cuffs on them. No +mill girl could have been less in sympathy with me on the very points for which +I had preferred her to the mill girls. The end of it was that I felt that love +had made me do a thoroughly vulgar thing—marry beneath me. These aristocratic +idle gentlemen will never be shamed out of their laziness and low-mindedness +until the democratic working gentlemen refuse to associate with them instead of +running after them and licking their boots. I am heartily glad now to be out of +their set and rid of them, instead of having to receive them civilly in my +house for Marian’s sake. The whole business was strangling me: the strain +of keeping my feeling to myself was more than you can imagine. Do you know that +there have been times when I have been so carried away with the idea that she +must be as tired of the artificiality of our life as I was, that I have begun +to speak my mind frankly to her; and when she recoiled, hurt and surprised and +frightened that I was going to turn coarse at last, I have shut up and sat +there apparently silent, but really saying under my breath: ‘Why dont you +go? Why dont you leave me, vanish, fly away to your own people? You must be a +dream: I never married you. You dont know me: you cant be my wife: your lungs +were not made to breathe the air I live in.’ I have said a thousand +things like that, and then wondered whether there was any truth in +telepathy—whether she could possibly be having my thoughts transferred to her +mind and thinking it only her imagination. I would ask myself whether I +despised her or not, calling on myself for the truth as if I did not believe +the excuses I made for her out of the fondness I could not get over. I am fond +of her still, sometimes. I did not really—practically, I mean—despise her until +I gave up thinking about her at all. There was a certain kind of contempt in +that indifference, beyond a doubt: there is no use denying it. Besides, it is +proved to me now by the new respect I feel for her because she has had the +courage and grit to try going away with Douglas. But my love for her is over: +nothing short of her being born over again—a thing that sometimes happens—will +ever bring her into contact with me after this. To put it philosophically, she +made the mistake of avoiding all realities, and yet marrying herself to the +hardest of realities, a working man; so it was inevitable that she should go +back at last to the region of shadows and mate with that ghostliest of all +unrealities, the non-working man. Perhaps, too, the union may be more fruitful +than ours: the cross between us was too violent. Now you have the whole story +from my point of view. What do you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” said Elinor, interrupting him. “What is that noise +outside?” +</p> + +<p> +The house bell began to ring violently; and they could hear a confused noise of +voices and footsteps without. +</p> + +<p> +“Can she have come back?” said Elinor, starting up. +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” said Conolly, looking disturbed for the first time. +They stood a moment listening, with averted eyes. A second peal from the bell +was followed by roars of laughter, amid which a remonstrant voice was audible. +Then the house door was hammered with a stick. Conolly ran downstairs at once +and opened it. On the step he found Marmaduke reeling in the arms of the Rev. +George. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, ol’ fler?” said Marmaduke, plunging into the +hall. “The parson is tight. I found him tumbling about High Street, and +brought him along.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray excuse this intrusion,” whispered the Rev. George. “You +see the state he is in. He accosted me near Campden Hill; and I really could +not be seen walking with him into town. I wonder he was not arrested.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is the worse for drink; but he is sober enough to know how to amuse +himself at your expense,” said Conolly, aloud. “Come up to the +laboratory. Miss McQuinch is there.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he is not fit,” urged the clergyman. “Look at him trying +to hang up his hat. How absurd—I should rather say how deplorable! I assure you +he is perfectly tipsy. He has been ringing the bells of the houses, and +requesting females to accompany us. Better warn Elinor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” said Conolly. “I have some news that will sober +him. Here is Miss McQuinch. Are you going?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Elinor. “I should lose my patience if I had to +listen to George’s comments; and I am tired. I would rather go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet, Nelly. Wont um stay and talk to um’s Marmadukes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go,” said Elinor, snatching away her hand, which he had +seized. “You ought to be at home in bed. You are a sot.” At this +Marmaduke laughed boisterously. She passed him contemptuously, and left. The +three men then went upstairs, Marmaduke dropping his pretence of drunkenness +under the influence of Conolly’s presence. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian is not in, I presume,” said the clergyman, when they were +seated. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” said Conolly. “She has eloped with Douglas.” +</p> + +<p> +They stared at him. Then Marmaduke gave a long whistle; and the clergyman rose, +pale. “What do you mean, sir?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Conolly did not answer; and the Rev. George slowly sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m damned sorry for it,” said Marmaduke, +emphatically. “It was a mean thing for Douglas to do, with all his brag +about his honor.” +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. George covered his face with his handkerchief and sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, shut up, old fellow; and dont make an ass of yourself,” said +Marmaduke. “What are you going to do, Conolly?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must simply divorce her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go for heavy damages, Conolly. Knock a few thousand out of him, just to +punish him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He could easily afford it. Besides, why should I punish him?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear friend,” cried the clergyman, “you must not dream of +a divorce. I implore you to abandon such an idea. Consider the disgrace, the +impiety! The publicity would kill my father.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no such thing as divorce known to the Church. ‘What God +hath joined together, let no man put asunder.’” +</p> + +<p> +“She had no right to bolt,” said Marmaduke. “Thats +certain.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was married by a registrar,” said Conolly; “and as there +is no such thing as civil marriage known to the Church, our union, from the +ecclesiastical point of view, has no existence. We were not joined by God, in +fact, in your sense. To deny her the opportunity of remarrying would be to +compel her to live as an adulteress in the eye of the law, which, by the bye, +would make me the father of Douglas’s children. I cannot, merely because +your people are afraid of scandal, take such a revenge on Marian as to refuse +her the freedom she has sacrificed so much for. After all, since our marriage +has proved a childless one, the only reason for our submitting to be handcuffed +to one another, now that our hearts are no longer in the arrangement, is +gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“The game began at Sark,” said Marmaduke. “Douglas stuck to +her there like a leech. He’s been about the house here a good deal since +she came back. I often wondered you didnt kick him out. But, of course, it was +not my business to say anything. Was she huffed into going? You hadnt any row +with her just before, had you? +</p> + +<p> +“We never had rows.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was your mistake, Conolly. You should have heard poor Susanna and +me fighting. We always ended by swearing we would never speak to one another +again. Nothing duller than a smooth life. If you had given Marian something to +complain of, she would have been too much taken up with it to bother about +Douglas.” +</p> + +<p> +“But have you ascertained whither they have gone?” said the +clergyman, distractedly. “Will you not follow them?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing of their movements. Probably they are crossing to New +York.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely you ought to follow her,” said the Rev. George. +“You may yet be in time to save her from worse than death.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yah!” said Marmaduke. “Drop all that rot, George. Worse than +death be hanged! Serves the family right! They are a jolly sight too virtuous: +it will do them good to get shewn up a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have no respect for the convictions of a priest,” exclaimed +the Rev. George, shedding tears, “you might at least be silent in the +presence of a heartbroken brother and husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I dont want to shew any want of consideration for you or +Conolly,” said Marmaduke, sulkily. “No doubt it’s rough on +you. But as to the feelings of the family, I tell you flatly that I dont care +if the whole crew were brought to the Old Bailey to-morrow and convicted of +bigamy. It would take the conceit out of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know not how to break this wretched news to my father,” said the +Rev. George, turning disconsolately from his sottish cousin to Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no such uncommon occurrence. The less fuss made about it the +better. She is not to blame, and I shall not be heard crying out misery and +disgrace. Your family can very well follow my example. I have nothing to say +against her, and I believe she has nothing to say against me. Nothing can +prevent such publicity as a petition for divorce must entail. Your father will +survive it, never fear.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman, remembering how vainly he had tried to change Conolly’s +intention when Marian was to be married, felt that he should succeed no better +now that she was to be divorced. Silent and cast down, he sat dangling his +handkerchief between his knees and leaning forward on his elbows toward the +fire. +</p> + +<p> +“You must excuse me if I see my way straight through to the end. I +daresay you would rather realize it gradually, inevitable as it is,” +added Conolly, looking down with some pity at his drooping figure. “I +cannot help my habit of mind. When are you going to be married?” he +continued, to Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know. The Countess is in a hurry. I’m not. But I suppose it +will be some time in spring.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have made up your mind to it at last?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I never had any particular objection to it, only I dont like to be +hunted into a corner. Conny is a good little girl, and will make a steady wife. +I dont like her mother; but as for herself, she is fond of me; and after all, I +<i>did</i> lead her a dance long ago. Besides, old boy, the Earl is forking out +handsomely; and as I have some notion of settling down to farm, his dust will +come in conveniently as capital.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman rose, and slowly pulled on his woolen gloves. +</p> + +<p> +“If youre going, I will see you part of the way,” said Marmaduke. +“I’ll cheer you up. You know you neednt tell the governor until +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had rather go alone, if you intend to behave as you did before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never fear. I’m as sober as a judge now. Come along. Away with +melancholy! Youll have Douglas for a brother-in-law before this time next +year.” +</p> + +<p> +This seemed to have been in the clergyman’s mind; for he shook hands with +his host more distantly than usual. When they were gone, Conolly went to the +laboratory, and rang for his neglected dinner, which he ate with all a +traveller’s appetite. From the dinner table he went straight to the +organ, and played until a little before midnight, when, after a brief turn in +the open air, he retired to bed, and was soon quietly asleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book04"></a>BOOK IV</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + +<p> +Miss McQuinch spent Christmas morning in her sitting-room reading; a letter +which had come by the morning post. It was dated the 17th December at New York: +and the formal beginning and ending were omitted. This was an old custom +between Marian and her cousin. In their girlish correspondence they had +expressed their affection by such modes of address as “My darling +Marian,” and “My dearest Nelly.” Subsequently they became +oppressed by these ceremonies and dropped them. Thereafter their letters +contained only the matter to be communicated and the signature. +</p> + +<p> +“You are the only person in England,” wrote Marian, “to whom +I dare write now. A month ago I had more correspondents than I had time to +answer. Do you know, Nelly, I hesitated before commencing this letter, lest you +should no longer care to have anything to do with me. That may have been an +unworthy thought for a friend: but it was an unavoidable one for a woman. +</p> + +<p> +“And now comes the great vain question: What does everybody say? Oh, if I +could only disembody myself; fly back to London for a few hours; and listen +invisibly to society talking about me. I know this is mean: but one must fill +up life with some mean curiosities. So please tell me what kind of sensation I +have caused. Just the usual one. I suppose. Half the people never would have +thought it; and the other half knew all along what it would come to. Well, I do +not care much about the world in general; but I cannot quiet my conscience on +the subject of my father and George. It must be very hard on papa that, after +being disappointed in my marriage and having suffered long ago from what my +mother did, he should now be disgraced by his daughter. For disgraced, alas! is +the word. I am afraid poor George’s prospects must be spoiled by the +scandal, which, I know well, must be terrible. I thought my first duty was to +leave Ned free, and to free myself, at all hazards; and so I did not dwell on +the feelings and interests of others as much as I perhaps ought to have done. +There is one point about which I am especially anxious. It never occurred to me +before I went that people might say that my going was Ned’s fault, and +that he had treated me badly. You must contradict this with all your might and +main if you hear it even hinted at. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no use in putting off the confession any longer, Nelly: I have +made an utter fool of myself. <i>I wish I were back with Ned again</i>. There! +what do you think of that? Now for another great confession, and a most +humiliating one. Sholto is a—I dont know what epithet is fair. I suppose I have +no right to call him an impostor merely because we were foolish enough to +overrate him. But I can hardly believe now that we ever really thought that +there were great qualities and powers latent beneath his proud reserve. Ned, I +know, never believed in Sholto; and I, in my infinite wisdom, set that down to +his not understanding him. Ned was right, as usual. If you want to see how +selfish people are, and how skin-deep fashionable politeness is, take a voyage. +Go with a picked company of the nice people you have met for an hour or so at a +dinner or an at-home; and see how different they will appear when they have +been cooped up in a ship with you day and night for a week. An ocean steamer is +the next worst thing to the Palace of Truth. Poor Sholto did not stand the +ordeal. He was ridiculously distant in his manner to the rest of the +passengers, and in little matters at table and so forth he was really just as +selfish as he could be. He was impatient because I was ill the first two days, +and afterwards he seemed to think that I ought not to speak to anyone but +himself. The doctor, who was very attentive to me, was his particular aversion; +and it was on his account that we had our first quarrel, the upshot of which +was a scene between them, which I overheard. One very fine day, when all the +passengers were on deck, Sholto met the doctor in the saloon, and offered him a +guinea for his attendance on me, telling him in the most offensively polite way +that I would not trouble him for any further services. The doctor retorted very +promptly and concisely; and though what he said was not dignified, I +sympathized with him, and took care to be very friendly with him at dinner. +(Meals take place on hoard ship at intervals of ten minutes: it is horrifying +to see the quantity of food the elderly people consume.) To prevent further +hostilities I took care to be always in the way when the doctor encountered +Sholto afterwards. I cannot imagine Ned involving himself in such a paltry +squabble. It is odd how things come about. I used to take Sholto’s genius +for granted, and think a great deal of it. In another sense, I used to take +Ned’s genius for granted, and think nothing of it. Now I have found out +in a single fortnight that we saw all of Sholto that there was to be seen. His +reserves of talent existed only in our imagination. He has absolutely no sense +of humor; and he is always grumbling. Neither the servants, nor the food, nor +the rooms, nor the wine, satisfy him. Imagine how this comes home to me, who, +from not having heard grumbling for two years, had forgotten that men ever were +guilty of it. I flirted a little, a very little, with the doctor; not because I +meant anything serious, but because it amused me and made the trip pleasant. +Sholto will not understand this. One day, on board, I was indiscreet enough to +ask Sholto the use of a piece of machinery belonging to the ship. Ned would +have known, or, if he had not, would very soon have found out. Sholto didnt +know, and was weak enough to pretend that he did; so he snubbed me by saying +that I could not understand it. This put me on my mettle; and I asked the +surgeon that afternoon about it. The surgeon didnt know, and said so; but he +appealed to the first officer, who explained it. I intended to revenge myself +on Sholto by retailing the explanation to him next day; but unfortunately, +whether through the first officer’s want of perspicuity or my own +stupidity, I was not a bit the wiser for the explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell you nothing as to what we are likely to do next. As Sholto +has given up all his prospects for me, I cannot honorably desert him. I know +now that I have ruined myself for nothing, and I must at least try to hide from +him that he has done likewise. I can see that he is not happy; but he tries so +desperately to persuade himself that he is, and clings so to the idea that the +world is well lost for me, that I have not the heart to undeceive him. So we +are still lovers; and, cynical though it sounds, I make him a great deal +happier in my insincerity than I could if I really loved him, because I humor +him with a cunning quite incompatible with passion. He, on the other hand, +being still sincere, tries my patience terribly with his jealousies and +importunities. As he has nothing to do, he is almost always with me; and a man +who has no office to go to—I dont care who he is—is a trial of which you can +have no conception. So much for our present relations. But I fear—indeed I +know—that they will not last long. I dare not look steadily at the future. In +spite of all that he has sacrificed for me, I cannot live forever with him. +There are times at which he inspires me with such a frenzy of aversion and +disgust that I have to put the strongest constraint upon myself to avoid +betraying my feelings to him. We intended going to the West Indies direct from +here, in search of some idyllic retreat where we could live alone together. He +still entertains this project; but as I have totally abandoned it I put him off +with some pretext for remaining here whenever he mentions it. I have only one +hope of gaining a separation without being open to the reproach of having +deserted him. You remember how we disputed that Saturday about the merits of a +grand passion, which I so foolishly longed for. Well, I have tried it, and +proved it to be a lamentable delusion, selfish, obstinate, blind, intemperate, +and transient. As it has evaporated from me, so it will evaporate from Sholto +in the course of time. It would have done so already, but that his love was +more genuine than mine. When the time comes, he will get rid of me without the +least remorse; and so he will have no excuse for reviving his old complaints of +my treachery. +</p> + +<p> +“One new and very disagreeable feature in my existence, which I had +partly prepared myself for, is the fear of detection. We sailed before our +flight had become public; and as there was fortunately no one on board who knew +us, I had a nine days’ respite, and could fearlessly approach the other +women, who, I suppose, would not have spoken to me had they known the truth. +But here it is different. Ned’s patents are so much more extensively +worked here than in England, and the people are so go-ahead, that they take a +great interest in him, and are proud of him as an American. The news got into +the papers a few days after we arrived. To appreciate the full significance of +this, you should know what American newspapers are. One of them actually +printed a long account of my going away, with every paragraph headed in large +print, ‘Domestic Unhappiness,’ ‘The Serpent in the +Laboratory,’ ‘The Temptation,’ ‘The Flight,’ +‘The Pursuit,’ and so on, all invented, of course. Other papers +give the most outrageous anecdotes. Old jokes are revived and ascribed to us. I +am accused of tearing his hair out, and he of coming home late at nights drunk. +Two portraits of ferocious old women supposed to be Ned’s mother-in-law +have been published. The latest version appeared in a Sunday paper, and is +quite popular in this hotel. According to it, Ned was in the habit of +‘devoting me to science’ by trying electrical experiments on me. +‘This,’ the account says, ‘was kind of rough on the poor +woman.’ The day before I ‘scooted,’ a new machine appeared +before the house, drawn by six horses. ‘What are them men foolin’ +round with, Mr. C.?’ said I. ‘That’s hubby’s +latest,’ replied Ned. ‘I guess it’s the boss electro-dynamic +fixin’ in the universe. Full charge that battery with a pint of washing +soda, an’ youll fetch up a current fit to ravage a cont’nent. You +shall have a try t’morro’ mornin’, Sal. Youre better seasoned +to it than most Britishers; but if it dont straighten your hair and lift the +sparks outer your eyelashes—!’ ‘You bet it wont, Mr. C.,’ +said I. That night (this is only what the paper says, mind) I stole out of bed; +arranged the wires on each side of Ned so that if he stirred an inch he would +make contact; charged the battery; and gently woke him, saying, ‘Mr. C, +love, dont stir for your life. Them things that’s ticklin’ your +whiskers is the conductors of that boss fixin’ o’ yourn. If I was +you, I’d lie still until the battery runs down.’ ‘Darn it +all,’ said Ned, afraid to lift his lips for a shout, and coming out in +cold water all over the forehead, ‘it wont run down for a week +clear.’ ‘That’ll answer me nicely,’ I replied. +‘Good-bye, Mr. C. Young Douglas from the corner grocery is waitin’ +for me with a shay down the avenue.’ I cannot help laughing at these +things, but they drive Sholto frantic. He is always described in them as a +young man from some shop or other. He tries hard, out of delicacy, to keep the +papers which contain them away from me; but I hear about them at breakfast, and +buy them downstairs in the hall for myself. Another grievance of Sholto’s +is that I will not have meals privately. But my dislike to being always alone +with him is greater than my dread that my secret will leak out, and that some +morning I shall see in the people’s faces that the Mrs. Forster who has +so often been regaled with the latest account of the great scandal, is no other +than the famous Mrs. Conolly. That evil day will come, sooner or later; but I +had rather face it in one of these wonderful hotels than in a boarding-house, +which I might be asked to leave. As to taking a house of our own, I shrink from +any such permanent arrangement. We are noticed a good deal. Sholto is, of +course, handsome and distinguished; and people take a fancy to me just as they +used to long ago. I was once proud of this; but now it is a burden to me. For +instance, there was a Mrs. Crawford staying here with her husband, a general, +who has just built a house here. She was so determined to know me that I found +it hard to keep her off without offending her. At last she got ill; and then I +felt justified in nursing her. Sholto was very sulky because I did so, and +wanted to know what business it was of mine. I did not trouble myself about his +anger, and Mrs. Crawford was well in two days. In fact, I think Sholto was +right in saying that she had only overeaten herself. After that I could avoid +her no longer, and she was exceedingly kind to me. She wanted to introduce me +to all her New York friends, and begged me to leave the hotel and go to her new +mansion. There was plenty of room for us, she said. I did not know what to say. +I could not repay her kindness by going to her house under false colors, and +letting her introduce me to her circle; and yet I could make no reasonable +excuse. At last, seeing that she attributed my refusals to pride, I told her +plainly that if her friends were to learn my history by any accident they might +not thank her for the introduction. She was quite confounded; but she did not +abate her kindness in the least, although my reservation of confidence in only +giving her a hint of the truth, checked her advances. You may think this an +insane indiscretion on my part; but if you knew how often I have longed to +stand up before everybody and proclaim who I am, and so get rid of the incubus +of a perpetual falsehood, you would not be so much surprised. There is one +unspeakable blessing in American law. It is quite easy to obtain a divorce. One +can get free without sacrificing everything except bare existence. I do not +care what anybody may argue to the contrary, our marriage laws are shameful. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall expect to hear from you very soon. If you desert me, Nelly, +there is no such thing as friendship in the world. I want particularly to know +what Ned did—as far as you know—when he heard the news. Is papa very angry? +And, above all, could you find out how Mrs. Douglas is? I thought that Sholto +would be uneasy and remorseful about her; but he does not really care half so +much as I do. How selfish I have been! I used to flatter myself that I was +thoughtful for others because I made a habit—a detestably self-conscious +habit—of being considerate in trifles. And in the end, after being so +vain-gloriously attentive to the momentary comfort of all connected with me, I +utterly forgot them and thought only of myself when their whole happiness was +concerned. I never knew how high I stood in my own estimation until I found how +far the discovery of my folly and selfishness made me fall. Tell me +everything”. I cannot write any more now. My eyes are smarting: I feel as +if I had been writing for a whole month instead of two days. Good-bye for three +weeks. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“MARIAN.” +</p> + +<p> +“P.S. I have just learnt from a very severe criticism in one of the +papers that Mdlle. Lalage Virtue has failed here completely. I fear from the +wording that her unfortunate habit was apparent to the audience.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + +<p> +On a cold afternoon in January, Sholto Douglas entered a hold in New York, and +ascended to a room on the first floor. Marian was sitting there, thinking, with +a letter in her lap, She only looked up for a moment when he entered; and he +plucked off his sealskin gloves and threw aside his overcoat in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“It is an infernal day,” he said presently. +</p> + +<p> +Marian sighed, and roused herself. “The rooms look cheerless in winter +without the open fireplaces we are accustomed to in England.” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn the rooms!” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +Marian took up her letter again. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that he has filed a petition for divorce?” he said, +aggressively. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You might have mentioned it to me. Probably you have known it for days +past.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I thought it was a matter of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or rather you did not think at nil. I suppose you would have left me in +ignorance forever, if I had not heard from London myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it of importance, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly it is—of vital importance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any other news? From whom have you heard?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have received some private letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I beg your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes passed in silence. He looked out of the window, frowning. She sat +as before. +</p> + +<p> +“How much longer do you intend to stay in this place?” he said, +turning upon her suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“In New York?” +</p> + +<p> +“This is New York, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think we may as well stay here as anywhere else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! On what grounds have you arrived at that cheering +conclusion?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian shrugged her shoulders. “I dont know,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor do I. You do not seem happy here. At least, if you are, you fail to +communicate your state of mind to those about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it seems.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does that mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“That you do not seem to be happy either.” +</p> + +<p> +“How in the devil’s name can you expect me to be happy in this +city? Do you think it is pleasant to have no alternative to the society of +American men except that of a sulky woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto!” said Marian, rising quickly, and looking at him in +surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Spare me these airs,” he said, coldly. “You will have to +accustom yourself to hear the truth occasionally.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat down again. “I am not giving myself airs,” she said, +earnestly. “I am astonished. Have I really been sulky?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been in the sulks for days past: and you are in them at this +moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is some misunderstanding between us then; for you have seemed to +me quite cross and out of sorts for the last week; and I thought you were out +of temper when you came in just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is rather an old-fashioned retort.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto: I do not know whether you intend it or not; but you are speaking +very slightingly to me.” +</p> + +<p> +He muttered something, and walked across the room and back. “I am quite +clear on one point at least,” he said. “It was not for this sort of +thing that I crossed the Atlantic with you; and you had bettor make our +relations more agreeable if you wish me to make them permanent.” +</p> + +<p> +“You to make them permanent? I do not understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not shrink from explaining myself. If your husband’s suit +is undefended, he will obtain a decree which will leave you a single woman in +six months. Now, whatever you may think to the contrary, there is not a club in +London that would hold me in any way bound to marry you after the manner in +which you have behaved. Let me remind you that your future position depends on +your present conduct. You have apparently forgotten it.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him; and he went back to the window. +</p> + +<p> +“My husband’s suit cannot be defended,” she said. +“Doubtless you will act according to the dictates of the London +clubs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not say so,” he said, turning angrily. “I shall act +according to the dictates of my own common sense. And do not be too sure that +the petition will be unopposed. The law recognizes the plea of +connivance.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it would be a false plea,” said Marian, raising her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not discuss that with you. Whether your husband was blind, or +merely kept his eyes shut will not be decided by us. You have been warned. We +will drop the subject now, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suppose,” said Marian, with a bright color in her cheeks, +“that after what you have said, anything could induce me to marry +you?” +</p> + +<p> +He was startled, and remained for a moment motionless. Then he said, in his +usual cold tone, “As you please. You may think better of it. I will leave +you for the present. When we meet again, you will be calmer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. “Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Without answering, he changed his coat for a silk jacket, transferred his +cigar-case to a pocket in it, and went out. When he had passed the threshold, +he hesitated, and returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say good-bye?” he said, after clearing his throat +uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not like to leave you without saying it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you have not misunderstood me, Marian. I did not mean that we +should part.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that. Nevertheless, we shall part. I will never sleep beneath the +same roof with you again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” he said, shutting the door: “this is nonsense. You +are out of temper.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you have already told me,” she said, becoming pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but—Marian: perhaps I may have spoken rather harshly just now; but +I did not mean you to take it so. You must be reasonable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray let us have no more words about it. I need no apologies, and desire +no advances. Good-bye is enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Marian,” said he, coming nearer, “you must not fancy +that I have ceased to love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Above all,” said Marian, “let us have no more of that. You +say you hate this place and the life we lead here. I am heartily sick of it, +and have been so for a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go elsewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but not together. One word,” she added resolutely, seeing his +expression become fierce. “I will not endure any violence, even of +language, from you. I know of old what you are when you lose your temper; and +if you insult me I will summon aid, and proclaim who I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think I am going to strike you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, because you dare not. But I will not listen to oaths or +abuse.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you to complain of? What is your grievance?” +</p> + +<p> +“I make no complaint. I exercise the liberty I bought so dearly to go +where I please and do what I please.” +</p> + +<p> +“And to desert me when I have sacrificed everything for you. I have +incurred enormous expenses; alienated my friends; risked my position in +society; and broken my mother’s heart for your sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“But for that I would have left you before. I am very sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have heard something in that letter which makes you hope that your +husband will take you back. Not a woman in London will speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you I am not going back. Oh, Sholto, dont be so mean. Can we not +part with dignity? We have made a mistake. Let us acknowledge it quietly, and +go our several ways.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not be got rid of so easily as you suppose,” he said, his +face darkening menacingly. “Do you think I believe in your going out +alone from this hotel and living by yourself in a strange city? Come! who is +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is——? What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“What new connexion have you formed? You were very anxious about our ship +returning the other day—anxious about the mails, of course. Perhaps also about +the surgeon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand. You think I am leaving you to go to some other man. I will +tell you now the true reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do,” said he, sarcastically, biting his lip. +</p> + +<p> +“I will. I am leaving you because, instead of loving you, as I foolishly +thought I could, I neither respect nor even like you. You are utterly selfish +and narrow-minded; and I deserve my disappointment for having deserted for your +sake a far better man. I am sorry you have sacrificed so much for me; but if +you had been worthy of a woman’s regard, you would not have lost +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas stared at her. “<i>I</i> selfish and narrow-minded!” he +said, with the calm of stupefaction. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may have been narrow-minded in devoting myself so entirely to +you,” said he slowly, after a pause. “But, though I do not ask for +gratitude, I think I have been sufficiently a loser to disregard such a +monstrous assertion as that I am selfish.” +</p> + +<p> +“You show your selfishness by dwelling on what you have lost. You never +think of what I have lost. I make no profession of unselfishness. I am +suffering for my folly and egoism; and I deserve to suffer.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what way, pray, are you suffering? You came here because you had a +wretched home, and a husband who was glad to be rid of you. You do what you +like, and have what you like. Name one solitary wish of yours that has not been +silently gratified.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not find fault with you. You have been generous in supplying me +with luxuries such as money can obtain. But it was not the want of money that +made me fancy my home wretched. It is not true that I can do as I like. How +many minutes is it since you threatened to cast me off if I did not make myself +agreeable to you? Can you boast of your generosity after taunting me with my +dependence on you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You misunderstood me, Marian. I neither boasted, nor threatened, nor +taunted. I have even apologized for that moment’s irritation. If you +cannot forgive such a trifle, you yourself can have very little +generosity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps not. I do not violently resent things; but I cannot forget them, +nor feel as I did before they happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think so at present. Let us cease this bickering. Lovers’ +quarrels should not be carried too far.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am longing to cease it. It worries me; and it does not alter my +determination in the least.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do mean. Dont look at me like that: you make me angry instead of +frightening me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you think I will suffer this quietly?” +</p> + +<p> +“You may suffer it as you please,” said Marian, stepping quietly to +the wall, and pressing a button. “I will never see you again if I can +help it. If you follow me, or persecute me in any way, I will appeal to the +police for protection as Mrs. Conolly. I despise you more than I do any one on +earth.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned away, and snatched up his coat and hat. She stood apparently watching +him quietly, but really listening with quickened heart to his loud and +irregular breathing. As he opened the door to go out, he was confronted on the +threshold by a foreign waiter. +</p> + +<p> +“Vas you reeng?” said the waiter doubtfully, retreating a step. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not be accountable for that woman’s expenses from this time +forth,” said Douglas, pointing at her, “You can keep her at your +own risk, or turn her into the streets to pursue her profession, as you +please.” +</p> + +<p> +The waiter, smiting vaguely, looked first at the retreating figure of Douglas, +and then at Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“I want another room, if you please,” she said. “One on any +of the upper floors will do; but I must have my things moved there at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +Her instructions were carried out after some parley. In the meantime, +Douglas’s man servant appeared, and said that he had been instructed to +remove his master’s luggage. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Forster leaving the hotel?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know his arrangements, madam.” +</p> + +<p> +“I guess I do, then,” said a sulky man, who was preparing to wheel +away Marian’s trunk. “He’s about to shift his billet to the +Gran’ Central.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian, still in a towering rage, sat down in her new room to consider her +situation. To fix her attention, which repeatedly wandered to what had passed +between her and Douglas, she counted her money, and found that she had, besides +a twenty pound note which she had brought with her from London, only a few +loose dollars in her purse. Her practice in housekeeping at Westbourne Terrace +and Holland Park had taught her the value of money too well to let her suppose +that she could afford to remain at a first rate American hotel with so small a +sum in her possession. At home Conolly had made her keep a separate banking +account; and there was money to her credit there; but in her ignorance of the +law, she was not sure that she had not forfeited all her property by eloping. +She resolved to move at once into some cheap lodging, and to live economically +until she could ascertain the true state of her affairs, or until she could +obtain some employment, to support her. She faced poverty without fear, never +having experienced it. +</p> + +<p> +It was still early in the afternoon when she left the hotel and drove to the +Crawfords’. +</p> + +<p> +“So you have come at last,” cried Mrs. Crawford, who was fifty +years of age and stout, but leaner in the face than fat Englishwomen of that +age usually are. +</p> + +<p> +“I just expected you’d soon git tired of being grand all by +yourself in the hotel yonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear I shall have to be the reverse of grand all by myself in some +very shabby lodging,” said Marian. “Dont be surprised Mrs. +Crawford. Can one live in New York on ten dollars a week?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You</i> cant live on ten dollars a week in New York nor on a hundred. +You rode here, didnt you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. If you have only ten dollars a week you should have walked. I +know the sort you are, Mrs. Forster. You wont be long getting rid of your +money, no matter where you live. But whats wrong? Hows your husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know. I hope he is quite well,” said Marian, her voice +trembling a little. “Mrs. Crawford: you are the only friend I have in +America; and you have been so very kind to me that since I must trouble some +one, I have ventured to come to you. The truth is that I have left my husband; +and I have only about one hundred dollars in the world. I must live on that +until I get some employment, or perhaps some money of my own from +England.” +</p> + +<p> +“Chut, child! Nawnsnse!” exclaimed Mrs. Crawford, with benevolent +intolerance. “You go right back to your husband. I spose youve had a +rumpus with him; but you mustnt mind that. All men are a bit selfish; and I +should say from what I have seen of him that he is no exception to the rule. +But you cant have perfection. He’s a fine handsome fellow; and he knows +it. And, as for you, I dont know what they reckon you in England; but youre the +best-looking woman in Noo York: thats surtn. It’s a pity for such a pair +to fall out.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is not selfish,” said Marian. “You never saw him. I am +afraid I must shock you, Mrs. Crawford. Mr. Forster is not my husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“No! Do! Did you ever tell the General that?” +</p> + +<p> +“General Crawford! Oh, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of that man being cuter than me, a woman! He always said so. And +the grit you must have, to tell it out as cool as that! Well! I’m sorry +to hear it though, Mrs. Forster. It’s a bad account—a very bad one. But +if I take what you said just now rightly, youre married.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am. I have deserted a very good husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity you didnt find that out a little sooner, isnt +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, Mrs. Crawford. I thought I was acting for the best.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thought you were acting for the best in running away from a good +husband! Well, you British aristocrats are singular. You throw stones at us +because our women are so free and our divorces so easy. Yet youre always +scandlizing us; and now <i>you</i> tell me youve done it on morl grounds! Who +educated you, child? And what do you intend to do now?” +</p> + +<p> +“For the present, only to get a lodging. Will you tell me where I should +look for one? I dont know the east from the west end of this town; and I am so +inexperienced that I might make a mistake easily as to the character of the +places. Will you direct me to some street or quarter in which I should he +likely to find suitable rooms? I can live very economically.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know what to do,” said Mrs. Crawford, perplexedly, turning +her rings on her fingers. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And you +so pretty!” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you would rather not assist me. You may tell me so candidly. I +shall not be offended.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mustnt take me up like that. I must have a talk with the General +about you. I dont feel like letting you go into some ordinary place by +yourself. But I cant ask you to stay here without consulting——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, you must not think of any such thing: I must begin to face the +world alone at once. I assure you, Mrs. Crawford, I could not come here. I +should only keep your friends away.” +</p> + +<p> +“But nobody knows you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sooner or later I should meet someone who does. There are hundreds of +people who know me by sight, who travel every year. Besides, my case is a very +public one, unfortunately. May I take you into my confidence?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish, my dear. I dont ask you for it; but I will take it +kindly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you will. You must have heard all about me. Mr. Forster’s +real name is Douglas.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Crawford stifled a whoop of surprise. “And you! Are you——?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only think! And that was Douglas! Why, I thought he was a +straight-haired, sleeky, canting snake of a man. And you too are not a bit like +what I thought. You are quite a person, Mrs.—Mrs. Conolly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no right to bear that name any longer. Pray call me by my assumed +name still, and keep my secret. I hope you do not believe all the newspapers +said?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, of course not,” said Mrs. Crawford. “But whose fault was +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine. Altogether mine. I wish you would tell people that Mr. Conolly is +blameless in the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will take care of his own credit, never fear. I am sure you got some +provocation: I know what men are. The General is not my first husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I got no provocation. Mr. Conolly is not like other men. I got +discontented because I had nothing to desire. And now, about the lodgings, Mrs. +Crawford. Do not think I am changing the subject from reticence. It is the +question of money that makes me anxious. All my resources would be swallowed up +at the hotel in less than a week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lodgings? You mean rooms, I guess. People here mostly go to +boarding-houses. And as to the cheapness, you dont know what cheapness is. Cant +you make some arrangement with your great relations in England? Have you no +property of your own?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell whether my property remains my own or not. You must regard +me as a poor woman. I am quite determined to have the lodgings; and I should +like to arrange about them at once; for I am rather upset by something that +happened this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you must, you must, I know a place that might suit you: I lived +in it myself when I was not so well off as I am at present. It is a little +down-town; but you will have to put up with that for the sake of +economy.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Crawford, who had read in the papers of her guest’s relationship to +the Earl of Carbury, then sent for her carriage, and dressed herself +handsomely. When they had gone some distance, they entered a wide street, +crossed half way along by an avenue and an elevated railway. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of this neighborhood?” said Mrs. Crawford. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a fine, wide street,” replied Marian; “but it looks as +if it needed to be swept and painted.” +</p> + +<p> +“The other end is quieter. I’m afraid you wont like living +here.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian had hitherto thought of such streets as thoroughfares, not as places in +which she could dwell. “Beggars cannot be choosers,” she said, with +affected cheerfulness, looking anxiously ahead for the promised quiet part. +</p> + +<p> +“Boarding-houses are so much the rule here, that it is not easy to get +rooms. You will find Mrs. Myers a good soul, and though the house is not much +to look at, it is comfortable enough inside.” +</p> + +<p> +The appearance of the street improved as they went on; and the house they +stopped at, though the windows were dingy and the paint old, was better than +Marian had hoped for a minute before. She remained in the carriage whilst her +companion conferred with the landlady within. Twenty minutes passed before Mrs. +Crawford reappeared, looking much perplexed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Myers has a couple of rooms that would do you very well; only you +would be on the same floor with a woman who is always drunk. She has pawned a +heap of clothes, and promises to leave every day; but Mrs. Myers hasnt got rid +of her yet. It’s very provoking. She’s quiet, and doesnt trouble +any one; but still, of course——” +</p> + +<p> +“She cannot interfere with me,” said Marian. “If that is the +only objection, let it pass. I need have nothing to say to her. If she is not +violent nor noisy, her habits are her own affair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, she wont trouble you. You can keep to yourself, English +fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then let us agree at once. I cannot face any more searching and +bargaining.” +</p> + +<p> +“Youre looking pale. Are you sure you are not ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. It is nothing. I am rather tired.” +</p> + +<p> +They went in together; and Marian was introduced to Mrs. Myers, a nervous widow +of fifty. The rooms were small, and the furniture and carpets old and worn; but +all was clean; and there was an open fireplace in the sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +“They will do very nicely, thank you,” said Marian. “I will +send for my luggage; and I think I will just telegraph my new address and a few +words to a friend in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you feel played out, I can see after your luggage,” said Mrs. +Crawford. “But I advise you to come back with me; have a good lunch at +Delmonico’s; and send your cablegram yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian roused herself from a lassitude which was coming upon her, and took Mrs. +Crawford’s advice. When they returned to the richer quarter of the town, +and especially after luncheon, her spirits revived. At the hotel she observed +that the clerk was surprised when, arranging for the removal of her luggage and +the forwarding of her letters, she mentioned her new address. Douglas, she +found, had paid all expenses before leaving. She did not linger in the +building; for the hotel staff stared at her curiously. She finished her +business by telegraphing to Elinor: “<i>Separated. Write to new address. +Have I forfeited my money?</i>” This cost her nearly five dollars. +</p> + +<p> +“Only that you must find out about your money, I wouldnt have let you +spend all that,” said Mrs. Crawford. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not think it would have cost so much,” said Marian. “I +was horrified when he named the price. However, it cannot be helped.” +</p> + +<p> +“We may as well be getting back to Mrs. Myers’s now. It’s +late.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose so,” said Marian, sighing. “I am sorry I did +not ask Nelly to telegraph me. I am afraid my funds will not last so long as I +thought.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we shall see. The General was greatly taken with you for the way +you looked after me when I was ill yonder; so you have two friends in Noo York +City, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have proved that to me to-day. I am afraid I shall have to trouble +you further if I get bad news. You will have to help me to find some +work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Never mind that until the bad news comes. I hope you wont mope at +Mrs. Myers’s. How does the American air agree with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty well. I was sick for the first two days of our passage across, +and somehow my digestion seems to have got out of order in consequence. Of late +I have been a little unwell in the mornings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Thats so, is it? Humph! I see I shall have to come and look after +you occasionally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never you mind, my dear. But dont go moping, nor going without food to +save money. Take care of yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing serious,” said Marian, with a smile. “Only a +passing indisposition. You need not be uneasy about me. This is the house, is +it not? I shall lose myself whenever I go out for a walk here.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is it. Now good-bye. I’ll see you soon. Meanwhile, you take +care of yourself, as youre told.” +</p> + +<p> +It was dark when Marian entered her new residence. Mrs. Myers was standing at +the open door, remonstrating with a milkman. Marian hastily assured her that +she knew the way, and went upstairs alone. She was chilled and weary; her +spirits had fallen again during her journey from the telegraph office. As she +approached her room, hoping to find a good fire, she heard a flapping noise, +which was suddenly interrupted by the rattle of a falling poker, followed by +the exclamation, in a woman’s voice, “Och, musha, I wouldnt doubt +you.” Marian, entering, saw a robust young woman kneeling before the +grate, trying to improve a dull fire that burnt there. She had taken up the +poker and placed it standing against the bars so that it pointed up the +chimney; and she was now using her apron fanwise as a bellows. The fire glowed +in the draught; and Marian, by its light, noted with displeasure that the young +woman’s calico dress was soiled, and her hair untidy. +</p> + +<p> +“I think——” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless us!” ejaculated the servant, starting and turning a +comely dirty face toward Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I frighten you?” said Marian, herself startled by the +exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“You put the life acrass in me,” said the servant, panting, and +pressing her hand on her bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry for that. I was going to say that I think you need not take +any further trouble with the fire. It will light of itself now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Liza Redmon’, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like some light, Eliza, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yis, miss. Would you wish to take your tay now, miss?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza went away with alacrity. Marian put off her bonnet and furs, and sat down +before the fire to despond over the prospect of living in that shabby room, +waited on by that slipshod Irish girl, who roused in her something very like +racial antipathy. Presently Eliza returned, carrying a small tray, upon which +she had crowded a lighted kerosene lamp, a china tea service, a rolled-up table +cloth, a supply of bread and butter, and a copper kettle. When she had placed +the lamp on the mantelpiece, and the kettle by the fire, she put the tray on +the sofa, and proceeded to lay the cloth, which she shook from its folds and +spread like a sail in the air by seizing two of the corners in her hands, and +pulling them apart whilst she held the middle fold in her teeth. Then she +adroitly wafted it over the table, making a breeze in which the lamp flared and +Marian blinked. Her movements were very rapid; and in a few moments she had +arranged the tea service, and was ready to withdraw. +</p> + +<p> +“My luggage will be sent here this evening or to-morrow, Eliza. Will you +tell me when it comes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yis, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know that my name is <i>Mrs</i>. Forster, do you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Forster. Yis, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian made no further attempt to get miss changed to maam; and Eliza left the +room. As she crossed the landing, she was called by someone on the same floor. +Marian started at the sound. It was a woman’s voice, disagreeably husky: +a voice she felt sure she had heard before, and yet one that was not familiar +to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Eliza. Eli-za!” Marian shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yis, yis,” said Eliza, impatiently, opening a door. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, alanna,” said the voice, with mock fondness. The door +was then closed, and Marian could hear the murmur of the conversation which +followed. It was still proceeding when Mrs. Myers came in. +</p> + +<p> +“I didnt ought to have left you to find your way up here alone, Mrs. +Forster,” she said; “but I do have such worry sometimes that +I’m bound to leave either one thing or another undone.” +</p> + +<p> +“It does not matter at all, Mrs. Myers. Your servant has been very +attentive to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“The hired girl? She’s smart, she is—does everything right slick +away. The only trouble is to keep her out of that room. She’s in there +now. Unless I am always after her, she is slipping out on errands, pawning and +buying drink for that unfortunate young creature.” +</p> + +<p> +“For whom?” +</p> + +<p> +“A person that Mrs. Crawford promised to tell you about.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she did,” said Marian. “But I did not know she was +young.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s older than you, a deal. I knew her when she was a little +girl, and I often forget how old she is. She was the prettiest child! Even now +she would talk you into anything. But I cant help her. It’s nothing but +drink, drink, drink from morning til night. There’s Eliza coming out of +her room. Eliza.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yis, maam,” said Eliza, looking in. +</p> + +<p> +“You stay in the house, Eliza, do you hear? I wont have you go +out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Could I spake a word to you, maam?” said Eliza, lowering her +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Eliza. I’m engaged with Mrs. Forster.” +</p> + +<p> +“She wants to see you,” whispered Eliza. +</p> + +<p> +“Go downrs, Eliza, this minute. I wont see her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Myers,” cried the voice. Marian again shrank from the sound. +“Mrs. My-ers. Aunt Sally. Come to your poor Soozy.” Mrs. Myers +looked perplexedly at Marian. The voice resumed after a pause, with an affected +Yankee accent, “I guess I’ll raise a shine if you dont come.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must go,” said Mrs. Myers. “I promise you, Mrs. Forster, +she shall not annoy you. She shall go this week. It aint right that you should +be disturbed by her.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Myers went into the other room. Eliza ran downrs, and Marian heard her +open the house door softly and go out. She also heard indistinctly the voices +of the landlady and her lodger. After a time these ceased, and she drank her +tea in peace. She was glad that Mrs. Myers did not return, although she made no +more comfortable use of her solitude than to think of her lost home in Holland +Park, comparing it with her dingy apartment, and pressing her handkerchief upon +her eyes when they became too full of tears. She had passed more than an hour +thus when Eliza roused her by announcing the arrival of the luggage. Thereupon +she bestirred herself to superintend its removal to her bedroom, where she +unpacked a trunk which contained her writing-case and some books. With these +were stowed her dresses, much miscellaneous finery, and some handsomely worked +underclothing. Eliza, standing by, could not contain her admiration; and +Marian, though she did not permit her to handle the clothes, had not the heart +to send her away until she had seen all that the trunk contained. Marian heard +her voice afterward in the apartment of the drunken lodger, and suspected from +its emphasis that the girl was describing the rare things she had seen. +</p> + +<p> +Marian imparted some interest to her surroundings that evening by describing +them in a letter to Elinor. When she had finished, she was weary; and the fire +was nearly out. She looked at her watch, and, finding to her surprise that is +was two hours after midnight, rose to go to bed. Before leaving the room, she +stood for a minute before the old-fashioned pier-glass, with one foot on the +fender, and looked at her image, pitying her own weariness, and enjoying the +soft beauty of her face and the gentleness of her expression. Her appearance +did not always please her; but on this occasion the mirror added so much to the +solace she had found in writing to Elinor, that she felt almost happy as she +took the lamp to light her to her bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +She had gone no farther than the landing when a sound of unsteady footsteps on +the stairs caused her to stop. As she lifted the lamp and looked up, she saw a +strange woman descending toward her, holding the balustrade, and moving as +though with pains in her limbs. This woman, whose black hair fell nearly to her +waist, was dressed in a crimson satin dressing-gown, warmly padded, and much +stained and splashed. She had fine dark eyes, and was young, bold-looking, and +handsome; but when she came nearer, the moist pallor of her skin, the slackness +of her lower lip and jaw, and an eager and worn expression in her fine eyes, +gave her a thirsty, reckless leer that filled Marian with loathing. Her aspect +conveyed the same painful suggestion as her voice had done before, but more +definitely; for it struck Marian, with a shock, that Conolly, in the grotesque +metamorphosis of a nightmare, might appear in some such likeness. The lamp did +not seem to attract her attention at first; but when she came within a few +steps, she saw some one before her, and, dazzled by the light, peered at +Marian, who lost her presence of mind, and stood motionless. Gradually the +woman’s expression changed to one of astonishment. She came down to the +landing; stopped, grasping the handrail to steady herself; and said in her +husky voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lord! It’s not a woman at all. It’s D. Ts.” Then, +not quite convinced by this explanation, she suddenly stretched out her hand +and attempted to grasp Marian’s arm. Missing her aim, she touched her on +the breast, and immediately cried, “Mrs. Ned!” +</p> + +<p> +Marian shrank from her touch, and recovered her courage. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know me?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I should rather think I do. I have gone off a good deal in my +appearance, or you would know me. Youve seen me on the stage, I suppose. +I’m your sister-in-law. Perhaps you didnt know you had one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you Miss Susanna Conolly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats who I am. At least I am what is left of Miss Susanna. You dont +look overjoyed to make my acquaintance; but I was as good-looking as you once. +Take my advice, Mrs. Ned: dont drink champagne. The end of champagne is brandy; +and the end of brandy is——” Susanna made a grimace and indicated herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid we shall disturb the house if we talk here. We had better +say good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. Dont be in such a hurry to get rid of me. Come into my room with +me for a while. I’ll talk quietly: I’m not drunk. Ive just slept it +off; and I was coming down for some more. You may as well keep me from it for a +few minutes. I suppose Ned hasnt forbidden you to speak to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” said Marian, yielding to a feeling of pity. “Come +into my room. There is a scrap of fire there still.” +</p> + +<p> +“We used to lodge in this room long ago, in my father’s +time,” said Susanna, following Marian into the room, and reclining with a +groan on the sofa. “I’m rather in a fog, you know: I cant make out +how the deuce you come to be here. Did Ned send you to look after me? Is he in +New York? Is he here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Marian, foreseeing with a bitter pang and a terrible +blush what must follow. “He is in England. I am alone here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, why—? what—? I dont understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you not read the papers?” said Marian, in a low voice, +turning her head away. +</p> + +<p> +“Papers! No, not since I saw an account of my brilliant <i>debût</i> +here, of which I suppose you have heard. I never read: I do nothing but drink. +What has happened?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it any secret?” said Susanna. +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is no secret,” said Marian, turning, and looking at her +steadily. “All the world knows it. I have left your brother; and I do not +know whether I am still his wife, or whether I am already divorced.” +</p> + +<p> +“You dont mean to say youre on the loose!” cried Susanna. +</p> + +<p> +Marian was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“I always told Ned that no woman could stand him,” said Susanna, +with sodden vivacity, after a pause, during which Marian had to endure her +astonished stare. “He always thought you the very pink of propriety. Of +course, there was another man in it. Whats become of him, if I may ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have left him,” said Marian, sternly. “You need impute no +fault to your brother in the matter, Miss Conolly. He is quite +blameless.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Susanna, not in the least impressed, “he always +is blameless. How is Bob? I mean Marmaduke, your cousin. I call him Bob, short +for Cherry Bob.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is very well, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Bob was not a blameless man, but altogether the reverse; and he was +a capital fellow to get on with. Ned was always right, always sure of himself; +and there was an end. He has no variety. I wonder will Bob ever get +married?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is going to be married in the spring.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who to?” +</p> + +<p> +“To Lady Constance Car——” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn that woman!” exclaimed Susanna. “I hate her. She was +always throwing herself at his head. Curse her! Damn her! I wish——” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Conolly,” said Marian: “I hope you will not think me +rude; but I am very tired, and it is very late. I must go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, will you come and see me to-morrow? It will be an act of charity. +I am dying here all alone. You are a nice woman, and I know what you must feel +about me; but you will get used to me. I wont annoy you. I wont swear. I wont +say anything about your cousin. I’ll keep sober. Do come. You are a good +sort: Bob always said so; and you might save me from destroying myself. Say +youll come.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you particularly wish it, I will,” said Marian, not disguising +her reluctance. +</p> + +<p> +“Youd rather not, of course,” said Susanna, despondently. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I cannot be of any use to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“For that matter, no one is likely to be of much use to me. But +it’s hard to be imprisoned in this den without anyone to speak to but +Eliza. However, do as you please. I did as I pleased; and I must take the +consequences. Just tell me one thing. Did you find me out by accident?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was odd.” Susanna groaned again as she rose from the sofa. +“Well, since you wont have anything to do with me, good-bye. Youre quite +right.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will come and see you. I do not wish to avoid you if you are in +trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do,” said Susanna, eagerly, touching Marian’s hand with her +moist palm. “We’ll get on better than you think. I like you, and +I’ll make you like me. If I could only keep from it for two days, I +shouldnt be a bit disgusting. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” said Marian, overcoming her repugnance to +Susanna’s hand, and clasping it. “Remember that my name here is +Mrs. Forster.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. Good-night. Thank you. You will never be sorry for having +compassion on me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wont you take a light?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont require one. I can find what I want in the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +She went into her apartment. Marian went quickly up to her own bedroom and +locked herself in. Her first loathing for Susanna had partly given way to pity; +but the humiliation of confessing herself to such a woman as an unfaithful wife +was galling. When she went to sleep she dreamed that she was unmarried and at +home with her father, and that the household was troubled by Susanna, who +lodged in a room upstairs. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> + +<p> +Sholto Douglas returned to England in the ship which carried Marian’s +letter to Elinor. On reaching London he stayed a night in the hotel at Euston, +and sent his man next day to take rooms for him at the West End. Early in the +afternoon the man reported that he had secured apartments in Charles Street, +St. James’s. It was a fine wintry day, and Douglas resolved to walk, not +without a sense of being about to run the gauntlet. +</p> + +<p> +It proved the most adventurous walk he had ever taken in his life. Everybody he +knew seemed to be lying in wait for him. In Portland Place he met Miss +McQuinch, who, with the letter fresh in her pocket, looked at him indignantly, +and cut him. At the Laugham Hotel he passed a member of his club, who seemed +surprised, but nodded coolly. In Regent Street he saw Lady Carbury’s +carriage waiting before a shop. He hurried past the door, for he had lost +courage at his encounter with Elinor. There were, however, two doors; and as he +passed the second, the Countess, Lady Constance, and Marmaduke came out just +before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Where the devil is the carriage?” said Marmaduke, loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! Everybody can hear you,” said Lady Constance. +</p> + +<p> +“What do I care whether—Hal-lo! Douglas! How are you?” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke proffered his hand. Lady Carbury plucked her daughter by the sleeve +and hurried to her carriage, after returning Douglas’s stern look with +the slightest possible bow. Constance imitated her mother. Douglas haughtily +raised his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“How obstinate Marmaduke is!” said the Countess, when she had +bidden the coachman drive away at once. “He is going to walk down Regent +Street with that man.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you didnt cut him, mamma.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never dreamed of his coming back so soon; and, of course, I cannot +tell whether he will be cut or not. We must wait and see what other people will +do. If we meet him again we had better not see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, old fellow,” said Marmaduke, as he walked away with +Douglas. “Youve come back too soon. It wont do. Take my advice and go +away again until matters have blown over. Hang it, it’s too flagrant! You +have not been away two months.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you are going to be married,” said Douglas. “Allow +me to congratulate you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. Fine day, isnt it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very fine.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke walked on in silence. Douglas presently recommenced the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“I only arrived in London last night. I have come from New York.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed. Pleasant voyage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very pleasant.” +</p> + +<p> +Another pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Has anything special happened during my absence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing special.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was there much fuss made about my going?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there was a great deal of fuss made about it. Excuse my alluding +to the subject again. I shouldnt have done so if you hadnt asked me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my dear fellow, you neednt stand on ceremony with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all very well, Douglas; but when I alluded to it just now, +you as good as told me to mind my own business.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in those words, perhaps. However, the matter is easily settled. You +bolted with Marian. I know that, and you know it. If the topic is disagreeable, +say so, and it is easily avoided. If you want to talk about it, better not +change the subject when I mention it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have taken offence needlessly. I changed the subject +inadvertently.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hm! Well, has she come back with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that youve thrown her over?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have said nothing of the kind. As a matter of fact, she has thrown me +over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats very strange. You are not going to marry her then, I +suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I? I tell you she has deserted me. Let me remind you, Lind, that +I should not be bound to marry her in any case, and I shall certainly not do so +now. If I chose to justify myself, I could easily do so by her own +conduct.” +</p> + +<p> +“I expect you will not be troubled for any justification. People seem to +have made up their minds that you were wrong in the first instance, and you +ought to keep out of the way until they have forgotten——Oh, confound it, +here’s Conolly! Now, for God’s sake, dont let us have any +row.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas whitened, and took a step back into the roadway before he recovered +himself; for Conolly had come upon them suddenly as they turned into Charles +Street. A group of gentlemen stood on the steps of the clubhouse which stands +at that corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless me!” said Conolly, with perfect good humor. “Douglas +back again! Why on earth did you run away with my wife? and what have you done +with her?” +</p> + +<p> +The party on the steps ceased chatting and began to stare. +</p> + +<p> +“This is not the place to call me to account, sir,” said Douglas, +still on his guard, and very ill at ease. “If you have anything to say to +me which cannot be communicated through a friend, it had better be said in +private.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall trouble you for a short conversation,” said Conolly. +“How do you do, Lind? Where can we go? I do not belong to any +club.” +</p> + +<p> +“My apartments are at hand,” said Douglas. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I had better leave you,” said Marmaduke. +</p> + +<p> +“Your presence will not embarrass me in the least,” said Conolly. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not sought this interview,” said Douglas. “I +therefore prefer Mr. Lind to witness what passes.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly nodded assent; and they went to a house on the doorstep of which +Douglas’s man was waiting, and ascended to the front drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, sir,” said Douglas, without inviting his guests to sit down. +Conolly alone took off his hat. Marmaduke went aside, and looked out of the +window. +</p> + +<p> +“I know the circumstances that have led to your return,” said +Conolly; “so we need not go into that. I want you, however, to assist me +on one point. Do you know what Marian’s pecuniary position is at +present?’ +</p> + +<p> +“I decline to admit that it concerns me in any way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not. But it concerns me, as I do not wish that she should be +without money in a foreign city. She has telegraphed a question about her +property to Miss McQuinch. That by itself is nothing; but her new address, +which I first saw on a letter this morning, happens to be known to me as that +of a rather shabby lodging-house.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do: it means that she is poor. I can guess at the sum she carried with +her to America. Now, if you will be good enough to tell me whether you have +ever given her money; if so, how much; and what her expenditure has been, you +will enable me to estimate her position at present.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know that you have any right to ask such questions.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not assert any right to ask them. On the contrary, I have explained +their object. I shall not press them, if you think that an answer will in any +way compromise you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no fear of being compromised. None whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +Conolly nodded, and waited for an answer. +</p> + +<p> +“I may say that my late trip has cost me a considerable sum. I paid all +the expenses; and Miss—Mrs. Conolly did not, to my knowledge, disburse a single +fraction. She did not ask me to give her money. Had she done so, I should have +complied at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. Thats all right: she will be able to hold out until she hears +from us. Good-afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me to add, sir, before you go,” said Douglas, asserting +himself desperately against Conolly’s absolutely sincere disregard of him +and preoccupation with Marian, “that Mrs. Conolly has been placed in her +present position entirely through her own conduct. I repudiate the insinuation +that I have deserted her in a foreign city; and I challenge inquiry on the +point.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, quite so,” assented Conolly, carelessly. +“Good-bye, Lind.” And he took his hat and went out. +</p> + +<p> +“By George!” said Marmaduke, admiringly, “he did that damned +well—<i>damned</i> well. Look here, old man: take my advice and clear out for +another year or so. You cant stay here. As a looker-on, I see most of the game; +and thats my advice to you as a friend.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas, whose face had reddened and reddened with successive rushes of blood +until it was now purple, lost all self-control at Marmaduke’s +commiserating tone. “I will see whether I cannot put him in the +wrong,” he burst out, in the debased voice of an ignobly angry man. +“Do you think I will let him tell the world that I have been thrown over +and fooled?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thats your own story, isnt it? At least, I understood you to say so as +we came along.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let him say so, and I’ll thrash him like, a dog in the street. +I’ll——” +</p> + +<p> +“Whats the use of thrashing a man who will simply hand you over to the +police? and quite right, too! What rot!” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see. We shall see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Do as you like. You may twist one another’s heads off +for what I care. He has had the satisfaction of putting you into a rage, at all +events.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not in a rage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Have it your own way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take a challenge to him from me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I am not a born fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is plain speaking.” +</p> + +<p> +Marmaduke put his hands into his pockets, and whistled. “I think I will +take myself off,” he said, presently. +</p> + +<p> +“As you please,” replied Douglas, coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“I will look in on you some day next week, when you have cooled down a +bit. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas said nothing, and Marmaduke, with a nod, went out. Some minutes later +the servant entered and said that Mr. Lind was below. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Back again!” said Douglas, with an oath. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. It’s old Mr. Lind—Mr. Reginald.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you say I was in?” +</p> + +<p> +“The man belonging to the house did, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound his officiousness! I suppose he must come up.” +</p> + +<p> +Reginald Lind entered, and bowed. Douglas placed a chair for him, and waited, +mute, and a little put out. Mr. Lind’s eyes and voice shewed that he also +was not at his ease; but his manner was courtly and his expression grave, as +Douglas had, in his boyhood, been accustomed to see them. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, Sholto,” said Mr. Lind, “that I cannot for the +present meet you with the cordiality which formerly existed between us. However +unbearable your disappointment at Marian’s marriage may have been, you +should not have taken a reprehensible and desperate means of remedying it. I +speak to you now as an old friend—as one who knew you when the disparity in our +ages was more marked than it is at present.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“I have just heard from Mr. Conolly—whom I met accidentally in Pall +Mall—that you have returned from America. He gave me no further account of you, +except that he had met you and spoken to you here. I hope nothing unpleasant +passed.” +</p> + +<p> +“The meeting was not a pleasant one. I shall take steps to make Mr. +Conolly understand that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing approaching to violence, I trust.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Mr. Conolly’s discretion averted it. I am not sure that a +second interview between us will end so quietly.” +</p> + +<p> +“The interview should not have taken place at all, Sholto. I need not +point out to you that prudence and good taste forbid any repetition of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not seek it, Mr. Lind. He forced it upon me. I promise you that if +a second meeting takes place, it will be forced upon him by me, and will take +place in another country.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a young man’s idea, Sholto. The day for such crimes, thank +Heaven, is past and gone. Let us say no more of it. I was speaking to your +mother on Sunday. Have you seen her yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sholto, you hit us all very hard that Monday before Christmas. I know +what I felt about my daughter. But I can only imagine what your mother must +have felt about her son.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not insensible to that. I has been rather my misfortune than my +fault that I have caused you to suffer. If it will gratify you to know that I +have suffered deeply myself, and am now, indeed, a broken man, I can assure you +that such is the case.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is fortunate for us all that matters are not absolutely irremediable. +I will so far take you into my confidence as to tell you that I have never felt +any satisfaction in Marian’s union with Mr. Conolly. Though he is +unquestionably a remarkable man, yet there was a certain degree of incongruity +in the match—you will understand me—which placed Marian apart from her family +whilst she was with him. I have never entered my daughter’s house without +a feeling that I was more or less a stranger there. Had she married you in the +first instance, the case would have been different: I wish she had. However, +that is past regretting now. What I wish to say is that I can still welcome you +as Marian’s husband, even though she will have a serious error to live +down; and I shall be no less liberal to her than if her previous marriage had +never taken place.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas cleared his throat, but did not speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Mr. Lind after a pause, reddening. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a very painful matter,” said Douglas at last. “As a +man of the world, Mr. Lind, you must be aware that I am not bound to your +daughter in any way.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not speaking to you as a man of the world. I am speaking as a +father, and as a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doubtless your position as a father is an unfortunate one. I can +sympathize with your feelings. But as a gentleman——” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of what you are going to say, Sholto. If you speak as a gentleman, +you can have only one answer. If you have any other, you will speak as a +scoundrel.” The last sentence came irrepressibly to Mr. Lind’s +lips; but the moment he had uttered it, he felt that he had been too +precipitate. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“I repeat, as a scoundrel—if you deny your duty in the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I decline to continue this conversation with you, Mr. Lind. You know as +well as I do that no gentleman is expected or even permitted by society to take +as his wife a woman who has lived with him as his mistress.” +</p> + +<p> +“No man who betrays a lady and refuses to make her all the reparation in +his power can claim to be a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are dreaming, Mr. Lind. Your daughter was the guardian of her own +honor. I made her no promises. It is absurd to speak of a woman of her age and +experience being betrayed, as though she were a child.” +</p> + +<p> +“I always understood that you prided yourself on acting up to a higher +standard of honorable dealing than other men. If this is your boasted——” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Lind,” said Douglas, interrupting him with determination, +“no more of this, if you please. Briefly, I will have nothing whatever to +say to Mrs. Conolly in the future. If her reputation were as unstained as your +own, I would still refuse to know her. I have suffered from her the utmost +refinements of caprice and treachery, and the coarsest tirades of abuse. She +left me of her own accord, in spite of my entreaties to her to stay—entreaties +which I made her in response to an exhibition of temper which would have +justified me in parting from her there and then. It is true that I have moulded +my life according to a higher standard of honor than ordinary men; and it is +also true that that standard is never higher, never more fastidiously acted up +to, than where a woman is concerned. I have only to add that I am perfectly +satisfied as to the propriety of my behavior in Marian’s case, and that I +absolutely refuse to hear another accusation of unworthiness from you, much as +I respect you and your sorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind, though he saw that he must change his tone, found it hard to subdue +his temper; for though not a strong man, he was unaccustomed to be thwarted. +“Sholto,” he said: “you are not serious. You are irritated by +some lovers’ quarrel.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am justly estranged from your daughter, and I am resolved never to +give her a place in my thoughts again. I have madly wasted my youth on her. Let +her be content with that and the other things I have sacrificed for her +sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“But this is dreadful. Think of the life she must lead if you do not +marry her. She will be an outcast. She will not even have a name.” +</p> + +<p> +“She would not be advised. She made her choice in defiance of an explicit +warning of the inevitable results, and she must abide by it. I challenge the +most searching inquiry into my conduct, Mr. Lind. It will be found, if the +truth be told, that I spared her no luxury before she left me; and that, far +from being the aggressor, it is I who have the right to complain of insult and +desertion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, even granting that her unhappy position may have rendered her a +little sore and impatient at times, do you not owe her some forbearance since +she gave up her home and her friends for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sacrifice for sacrifice, mine was the greater of the two. Like her, I +have lost my friends and my position here—to some extent, at least. Worse, I +have let my youth slip by in fruitless pursuit of her. For the home which she +hated, I offered her one ten times more splendid. I gave her the devotion of a +gentleman to replace the indifference of a blacksmith. What have I not done for +her? I freed her from her bondage; I carried her across the globe; I watched +her, housed her, fed her, clothed her as a princess. I loved her with a love +that taught her a meaning of the word she had never known before. And when I +had served her turn—when I had rescued her from her husband and placed her +beyond his reach—when she became surfeited with a wealth of chivalrous love +which she could not comprehend, and when a new world opened before her a fresh +field for intrigue, I was assailed with slanderous lies, and forsaken. Do you +think, Mr. Lind, that in addition to this, I will endure the reproaches of any +man—even were he my own father?” +</p> + +<p> +“But she suffers more, being a woman. The world will be comparatively +lenient toward you. If you and she were married and settled, with no +consciousness of being in a false position, and no wearing fear of detection, +you would get on together quite differently.” +</p> + +<p> +“It may be so, but I shall never put it to the test.” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen a moment, Sholto. Just consider the matter calmly and rationally. +I am a rich man—at least, I can endow Marian better than you perhaps think. I +see that you feel aggrieved, and that you fear being forced into a marriage +which you have, as you say—I fully admit it, most fully—a perfect right to +decline. But I am urging you to make Marian your legal wife solely because it +is the best course for both of you. That, I assure you, is the feeling of +society in the matter. Everybody speaks to me of your becoming my son-in-law. +The Earl says no other course is possible. I will give you ten thousand pounds +down on her wedding-day. You will lose nothing: Conolly will not claim damages. +He has contradicted the report that he would. I will pay the costs of the +divorce as well. Mind! I do not mean that I will settle the money on her. I +will give it to her unconditionally. In other words, it will become your +property the moment you become her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” said Douglas contemptuously. “However, as it +is merely a question of making your daughter an honest woman in consideration +of so much cash, I have no doubt you will find plenty of poorer men who will be +glad to close with you for half the money. You are much in the city now, I +believe. Allow me to suggest that you will find a dealer there more easily than +in St. James’s.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lind reddened again. “I do not think you see the matter in the proper +light,” he said. “You are asked to repair the disgrace you have +brought on a lady and upon her family. I offer you a guarantee that you will +not lose pecuniarily by doing so. Whatever other loss you may incur, you are +bound to bear it as the penalty of your own act. I appeal to you, sir, as one +gentleman appeals to another, to remove the dishonor you have brought upon my +name.” +</p> + +<p> +“To transfer it to my own, you mean. Thank you, Mr. Lind. The public is +more accustomed to associate conjugal levity with the name of Lind than with +that of Douglas.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you refuse me the justice you owe to my daughter, you need not couple +that refusal with an insult.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have already explained that I owe your daughter nothing. You come here +and offer me ten thousand pounds to marry her. I decline the bargain. You then +take your stand upon the injury to your name. I merely remind you that your +name was somewhat tarnished even before Mrs. Conolly changed it for the less +distinguished one which she has really dishonored.” +</p> + +<p> +“Douglas,” said Mr. Lind, trembling, “I will make you repent +this. I will have satisfaction.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you remarked when I declared my readiness to give satisfaction in the +proper quarter, the practice you allude to is obsolete. Fortunately so, I +think, in our case.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a coward, sir.” Douglas rang the bell. “I will +expose you in every club in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shew this gentleman out,” said Douglas to his servant. +</p> + +<p> +“You have received that order because I told your master that he is a +rascal,” said Mr. Lind to the man. “I shall say the same thing to +every man I meet between this house and the committee-room of his club.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant looked grave as Mr. Lind left the room. Soon after, Douglas, whose +self-respect, annihilated by Conolly, had at first been thoroughly restored by +Mr. Lind, felt upset again by the conclusion of the interview. Finding solitude +and idleness intolerable, he went into the streets, though he no longer felt +any desire to meet his acquaintances, and twice crossed the Haymarket to avoid +them. As he strolled about, thinking of all that had been said to him that +afternoon, he grew morose. Twice he calculated his expenditure on the American +trip, and the difference that an increment of ten thousand pounds would make in +his property. Suddenly, in turning out of Air Street into Piccadilly, he found +himself face to face with Lord Carbury. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do?” said the latter pleasantly, but without the +unceremonious fellowship that had formerly existed between them. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Douglas, “I am quite well.” +</p> + +<p> +A pause followed, Jasper not knowing exactly what to say next. +</p> + +<p> +“I am considering where I shall dine,” said Douglas. “Have +you dined yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I promised to dine at home this evening. My mother likes to have a +family dinner occasionally.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas knew that before the elopement he would have been asked to join the +party. “I suppose people have been pleased to talk a good deal about me +of late,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I fear so. However, I hope it will pass over.” +</p> + +<p> +“It shews no sign of passing over as yet, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it has become a little stale as a topic; but there is undeniably a +good deal of feeling about it still. If you will excuse my saying so, I think +that perhaps you would do well to keep out of the way a little longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Presuming, of course, that popular feeling is a matter about which I am +likely to concern myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a question for you to decide. Excuse the hint.” +</p> + +<p> +“The question is whether it is not better to be on the spot, so as to +strangle calumny at its source, than to hide myself abroad whilst a host of +malicious tongues are busy with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“As to that, Douglas, I assure you you have been very fairly treated. The +chief blame, as usual, has fallen on the weaker sex. Nothing could exceed the +moderation of those from whom the loudest complaints might have been expected. +Reginald Lind has hardly ever mentioned the subject. Even to me, he only shook +his head and said that it was an old attachment. As to Conolly, we have +actually reproached him for making excuses for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye. A very astute method of bringing me into contempt. Allow me to +enlighten you a little, Jasper. Lind, whose daughter I have discovered to be +one of the worst of women, has just offered me ten thousand pounds to marry +her. That speaks for itself. Conolly, who drove her into my arms by playing the +tyrant whilst I played the lover, is only too glad to get rid of her. At the +same time, he is afraid to fight me, and ashamed to say so. Therefore, he +impudently pretends to pity me for being his gull in the matter. But I will +stop that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Conolly is a particular friend of mine, Douglas, Let us drop the +subject, if you dont mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“If he is your friend, of course I have nothing more to say. I think I +will turn in here and dine. Good-evening.” +</p> + +<p> +They parted without any salutation: and Douglas entered the restaurant and +dined alone, he came out an hour later in improved spirits, and began to +consider whether he would go to the theatre or venture into his club. He was +close to a lamp at a corner of Leicester Square when he stopped to debate the +point with himself; and in his preoccupation he did not notice a four-wheeled +cab going slowly past him, carrying a lady in an old white opera cloak. This +was Mrs. Leith Fairfax, who, recognizing him, called to the cabman to drive a +little past the lamp and stop. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens!” she said in a half-whisper: “you here! What +madness possessed you to come back?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had no further occasion to stay away.” +</p> + +<p> +“How coolly you say so! You have iron nerves, all you Douglases. I have +heard all, and I know what you have suffered. How soon will you leave +London?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no intention of leaving it at present.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you cannot stay here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray why not? Is not London large enough for any man who does not live +by the breath of the world?” +</p> + +<p> +“Out of the question, Mr. Douglas. Absolutely out of the question. You +<i>must</i> go away for a year at the very least. You must yield something to +propriety.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall yield nothing. I can do without any section of society that may +feel called upon to do without me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you must subdue that imperious nature of yours for your +mother’s sake if not for your own. Besides, you have been very wicked and +reckless and daring, just like a Douglas. You ought to do penance with a good +grace. I may conclude, since you are here, that Elinor McQuinch’s story +is true as far as the facts go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not heard her story.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is only that you have parted from—you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is true. Can I gratify your curiosity in any other +particular?” +</p> + +<p> +“Strive not to let yourself be soured, Mr. Douglas. I shudder when I +think of what you have undergone at the hands of one woman. There! I will not +allude to it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will do wisely, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. What I have suffered, I have +suffered. I desire no pity, and will endure none.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is so like yourself. I must hurry on to Covent Garden, or I shall +be late. Will you come and see me quietly some day before you go? I am never at +home to any one on Tuesdays; but if you come at about five, Caroline will let +you in. It will be dark: nobody will see you. We can have a chat then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Douglas, coldly, stepping back, and raising his +hat, “I shall not intrude on you. Good-evening.” +</p> + +<p> +She waved her hand at him; and the cab departed. He walked quickly back to +Charles Street, and called his servant. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose no one has called?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. Mrs. Douglas came very shortly after you went out. She wishes +you to go to the Square this evening, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“This evening? I am afraid—Buckstone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she looking well?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little tired, sir. But quite well, I have no doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much of the luggage have you unpacked?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only your portmanteau, sir. I thought——” +</p> + +<p> +“So much the better. Pack it again. I am going to Brussels to-night. Find +out about the trains. I shall want you to take a hansom and take a note to +Chester Square; but come back at once without waiting to be spoken to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Douglas then sat down and wrote the note. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“My dear Mother: +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry I was out when you called. I did not expect you, as I am only +passing through London on my way to Brussels. I am anxious to get clear of this +vile city, and so shall start to-night. Buckstone tells me you are looking +well; and this assurance must content me for the present, as I find it +impossible to go to you. You were quite right in warning me against what has +happened; but it is all past and broken off now, and I am still as ever, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Your affectionate son,<br/> +“SHOLTO DOUGLAS.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + +<p> +One day Eliza, out of patience, came to Mrs. Myers, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“A’ thin, maam, will you come up and spake to Miss Conolly. +She’s rasin ructions above stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs. Myers. “Cant you keep her +quiet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Arra, how can I kape her quiet, an she cryin an roarin, dyin an +desarted?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask Mrs. Forster to go in and coax her to stop.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Forsther’s at dhuddher ind o the town. Whisht! There she is, +callin me. Youll have to gup to her, maam. Faith I wont go next or near +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no use in my going up, Eliza. What can I do?” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza had nothing to suggest. “I’m sure, maam,” she pleaded, +“if she wont mind you, she wont mind me—bad manners to her!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Myers hesitated. The lodger became noisier. +</p> + +<p> +“I spose Ive got to go,” said Mrs. Myers, plaintively. She went +upstairs and found Susanna lying on the sofa, groaning, with a dressing-gown +and a pair of thick boots on. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>is</i> the matter with you, Miss Susan? Youre goin on fit to +raise the street.” +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake go and get something for me. Make the doctor do +something. I’m famishing. I must be poisoned.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord forbid!” +</p> + +<p> +“Look at me. I cant eat anything. Oh! I cant even drink. I tell you I am +dying of thirst.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Miss Susan, thers plenty for you to eat and drink.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the good of that, when I can neither eat nor drink? Nothing will +stay inside me. If I could only swallow brandy, I shouldnt care. I thought I +could die drunk. Oh! Send Eliza out for some laudanum. I cant stand this: +I’ll kill myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be quiet, Miss Susan: youll be better presently. Whats the use of +talking-about the doctor? He says youll not be able to drink for days, and that +you will get your health back in consequence. You are doing yourself no good by +screeching like that, and you are ruining me and my house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your house is all you care about. Curse you! I hope you may die deserted +yourself. Dont go away. <i>Dear</i> Aunt Sally, you wont leave me here alone, +will you? If you do, I’ll scream like a hundred devils.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont know what to do with you,” said Mrs. Myers, crying. +“Youll drive me as mad as yourself. Why did I ever let you into this +house?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, bother! Are <i>you</i> beginning to howl now? Have you any sardines, +or anything spicy? I think I could eat some salted duck. No, I couldnt, though. +Go for the doctor. There must be something that will do me good. What use is he +if he can’t set me right? All I want is something that will make me able +to drink a tumbler of brandy.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord help you! Praise goodness! here’s Mrs. Forster coming up. +Whatll she think of you if you keep moaning like that? Mrs. Forster: will you +step in here and try to quiet her a bit? She’s clean mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come here,” cried Susanna, as Marian entered. “Come and sit +beside me. You may get out, you old cat: I dont want you any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, pray,” said Marian, putting her bonnet aside and sitting +down by the sofa. “What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“The same as last night, only a great deal worse,” said Susanna, +shutting her eyes and turning her head aside. “It’s all up with me +this time, Mrs. Ned. I’m dying, not of drink, but of the want of it. Is +that fiend of a woman gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. You ought not to wound her as you did just now. She has been very +kind to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont care. Oh, dear me, I wonder how long this is going to +last?” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go for the doctor?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; what can he do? Stay with me. I wish I could sleep or eat.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will be better soon. The doctor says that Nature is making an effort +to rescue you from your habit by making it impossible for you to drink. Try and +be patient. Will you not take off those heavy boots?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I cant feel my feet without them. I shall never be better,” +said Susanna, writhing impatiently. “I’m done for. How old are you? +You neednt mind telling me. I shall soon be beyond repeating it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was twenty-five in June last” +</p> + +<p> +“I am only twenty-nine. I started at eighteen, and got to the top of the +tree in seven years. I came down quicker than I went up. I might have gone on +easily for fifteen years more, only for drinking champagne. I wish I had my +life to live over again: you wouldnt catch me playing burlesque. If I had got +the chance, I know I could have played tragedy or real Italian opera. I had to +work hard at first; and they wont fill my place, very readily: thats one +comfort. My cleverness was my ruin. Ned was not half so quick. It used to take +him months to learn things that I picked up offhand, and yet you see how much +better he has done than I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not disturb yourself with vain regrets. Think of something else. +Shall we talk about Marmaduke?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I dont particularly care to. Somehow, at my pass, one thinks most +about one’s self, and about things that happened long ago. People that I +came to know later on, like Bob, seem to be slipping away from me. There was a +baritone in my father’s company, a tremendous man, with shining black +eyes, and a voice like a great bell—quite pretty at the top, though: he must +have been sixty at least; and he was very fat; but he was the most dignified +man I ever saw. You should have heard him do the Duke in Lucrezia Borgia, or +sing Pro Peccatis from Rossini’s Stabat Mater! I was ten years old when +he was with us, and my grand ambition was to sing with him when I grew up. He +would shake his head if he saw Susanetta now. I would rather hear him sing +three bars than have ten visits from Bob. Oh, dear! I thought this cursed pain +was getting numbed, but it is worse than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Try to keep from thinking of it. I have often wondered that you never +speak of your child. I have heard from my friend in London that it is very well +and happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you mean Lucy. She was a lively little imp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you not like to see her again?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you. She is well taken care of, I suppose. I am glad she is +out of my hands. She was a nuisance to me, and I am not a very edifying example +for her. What on earth should I want to see her for?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had the good fortune to be a mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Susanna laughed. “Never say die, Mrs. Ned. You dont know what may happen +to you yet. There now! I know, without opening my eyes, that you are shocked, +bless your delicacy! How do you think I should have got through life if +I’d been thin-skinned? What good does it do you? You are pining away in +this hole of a lodging. You squirm when Mrs. Myers tries to be friendly with +you; and I sometimes laugh at your expression when Eliza treats you to a little +blarney about your looks. Now <i>I</i> would just as soon gossip and swear at +her as go to tea with the Queen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not shocked at all. You see as badly as other people when your eyes +are shut.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will soon shut up forever. I half wish they would do it at once, I +wonder whether I will get any ease before there is an end of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps the end of you on earth will be a good beginning for you +somewhere else, Susanna.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. Now the conversation has taken a nice, cheerful turn, hasnt +it? Well, I cant be much worse off than I am at present. Anyhow, I must take my +chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like to see a clergyman? I dont want to alarm you: I am sure +you will get better: the doctor told me so; but I will go for one if you +like.” +</p> + +<p> +“No: I dont want to be bothered—at least not yet. Besides, I hate +clergymen, all except your brother, the doctor, who fell in love with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. I only suggested it in case you should feel uneasy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont feel quite easy; but I dont care sufficiently about it to make a +fuss. It will be time enough when I am actually at death’s door. All I +know is that if there is a place of punishment in the next world, it is very +unfair, considering what we suffer in this. I didnt make myself or my +circumstances. I think I will try to sleep. I am half dead as it is with pain +and weariness. Dont go until I am asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not. Let me get you another pillow.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Susanna, drowsily: “dont touch me.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian sat listening to her moaning respiration for nearly half an hour. Then, +having some letters to write, she went to her own room to fetch her desk. +Whilst she was looking for her pen, which was mislaid, she heard Susanna +stirring. The floor creaked, and there was a clink as of a bottle. A moment +later, Marian, listening with awakened suspicion, was startled by the sound of +a heavy fall mingled with a crash of breaking glass. She ran back into the next +room just in time to see Susanna, on her hands and knees near the stove, lift +her white face for a moment, displaying a bleeding wound on her temple, and +then stumble forward and fall prone on the carpet. Marian saw this; saw the +walls of the room revolve before her; and fainted upon the sofa, which she had +reached without knowing how. +</p> + +<p> +When she recovered the doctor was standing by her; and Eliza was picking up +fragments of the broken bottle. The smell of the spilled brandy reminded her of +what had happened. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Miss Conolly?” she said, trying to collect her wits. +“I am afraid I fainted at the very moment when I was most wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said the doctor. “Keep quiet; youll be well +presently. Dont be in a hurry to talk.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian obeyed; and the doctor, whose manner was kind, though different to that +of the London physicians to whom she was accustomed, presently left the room +and went upstairs. Eliza was howling like an animal. The sound irritated Marian +even at that pass: she despised the whole Irish race on its account. She could +hardly keep her temper as she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Is Miss Conolly seriously hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oa, blessed hour! she’s kilt. Her head’s dhreepin wid +blood.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian shuddered and felt faint again. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Almighty save use, I doa knoa how she done it at all, at all. She +must ha fell agin the stoave. It’s the dhrink, dhrink, dhrink, that +brought her to it. It’s little I knew what that wairy bottle o brandy +would do to her, or sorra bit o me would ha got it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You did very wrong in getting it, Eliza.” +</p> + +<p> +“What could I do, miss, when she axed me?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no use in crying over it now. It would have been kinder to have +kept it from her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure I know. Many’s the time I tould her so. But she could talk +the birds off the bushes, and it wint to me heart to refuse her. God send her +well out of her throuble!” +</p> + +<p> +Here the doctor returned. “How are you now?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I am better. Pray dont think of me. How is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all over. Hallo! Come, Miss Biddy! you go and cry in the +kitchen,” he added, pushing Eliza, who had set up an intolerable +lamentation, out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“How awful!” said Marian, stunned. “Are you quite sure? She +seemed better this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite sure,” said the doctor, smiling grimly at the question. +“She was practically dead when they carried her upstairs, poor girl. +It’s easier to kill a person than you think, Mrs. Forster, although she +tried so long and so hard without succeeding. But she’d have done it. +She’d have been starved into health only to drink herself back into +starvation, and the end would have been a very bad one. Better as it is, by +far!” +</p> + +<p> +“Doctor: I must go out and telegraph the news to London. I know one of +her relatives there.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor shook his head. “I will telegraph if you like, but you must +stay here. Youre not yet fit to go out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I have not been well lately,” said Marian. “I +want to consult you about myself—not now, of course, after what has happened, +but some day when you have leisure to call.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can put off consulting me just as long as you please; but this +accident is no reason why you shouldnt do it at once. If there is anything +wrong, the sooner you have advice—you neednt have it from me if you prefer some +other doctor—the better.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon this encouragement Marian described to him her state of health. He seemed +a little amused, asked her a few questions, and finally told her coolly that +she might expect to become a mother next fall. She was so utterly dismayed that +he began to look stern in anticipation of an appeal to him to avert this; an +appeal which he had often had to refuse without ever having succeeded in +persuading a woman that it was futile, or convincing her that it was immoral. +But Marian spared him this: she was overwhelmed by the new certainty that a +reconciliation with her husband was no longer possible. Her despair at the +discovery shewed her for the first time how homesick she really was. +</p> + +<p> +When the doctor left, Mrs. Myers came. She exclaimed; wept; and gossiped until +two police officers arrived. Marian related to them what she had seen of the +accident, and became indignant at the apparent incredulity with which they +questioned her and examined the room. After their departure Eliza came to her, +and invited her to go upstairs and see the body of Susanna. She refused with a +shudder; but when she saw that the girl was hurt as well as astonished, it +occurred to her that avoidance of the dead might, if it came to Conolly’s +knowledge, be taken by him to indicate a lack of kind feeling toward his +sister. So she overcame her repugnance, and went with Eliza. The window-shades +were drawn down, and the dressing-table had been covered with a white cloth, on +which stood a plaster statuet of the Virgin and Child, with two lighted candles +before it. To please Eliza, who had evidently made these arrangements, Marian +whispered a few words of approval, and turned curiously to the bed. The sight +made her uncomfortable. The body was decently laid out, its wounded forehead +covered with a bandage, and Eliza’s rosary and crucifix on its breast; +but it did not, as Marian had hoped, suggest peace or sleep. It was not +Susanna, but a vacant thing that had always underlain her, and which, apart +from her, was ghastly. +</p> + +<p> +“She died a good Catholic anyhow: the light o Heaven to her sowl!” +said Eliza, whimpering, but speaking as though she expected and defied Marian +to contradict her. +</p> + +<p> +“Amen,” said Marian. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s sure and sartin. There never was a Conolly a Prodestan +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian left the room, resolving to avoid such sights in future. Mrs. Myers was +below, anxious to resume the conversation which the visit of the police had +interrupted. Marian could not bear this. To escape, she left the house, and +went to her only friend in New York, Mrs. Crawford, whose frequent visits she +had never before ventured to return. To her she narrated the events of the day. +</p> + +<p> +“This business of the poor girl killing herself is real shocking,” +said Mrs. Crawford. “Perhaps your husband will come over here now, and +give you a chance of making up with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“If he does, I must leave New York, Mrs. Crawford.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you frightened of? If he is as good a man as you say, you ought +to be glad to see him. I’m sure he would have you back. Depend on it, he +has been longing for you all this time; and when he sees you again as pretty as +ever, he will open his arms to you. He wont like you any the worse for being a +little bashful with him after such an escapade.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would not meet him for any earthly consideration. After what the +doctor told me to-day, I should throw myself out of the window, I think, if I +heard him coming upstairs. I should like to see him, if I were placed where he +could not see me; but face him I <i>could</i> not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear, I think it’s right silly of you, though the little +stranger—it will be a regular stranger—is a difficulty: there’s no two +ways about that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, I have been thinking over things alone in my room; and I see +that it is better for him to be free. I know he was disappointed in me. He is +not the sort of man to be tied down to such an ignorant woman as I.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he expect from a woman? If youre not good enough for him, he +must be very hard to please.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian shook her head. “He is capable of pitying and being considerate +with me,” she said: “I know that. But I am not sure that it is a +good thing to be pitied and forborne with. There is something humiliating in +it. I suppose I am proud, as you often tell me; but I should like to be amongst +women what he is amongst men, supported by my own strength. Even within the +last three weeks I have felt myself becoming more independent in my isolation. +I was afraid to go about the streets by myself at first. Now I am getting quite +brave. That unfortunate woman did me good. Taking care of her, and being relied +on so much by her, has made me rely on myself more. Thanks to you, I have not +much loneliness to complain of. And yet I have been utterly cast down +sometimes. I cannot tell what is best. Sometimes I think that independence is +worth all the solitary struggling it costs. Then again I remember how free from +real care I was at home, and yearn to be back there. It is so hard to know what +one ought to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been more lively since you got such a pleasant answer to your +telegram. I wish the General would offer to let me keep my own money and as +much more as I wanted. Not that he is close-fisted, poor man! That reminds me +to tell you that you must stay the evening. He wants to see you as bad as can +be—never stops asking me to bring you up some time when he’s at home. You +mustnt excuse yourself: the General will see you safe back to your +place.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if visitors come, Mrs. Crawford?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody will come. If they do, they will be glad to see you. What do they +know about you? You cant live like a hermit all your life.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian, sooner than go back to Mrs. Myers’s, stayed; and the evening +passed pleasantly enough, although three visitors came: a gentleman, with his +wife and brother. The lady, besides eating, and replying to the remarks with +which Mrs. Crawford occasionally endeavored to entertain her, did nothing but +admire Marian’s dress and listen to her conversation. Her husband was +polite; but Marian, comparing him with the English gentlemen of her +acquaintance, thought him rather oppressively respectful, and too much given to +conversing in little speeches. He had been in London; and he described, in a +correct narrative style, his impressions of St. Paul’s, the Tower, and +Westminster Palace. His brother fell in love with Mrs. Forster at first sight, +and sat silent until she remarked to him how strangely the hotel omnibuses +resembled old English stage coaches, when he became recklessly talkative and +soon convinced her that American society produced quite as choice a compound of +off-handedness and folly as London could. But all this was amusing after her +long seclusion; and once or twice, when the thought of dead Susanna came back +to her, she was ashamed to be so gay. +</p> + +<p> +No one was stirring at Mrs. Myers’s when she returned. They had left her +lamp in the entry; and she took it upstairs with her, going softly lest she +should disturb the household. Susanna’s usual call and petition for a few +minutes talk was no longer to be feared, for Susanna was now only a memory. +Marian tried not to think of the body in the room above. Though she was free +from the dread which was just then making Eliza tremble, cry, and cross herself +to sleep, she disliked the body all the more as she distinguished it from the +no-longer existent woman: a feat quite beyond the Irish peasant girl. She sat +down and began to think. The Crawfords and their friends had been very nice to +her: no doubt the lady would not have been civil had she known all; but, then, +the lady was a silly person. They were not exactly what Marian considered the +best sort of people; but New York was not London. She would not stay at Mrs. +Myers’s: her income would enable her to lodge more luxuriously. If she +could afford to furnish some rooms for herself, she would get some curtains she +had seen one day lately when shopping with Mrs. Crawford. They would go well +with—— +</p> + +<p> +A noise in the room overhead: Susanna’s death chamber. Marian gave a +great start, and understood what Eliza meant by having “the life put +across in her.” She listened, painfully conscious of the beats of her +heart. The noise came again: a footstep, or a chair pushed back, or—she was not +certain what. Could Mrs. Myers be watching at the bedside? It was not unlikely. +Could Susanna be recovering—finding herself laid out for dead, and making a +struggle for life up there alone? That would be inconvenient, undesirable: even +Marian forgot just then to consider that obvious view wrong and unfeeling; but, +anyhow, she must go and see, and, if necessary, help. She wished there were +some one to keep her company; but was ashamed to call Eliza; and she felt that +she would be as well by herself as with Mrs. Myers. There was nothing for it +but to take a candle and go alone. No repetition of the noise occurred to daunt +her afresh; and she reached the landing above almost reassured, and thinking +how odd it was that the idea of finding somebody—Susanna—there, though it had +come as a fear, was fading out as a disappointed hope. +</p> + +<p> +Finding herself loth to open the door, she at last set her teeth and did it +swiftly, as if to surprise someone within. She did surprise some one: her +husband, sitting by his sister’s body. He started violently on seeing +her, and rose; whilst she, mechanically shutting the door without turning, +leaned back against it with her hand behind her, and looked at him +open-mouthed. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian,” he said, in a quite unexpectedly apprehensive tone, +putting up his hand deprecatingly: “remember, here”—indicating the +figure on the bed—“is an end of hypocrisy! No unrealities now: I cannot +bear them. Let us have no trash of magnanimous injured husband, erring but +repentant wife. We are man and woman, nothing less and nothing more. After our +marriage you declined intercourse on those terms; and I accepted your +conventions to please you. Now I refuse all conventions: you have broken them +yourself. If you will not have the truth between us, avoid me until I have +subsided into the old groove again. There!” he added, wincing, +“dont blush. What have you to blush for? It was the only honest thing you +ever did.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dont understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said gently, but with a gesture of despair; “how +could you? You never did, and you never will.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean to accuse me of having deceived you,” said Marian, +greatly relieved and encouraged by a sense of being now the injured party, +“you are most unjust. I dont excuse myself for behaving wickedly, but I +<i>never</i> deceived you or told you a falsehood. Never. When he first spoke +wrongly to me, I told you at once; and you did not care.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a straw. It was nothing to me that he loved you: the point was, did +you love him? If not, then all was well: if so, our marriage was already at an +end. But you mistake my drift. Falsehood is something more than fibbing. You +never told fibs—except the two or three dozen a week that mere politeness +required and which you never thought of counting; but you never told me the +truth, Marian, because you never told your self the truth. You told me what you +told yourself, I grant you; and so you were not conscious of deceit. I dont +reproach you. Surely you can bear to be told what every honest man tells +himself almost daily.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I have deserved it,” said Marian; “but unkind +words from you are a new experience. You are very unlike yourself +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +He repressed, with visible effort, an explosion of impatience. “On the +contrary, I am like myself—I actually am myself to-night, I hope.” Then +the explosion came. “Is it utterly impossible for you to say something +real to me? Only learn to do that, and you may have ten love romances every +year with other men, if you like. Be anything rather than a ladylike slave and +liar. There! as usual, the truth makes you shrink from me. As I said before, I +refuse further intercourse on such terms. They have proved unkind in the long +run.” +</p> + +<p> +“You spoke plainly enough to her,” said Marian, glancing at the +bed, “but in the long run it did her no good.” +</p> + +<p> +“She would have laughed me to scorn if I had minced matters, for she +never deceived herself. Society, by the power of the purse, set her to +nautch-girl’s work, and forbade her the higher work that was equally +within her power. Being enslaved and debauched in this fashion, how could she +be happy except when she was not sober? It was her own immediate interest to +drink; it was her tradesman’s interest that she should drink; it was her +servants’ interest that she should be pleased with them for getting drink +for her. She was clever, good-natured, more constant to her home and her man +than you, a living fountain of innocent pleasure as a dancer, singer, and +actress; and here she lies, after mischievously spending her talent in a series +of entertainments too dull for hell and too debased for any better place, dead +of a preventable disease, chiefly because most of the people she came in +contact with had a direct pecuniary interest in depraving and poisoning her. +Aye, look at her! with the cross on her breast, the virgin mother in plaster +looking on from where she kept her mirror when she was alive, and the people +outside complacently saying ‘Serve her right!’” +</p> + +<p> +Marian feared for a moment that he would demolish Eliza’s altar by +hurling the chair through it. “Dont, Ned,” she said, timidly, +putting her hand on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Dont what?” he said, taken aback. She drew her hand away and +retreated a step, coloring at the wifely liberty she had permitted herself to +take. “I beg your pardon. I thought—I thought you were going to take the +cross away. No,” she added quickly, seeing him about to speak, and +anticipating a burst of scepticism: “it is not that; but the servant is +an Irish girl—a Roman Catholic. She put it there; and she meant well, and will +be hurt if it is thrown aside.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think it better that she should remain in ignorance of what +educated people think about her superstition than that she should suffer the +mortification of learning that her opinions are not those of all the world! +However, I had no such intention. Eliza’s idol is a respectable one as +idols go.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. Then Marian said: “It must have been a great shock to +you when you came and found what had happened. I am very sorry. But had we not +better go downrs? It seems so unfeeling, somehow, to talk without minding her. +I suppose you consider that foolish; but I think you are upset by it +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see a change in me, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not quite yourself, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you again that I <i>am</i> myself at last. You do not seem to +like the real man any better than the unreal: I am afraid you will not have me +on any terms. Well, let us go downstairs, since you prefer it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, not unless you wish it too,” said Marian, a little bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +He took her candle and led the way out without another word or a look at the +bed. Marian, as he stood aside to let her go downstairs before him, was +suddenly seized with a fantastic fear that he was going to kill her. She did +not condescend to hurry or look back; but she only felt safe when they were in +her room, and he no longer behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down,” he said, placing the candle on the mantelpiece. She sat +down at the table, and he stood on the hearthrug. “Now,” said he, +“about the future. Are you coming back? Will you give the life at Holland +Park another trial?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot,” she said, bending her head almost on her hands. +“I should disgrace you. And there is another reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not in your power, nor in that of all London, to disgrace me if I +do not feel disgraced. It is useless to say that you cannot. If you say +‘I will not,’ then that will settle it. What is the other +reason?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not yet born. But it will be.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is no reason to me. Do you think I shall be a worse father to it +than he would have been?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed. But it would be unfair to you.” He made an impatient +gesture. “I dont understand you, Ned. Would you not rather be +free?” +</p> + +<p> +“Freedom is a fool’s dream. I am free. I can divorce you if I +please: if I live with you again it will be by my own choice. You are free too: +you have burnt your boats, and are rid of fashionable society, of your family, +your position, your principles, and all the rest of your chains forever. You +are declassed by your own act; and if you can frankly give a sigh of relief and +respect yourself for breaking loose from what is called your duty, then you are +the very woman I want for a wife. I may not be the very man you want for a +husband; but at all events you are free to choose, free to change after you +choose if you choose me, free anyhow; for I will divorce you if you refuse; and +then you will be—independent—your own mistress—absolute proprietor of your own +child—everything that married women and girls envy. You have a foretaste of +that freedom now. What is it worth? One or two conditions more or less to +comply with, that is all: nature and society still have you hard and fast; the +main rules of the game are inviolable.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is a good thing to be free,” said Marian, timidly. +</p> + +<p> +“That means ‘I will not.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Not ‘will not’; but I think I had better not.” +</p> + +<p> +“A characteristic distinction, Marian. I once thought, like you, that +freedom was the one condition to be gained at all cost and hazard. My favorite +psalm was that nonsense of John Hay’s: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘For always in thine eyes, O Liberty,<br/> +Shines that high light whereby the world is saved;<br/> +And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And she does slay us. Now I am for the fullest attainable life. That involves +the least endurable liberty. You dont see that yet. Very well: you have +liberty—liberty to hurt as well as help yourself; and you are right to try +whether it will not make you happier than wedlock has done.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was not your fault; and it is very good of you to offer to take me +back, I know. Will my refusing disappoint you at all, Ned?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am prepared for it. You may refuse or accept: I foresee how I shall +adapt myself to either set of circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I forgot. You foresee everything,” said Marian, with some +bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +“No: I only face what I see. That is why you do not like living with me. +Good-bye. Do not look troubled: we shall meet again to-morrow and often +afterward, I hope; but to-night makes an end of the irrational knot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” said Marian rather forlornly, after a pause, +proffering her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“One folly more,” he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her. +She made no resistance. “If such a moment could be eternal, we should +never say good-bye,” he added. “As it is, we are wise not to tempt +Fortune by asking her for such another.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are too wise, Ned,” she said, suffering him to replace her +gently in the chair. +</p> + +<p> +“It is impossible to be too wise, dearest,” he said, and +unhesitatingly turned and left her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11354 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + |