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diff --git a/11354-0.txt b/11354-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3b85745 --- /dev/null +++ b/11354-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14409 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11354 *** + +The Irrational Knot + +by George Bernard Shaw + +BEING +THE SECOND NOVEL OF HIS NONAGE + +1905 + + +Contents + + PREFACE + + BOOK I + THE IRRATIONAL KNOT + CHAPTER I + CHAPTER II + CHAPTER III + CHAPTER IV + CHAPTER V + CHAPTER VI + + BOOK II + CHAPTER VII + CHAPTER VIII + CHAPTER IX + CHAPTER X + CHAPTER XI + + BOOK III + CHAPTER XII + CHAPTER XIII + CHAPTER XIV + CHAPTER XV + CHAPTER XVI + CHAPTER XVII + + BOOK IV + CHAPTER XVIII + CHAPTER XIX + CHAPTER XX + CHAPTER XXI + + + + +PREFACE + +TO THE AMERICAN EDITION OF 1905 + + +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. + +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. + +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 _to_ 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. + +When I say that _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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _the_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _not_ 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. + +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] + +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. + +LONDON, _May_ 26, 1905. + + +[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, +_really_—!!!] + + +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 _père_ 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. + +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 _its_ 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! + +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 +_viva voce_, when the magic of the great poet opened my eyes in a flash +to the importance of the social philosopher. + +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. + +WELWYN, _Sunday, June_ 25, 1905. + + + + +BOOK I + + + + +THE IRRATIONAL KNOT + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“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?” + +“I am going out.” + +She looked at him for a moment, and turned contemptuously to the +mirror, saying, “Thank you. Sorry to be inquisitive.” + +“I am going to sing for the Countess of Carbury at a concert at +Wandsworth.” + +“Sing! You! The Countess of Barbury! Does she live at Wandsworth?” + +“No. She lives in Park Lane.” + +“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 _you_, +pray?” + +“Why not?” + +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?” + +“How should I know?” + +“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 _you_ 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.’ + +Dum, drum. Dum, drum. Dum, drum. Dum— +‘And there was an ole nigga; and his name was Uncle Ned; + An’ him dead long ago, long ago. +An’ he had no hair on the top of his head + In the place where the wool ought to grow,’ + + +Mr. Marmaduke Lind will get a double _encore_; 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. _Another_ reading by the Rev.——” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“It is fortunate that the evening is so fine,” said the clergyman to +her. + +“Yes, is it not, Mr. Lind?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“Thank you. You are very kind, very kind indeed.” + +Conolly bowed, and turned again toward the other group. + +“Who is that?” whispered Mrs. Fairfax to the clergyman. + +“Some young man who attracted the attention of the Countess by his +singing. He is only a workman.” + +“Indeed! Where did she hear him sing?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Doubtless. But really, Mr. Lind, human beings are _so_ 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.” + +“I say,” said the young gentleman with the banjo, interrupting them: +“have you got a copy of ‘Rose softly blooming’ there?” + +“I!” said Mrs. Fairfax. “No, certainly not.” + +“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.” + +“I _cannot_ play by ear,” said the restless young lady, angrily. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Conolly here stepped aside, and beckoned to the clergyman. + +“That young man wants to speak to you,” whispered Mrs. Fairfax. + +“Oh, indeed. Thank you,” said the Rev. Mr. Lind, stiffly. “I suppose I +had better see what he requires.” + +“I suppose you had,” said Mrs. Fairfax, with some impatience. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“I hope he _can_ play,” said Marian doubtfully. “Who is he?” + +“It is Conolly. Jasper’s man.” + +Miss Lind’s eyes lighted. “Is that he?” she whispered, glancing +curiously across the room at him. “Bring him and introduce him to us.” + +“Is that necessary?” said the tall man, without lowering his voice +sufficiently to prevent Conolly from hearing him. The clergyman +hesitated. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Nonsense, Sholto,” said she, laughing. “They will expect you to do +something if you appear with me.” + +“Allow _me_, 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. + +“The original key?” he enquired, as they mounted the steps. + +“I dont know,” she said, alarmed. + +For a moment he was taken aback. Then he said, “What is the highest +note you can sing?” + +“I can sing A sometimes—only when I am alone. I dare not attempt it +before people.” + +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. + +“Cool, and reserved, is the modern Benjamin Franklin,” observed +Marmaduke to her. + +“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. + +“Exquisite melody, is it not, Mr. Douglas?” said Mrs. Fairfax, coming +to the clergyman’s rescue. + +“I do not care for music,” said Douglas. “I lack the maudlin +disposition in which the taste usually thrives.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Now then, Nelly,” said Marmaduke: “the parson is going to call time. +Keep up your courage. Come, get up, get up.” + +“Do not be so boisterous, Duke,” said Marian. “It is bad enough to have +to face an audience without being ridiculed beforehand.” + +“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.” + +“Really, Marmaduke,” said Marian, impatiently, “you are excessively +foolish. You are like a boy fresh from school.” + +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: + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“I told you not to come, Sholto; but you would. Why not adapt yourself +to the circumstances, and be agreeable?” + +“I am not conscious of being disagreeable.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +Douglas looked at her in surprise. Before he could answer, Miss +McQuinch reappeared. + +“Well, Nelly,” said Marmaduke: “is there any piano left?” + +“Not much,” she replied, with a sullen laugh. “I never played worse in +my life.” + +“Wrong notes? or deficiency in the sacred fire?” + +“Both.” + +“I believe your song comes next,” said the clergyman to Conolly, who +had been standing apart, listening to Miss McQuinch’s performance. + +“Who is to accompany me, sir?” + +“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. + +“Perhaps you would rather play your own accompaniment,” said the +clergyman, weakly. + +Conolly shook his head decisively, and said, “I can do only one thing +at a time, sir.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I think you might try, Nell,” said Marmaduke, reproachfully. + +“I might,” retorted Miss McQuinch; “but I wont.” + +“If somebody doesnt go out and do something, there will be a shindy,” +said Marmaduke. + +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.” + +Conolly bowed. + +“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.” + +“I think Miss McQuinch had better play,” said Douglas. + +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. + +“Really,” she said as they left the platform, “you sing most +beautifully.” + +“One would hardly have expected it,” he said, with a smile. + +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. + +“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!” + +He assented politely with a movement of his head. + +“I know nothing at all about music,” said Mrs. Fairfax. + +“Very few people do.” + +“I mean technically, of course,” she said, not quite pleased. + +“Of course.” + +A tremendous burst of applause here followed the conclusion of the +first verse of “Uncle Ned.” + +“_Do_ come and listen, Nelly,” said Marian, returning to the door. Mrs. +Fairfax and Conolly presently went to the door too. + +“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. + +“Not particularly,” said Miss McQuinch. + +“Sholto,” said Marian, “come and share our vulgar joy. We want you to +join in the chorus.” + +“Thank you,” said Douglas, “I fear I am too indifferent a vocalist to +do justice to the occasion.” + +“Sing with Mr. Conolly and you cannot go wrong,” said Miss McQuinch. + +“Hush,” said Marian, interposing quickly lest Douglas should retort. +“There is the chorus. Shall we really join?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +When she looked again, he seemed unconscious of her presence, and was +buttoning his overcoat. + +“Really going at last, Sholto?” said Marian. Douglas bowed. + +“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. + +“Good night,” said Miss McQuinch, shortly, anxious to test how far he +was offended, but unwilling to appear solicitous for a reconciliation. + +“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. + +“Shall I have the pleasure of playing the accompaniment to your next +song?” said Conolly, sitting down near Marian. + +“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.” + +“No, I am an electrician. Music is not my business: it is my +amusement.” + +“You have invented something very wonderful, have you not?” + +“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.” + +“You must explain that to me some day, Mr. Conolly. I’m afraid I dont +know what an electro-motor means.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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 _buffo_. 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.” + +“I suppose your father taught you to sing.” + +“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.” + +“I fear you are a cynic. You ought either to believe in your father or +else be silent about him.” + +“Why?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Marian laughed. “We had better stop apologizing to one another,” she +said. “What about the accompaniments to our next songs?” + +Meanwhile Marmaduke and Miss McQuinch were becoming curious about +Marian and Conolly. + +“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?” + +“Jealous! Why should I be?” + +“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.” + +“I wish you would go away.” + +“Why? Dont you like me?” + +“I _loathe_ you. Now, perhaps you understand me.” + +“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.” + +“I wish you would let me come to my senses by not speaking to me at +all.” + +“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.” + +“So I do,” said Elinor, stubbornly. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“Not much,” replied Elinor, shrugging her shoulders. “He is very +conceited, and very coarse.” + +“Do you really think so? I expected to find you delighted with his +unconventionality. I thought him rather amusing.” + +“I thought him extremely aggravating. I hate to have to speak to people +of that sort.” + +“Then you consider him vulgar,” said Marian, disappointed. + +“N—no. Not vulgarer than anybody else. He couldnt be that.” + +“Sherry and soda, Marian?” said Marmaduke, approaching. + +“No, thank you, Marmaduke. Get Nelly something.” + +“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.” + +“Dont be silly, Marmaduke. Bring Nelly some soda water.” + +“Do nothing of the sort,” said Miss McQuinch. + +Marmaduke bowed and retired. + +“What is the matter between you and Duke now?” said Marian. + +“Nothing. I told him I loathed him.” + +“Oh! I dont wonder at his being a little huffed. How _can_ you say +things you dont mean?” + +“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.” + +“Nonsense, Nelly! You are only in the blues.” + +“_Only_ in the blues!” said Miss McQuinch sarcastically. “Yes. That is +all.” + +“Take some sherry. It will brighten you up.” + +“Dutch courage! Thank you: I prefer my present moroseness.” + +“But you are not morose, Nelly.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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!” + +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. + +“What direction are you going in?” said Marmaduke. + +“Westminster Bridge or thereabouts,” replied Conolly. “This place is +rather out of the way.” + +“Have you anything particular to do before you turn in for the night?” + +“Nothing at all.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Right you are, sir,” replied the driver, whipping his horse. + +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. + +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. + +“You dont seem used to this sort of thing,” said Lind, somewhat +disgusted. + +“It was well sung,” replied Conolly “—better than most of these +blackguards know.” + +“Then why dont you clap?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“You know her, then?” said Conolly. + +“I should think I do,” replied Marmaduke, energetically. “You have no +idea what a rattling sort she is.” + +“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?” + +“I would if she asked me to,” said Marmaduke, somewhat taken aback. + +“No doubt. But should you be surprised if she asked you?” + +“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.” + +“And you actually think that this Lalage Virtue is as respectable a +woman as your cousin?” + +“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.” + +“Are you privileged to introduce whom you like to Miss Lalage?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“A man at the point of death does not stop to think about etiquet. She +saved my life.” + +“Saved your life! That sounds romantic.” + +“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.” + +“You doubt whether any of the ladies that were with us at the concert +would have been equally useful in such an emergency?” + +“I should think I do doubt it, my boy. Hush! Now that the ballet is +over, we are annoying people by talking.” + +“You are right,” replied Conolly. “Aha! Here is Miss Lalage again.” + +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. + +Shortly before the curtain fell, they left the theatre, and re-entered +it by the stage door. + +“Queer place, isnt it?” said Lind. + +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. + +“Well?” she said quarrelsomely. + +Marmaduke, perceiving that her challenge was not addressed to him, but +to Conolly, looked from one to the other, mystified. + +“I have come to see you act at last,” said Conolly. + +“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.” + +“I must admit, my dear,” said Conolly, “that I could have spent it to +much greater advantage.” + +“Indeed! and you!” she said, turning to Lind, whose deepening color +betrayed his growing mortification: “what is the matter with _you_?” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +The actress laughed in spite of her vexation. “Why, you silly old +thing!” she exclaimed, “he is no more my husband than you are!” + +“Oh!” said Marmaduke. “Indeed!” + +“I am her brother,” said Conolly considerately, stifling a smile. + +“Why,” said Mademoiselle Lalage fiercely, raising her voice, “what else +did you think?” + +“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.” + +“You can settle what you please,” she replied. “I am going home.” + +“Mr. Lind has suggested our supping together,” said Conolly, observing +her curiously. + +Susanna looked quickly at them. + +“Who is Mr. Lind?” she said. + +“Your friend, of course,” said Conolly, with an answering flash of +intelligence that brought out the resemblance between them startlingly. +“Mr. Marmaduke Lind.” + +Marmaduke became very red as they both waited for him to explain. + +“I thought that you would perhaps join us at supper,” he said to +Susanna. + +“Did you?” she said, threateningly. Then she turned her back on him and +went to her dressing-room. + +“Well, Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, “what do you think of Mademoiselle +Lalage now?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It doesnt matter now,” said Marmaduke; “for I intend never to speak to +her again.” + +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.” + +“I dont want any reconciliation.” + +“Of course not; I had forgotten,” replied Conolly, placably. “Then I +suppose you will go before she has finished dressing.” + +“I shall go now,” said Marmaduke, buttoning his overcoat, and turning +away. + +“Good-night,” said Conolly. + +“Good-night,” muttered Marmaduke, petulantly, and disappeared. + +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. + +“Why dont you have a brougham, instead of going about in cabs?” he +said, as they drove away. + +“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.” + +“I thought the appearance of——” + +“There is no use in your talking to me. I cant hear a word you say +going over these stones.” + +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. + +“Are you aware,” she inquired, “that it is half past twelve, and that +the people of the house are trying to sleep.” + +“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!” + +“Yes: you made a nice piece of mischief there. Where is he?” + +“Gone away in a rage, swearing never to speak to you again.” + +“Hm! And so his name is Lind, is it?” + +“Didnt you know?” + +“No, or I should have told you when I read the program this evening. +The young villain pretended that his name was Marmaduke Sharp.” + +“Ah! The name reminds me of one of his cousins, a little spitfire that +snaps at every one who presumes to talk to her.” + +“His cousins! Oh, of course; you met them at the concert. What are they +like? Are they swells?” + +“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.” + +“Did they snub you?” + +“I dont know. Probably they tried. Are you intimate with many of our +young nobility under assumed names?” + +“Steal a few more marches to the Bijou, and perhaps you will find out.” + +“Good-night! Pardon my abrupt departure, but you are not the very +sweetest of Susannas to-night.” + +“Oh, _good_-night.” + +“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.” + +“I am sure it matters very little whom he marries.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Here is a note from Marian, addressed to Nelly,” said Lydia, who had +been examining the envelope. + +“To Nelly!” said Mrs. McQuinch, vexed. “I think she should have invited +one of you first.” + +“Perhaps it is not an invitation,” said Jane. + +“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.” + +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. + +“There’s a letter for you from Marian,” said Mrs. McQuinch. + +“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. + +“What does she say?” said Mrs. McQuinch. + +“I have not looked,” replied Elinor. + +“Well,” said Mrs. McQuinch, plaintively, “I wish you _would_ look. I +want to know whether she says anything about this letter from your +uncle Reginald.” + +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. + +“Marian wants me to go and stay with her,” she said. “They have taken a +house.” + +“Poor Marian!” said Jane. “And will you go?” + +“I will,” said Elinor. “Have you any objection?” + +“Oh dear, no,” said Jane, smoothly. + +“I suppose you will be glad to get away from your home,” said Mrs. +McQuinch, incontinently. + +“Very glad,” said Elinor. Mr. McQuinch, hurt, looked at her over his +newspaper. Mrs. McQuinch was huffed. + +“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.” + +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. + +“You need not be alarmed,” said Elinor. “I dont want any clothes. I can +go as I am.” + +“You dont know what you are talking about, child,” said Mrs. McQuinch. + +“A nice figure you would make in uncle Reginald’s drawing-room with +that dress on!” said Lydia. + +“And your hair in that state!” added Jane. + +“You should remember that there are others to be considered besides +yourself,” said Lydia. “How would _you_ like _your_ guests to look like +scarecrows?” + +“How could you expect Marian to go about with you, or into the Park? I +suppose——” + +“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.” + +“Indeed, Hardy, she is not going to pay a London milliner four prices +for things she can get quite as good down here.” + +“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.” + +“I dont begrudge——” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“What o’clock is it?” she said, after listening a moment. “Surely it is +too early for a visit.” + +“It is only half past two,” replied Marian. “I hope it is not anybody. +I have not half finished my correspondence.” + +“If you please, Miss,” said a maid, entering, “Mr. Douglas wants to see +you, and he wont come up.” + +“I suppose he expects you to go down and talk to him in the hall,” said +Elinor. + +“He is in the dining-room, and wishes to see you most particular,” said +the maid. + +“Tell him I will come down,” said Marian. + +“He heard me practising,” said Elinor, “that is why he would not come +up. I am in disgrace, I suppose.” + +“Nonsense, Nelly! But indeed I have no doubt he has come to complain of +our conduct, since he insists on seeing me alone.” + +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. + +“I am afraid I am rather early,” he said, half stiffly, half +apologetically. + +“Not at all,” said Marian. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I wish to speak to you privately. First, I have to apologize to you +for what passed last night.” + +“Pray dont, Sholto: it doesnt matter. I am afraid we were rude to you.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I am sorry you hold that opinion of me.” + +“How is Brutus’s paw?” + +“Brutus!” + +“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.” + +“His paw is nearly healed.” + +“I’m so glad—poor old dear!” + +“You are aware that I did not come here to speak of my mother’s dog, +Marian?” + +“I supposed not,” said Marian, with a smile. “But now that you have +made your apology, wont you come upstairs? Nelly is there.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“No,” said Douglas, forgetting his ceremonious manner and speaking +angrily and naturally; “but you talk as though I had not been making +love to _you_.” + +“If you have, I never knew it. I never dreamt it.” + +“Then, since you are not the stupidest lady of my acquaintance, you +must be the most innocent.” + +“Tell me of one single occasion on which anything has passed between us +that justifies your speaking to me as you are doing now.” + +“Innumerable occasions. But since I cannot compel you to acknowledge +them, it would be useless to cite them.” + +“All I can say is that we have utterly misunderstood one another,” she +said, after a pause. + +He said nothing, but took up his hat, and looked down at it with angry +determination. Marian, too uneasy to endure silence, added: + +“But I shall know better in future.” + +“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?” + +“What assurance?” + +Douglas shook his shoulders impatiently. + +“You expect me to know everything by intuition,” she said. + +“Well, my declaration shall be definite enough, even for you. Do you +love me?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“No, no,” she said, angelic again. “You have taken me up wrongly. I did +not mean to taunt you.” + +“You conceal your meaning as skilfully as—according to you—I have +concealed mine. Good-morning.” + +“Are you going already?” + +“Do you care one bit for me, Marian?” + +“I do indeed. Believe me, you are one of my special friends.” + +“I do not want to be _one_ of your friends. Will you be my wife?” + +“Sholto!” + +“Will you be my wife?” + +“No. I——” + +“Pardon me. That is quite sufficient. Good-morning.” + +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. + +“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: + +“Well?” + +“Do you know what Sholto came for?” + +“To propose to you.” + +“Stop, Nelly. You do not know what horrible things one may say in jest. +He _has_ proposed.” + +“When will the wedding be?” + +“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?—_courting_ me?” + +“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.” + +“And you never told me.” + +“I thought you saw it for yourself; particularly as you encouraged +him.” + +“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.” + +“What did you say?—if I may ask.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, I can imagine Sholto’s feelings on discovering that he had +humbled himself in vain. Why did you refuse him?” + +“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?” + +“Nonsense! If men choose to make fools of themselves, you cannot +prevent them. Hush! I hear someone coming upstairs. It is Marmaduke, I +think.” + +“Marmaduke would never come up so slowly. He generally comes up three +steps at a time.” + +“Sulky after last night, no doubt. I suppose he wont speak to me.” + +Marmaduke entered listlessly. “Good morning, Marian,” he said, sitting +down on an uncomfortable chair. “Good morrow, Nell.” + +Elinor, surprised at the courtesy, looked up and saluted him +snappishly. + +“Is there anything the matter, Duke?” said Marian. “Are you ill?” + +“No, I’m all right. Rather busy: thats all.” + +“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?” + +“Anything for a quiet life,” he replied, moving to the ottoman. + +“You must be hungry,” said Marian, puzzled by his obedience. “Let me +get you something.” + +“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.” + +“We have your banjo.” + +“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.” + +“Are you leaving London?” + +“Yes. I am getting tired of loafing about here. I think I ought to go +home for a while. My mother wants me to.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Time enough to think of the autumn yet awhile,” said Marmaduke, +gloomily. + +“Well,” said Miss McQuinch, “here is some better news for you. +Constance—_Lady_ Constance—will be in town next week.” + +Marmaduke muttered something. + +“I beg your pardon?” said Elinor, quickly. + +“I didnt say anything.” + +“I may be wrong; but I thought I heard you say ‘Hang Lady Constance!’.” + +“Oh, Marmaduke!” cried Marian, affectedly. “How dare you speak so of +your betrothed, sir?” + +“Who says she is my betrothed?” he said, turning on her angrily. + +“Why, everybody. Even Constance admits it.” + +“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.” + +“You _must_ marry her some day, you know,” said Elinor, maliciously. + +“_Must_ I? I shant marry at all. I’ve had enough of women.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“With Conolly!” said Marian, interested. What kind of man is he?” + +“He is nothing particular. You saw him yourself.” + +“Yes. But is he well educated, and—and so forth?” + +“Dont know, I’m sure. We didnt talk about mathematics and classics.” + +“Well; but—do you like him?” + +“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. + +“Very well, Marmaduke,” said Marian softly, after a pause: “I wont +tease you any more. Dont be angry.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“How do you do, sir?” said Marmaduke, blushing. + +“Thank you: I am better than I have been.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“I suppose I shall shake down some day, sir.” + +“You have very good opportunities—very exceptional opportunities. Has +Marian told you that Constance is expected to arrive in town next +week?” + +“Yes: we told him,” said Marian. + +“He thought it too good to be true, and would hardly believe us,” added +Elinor. + +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?” + +“Any day you choose to name, sir. I shall be very glad.” + +“Let us say to-morrow morning. Will that be too soon?” + +“Not at all. It will suit me quite well. Good evening, sir.” + +“Good evening to you.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Marmaduke looked round irresolutely. A great noise of tramping and +singing began. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Why dont you walk out of the theatre, and make them arrange it +properly for next day?” + +“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.” + +“I have no doubt you did.” + +“This horse thinks he’s at a funeral. What o’clock is it?” + +“It’s only eight minutes past four. There is plenty of time.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“And what for you, sir?” said the waiter, turning to Marmaduke. + +“Never mind him,” interrupted Susanna. “Go and attend to me.” + +The waiter bowed and retired. + +“Old stick-in-the-mud!” muttered Miss Lalage. “Is it half-past four +yet?” + +“No. It’s only quarter past. There’s lots of time.” + +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. + +“Have an ice to finish up with?” he said. + +“No. I cant work on sweets,” she replied. “But I am beginning to feel +alive again and comfortable. Whats the time?” + +“Confound the time!” said Marmaduke. “It’s twenty minutes to five.” + +“Well, I’ll drive back to the theatre. I neednt start for quarter of an +hour yet.” + +“Thank heaven!” said Marmaduke. “I was afraid I should not be able to +get a word with you.” + +“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?” + +“It’s the name of a cousin of mine,” said Marmaduke, attempting to +dismiss the subject with a laugh. + +“It may be your cousin’s name; but it’s not yours. By the bye, is that +the cousin youre engaged to?” + +“What cousin? I’m not engaged to anybody.” + +“That’s a lie, like your denial of your name. Come, come, Master +Marmaduke: you cant humbug me. Youre too young. Hallo! What do _you_ +want?” + +It was the waiter, removing some plates, and placing a bill on the +table. Marmaduke put his hand into his pocket. + +“Just wait a minute, please,” said Susanna. The waiter retired. + +“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?” + +“I am, of course.” + +“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.” + +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—” + +“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.” + +“What do you mean by playing fast and loose, and being a cad about +town?” said Marmaduke angrily. + +“I hope youre not going to make a row here in public.” + +“No; but I have you where _you_ 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!” + +“It is you who are quarrelling.” + +“Very well,” said Susanna, opening her purse as though the matter were +decided. “Waiter.” + +“I am going to pay.” + +“So you can—for what you had yourself. I dont take dinners from strange +men, nor pay for their ices.” + +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.” + +“What sort of woman?” demanded Susanna, in a tone that made the other +occupants of the room turn and stare. + +“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. + +“There,” said Susanna, putting down a sovereign. + +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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +No answer. + +“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. _Lalage_.” 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Home,” she said, in her former contemptuous tone, flinging his arm +away. “That means your cousin Constance.” + +“Who told you about her?” + +“Never mind. You are engaged to her.” + +“You lie!” + +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: + +“Why didnt you tell me about her yourself?” + +“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——” + +“Oh, bother your circumstances! Look here, Bob, I dont want you to +introduce me to your swell relations; it is not worth _my_ 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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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 _my_ 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 _you_?” + +“But——” He stopped, bewildered, gazing at her. + +“Get out, you great goose!” she said, and suddenly sprang out of the +hansom and darted into the theatre. + +He sat gaping after her, horrified—genuinely horrified. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Since you have nothing better to do than play cribbage with yourself, +I——” + +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. + +“I _beg_ your pardon,” said Marian, blushing vigorously. “I thought it +was Lord Carbury. I have disturbed you very rudely. I——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +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.” + +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?” + +“Ah,” said Conolly, relaxing. “Come now, I can tell you that easily +enough. I dont know what it _is_, but I know what it does, and I can +lay traps to catch it. Here now, for instance——” + +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. + +“How do you know?” he said, a little bluntly. + +“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?” + +Conolly looked just grave enough to suggest that the question was not +altogether a discreet one. Then, brushing off that consideration, he +replied: + +“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.” + +“What would you do if you had his means?” + +Conolly made a gesture which plainly signified that he thought he could +do a great many things. + +“And is science, then, so expensive? I thought it was beyond the reach +of money.” + +“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.” + +“Then why dont you discover something and make your fortune?” + +“I have already discovered something.” + +“Oh! What is it?” + +“That it costs a fortune to make experiments enough to lead to an +invention.” + +“You are exaggerating, are you not? What do you mean by a fortune?” + +“In my case, at least four or five hundred pounds.” + +“Is that all? Surely you would have no difficulty in getting five +hundred pounds.” + +Conolly laughed. “To be sure,” said he. “What is five hundred pounds?” + +“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.” + +“There is something in that, Miss Lind. How would you recommend me to +begin?” + +“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.” + +“That is done already. I have quite made up my mind to spend the money. +What next?” + +“Well, I suppose the next thing is to spend it.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“If you wanted five hundred pounds, Miss Lind, how would you set about +getting it?—if I may ask.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Do what everybody else does in your circumstances. Borrow it. I am +sure Lord Carbury would lend it to you.” + +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.” + +“Save up all your money until you have enough.” + +“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.” + +“Ah,” said Marian, despondingly, “you would have to wait more than two +years to save five hundred pounds.” + +“And to dispense with food, clothes, and lodging in the meantime.” + +“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.” + +Conolly nodded, to intimate that he knew that such things happened. + +Marian could think of no further expedient. She stood still, thinking, +whilst Conolly took up a bit of waste and polished a brass cylinder. + +“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_ want it.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Has he proposed?” said Elinor, taking it. + +Constance changed color. Elinor opened the letter in silence, and read: + +My dear Constance: + 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. + + +Yours ever, +DUKE. + + +P.S.—How do Nelly and your mother get along together? + + +Whilst Elinor was reading, the gardener passed the summer-house, and +Constance went out and spoke to him. Elinor looked significantly at +Marian. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What do you think of the letter? Was it not kind of him to +write—considering how careless he is usually?” + +“Hm! Did he match the silk properly?”. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“He has got more sense now. He says in the letter that he spent +yesterday there.” + +“Not exactly. He says ‘_we_ spent a pleasant day looking at the +pictures.’ Who is ‘_we_’?” + +“Some companion of his, I suppose. Why?” + +“I was just thinking could it be the person who has matched the silk so +well. The same woman, I mean.” + +“Oh, Nelly!” + +“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?” + +“Of course they do. Any fly-fisher can do it better than a woman. +Really, Nell, you have an odious imagination.” + +“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.” + +“Why do you say so? I grant you he is unceremonious and careless. But +he is the same to everybody.” + +“Yes: to everybody _we_ 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.” + +“There is no harm in giving people credit for being good.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes,” whispered Elinor: “she comes back quickly enough when it occurs +to her that we are talking about her.” + +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. + +They knew that Constance wanted to answer Marmaduke’s letter; so they +alleged correspondence of their own, and left her to herself. + +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. + +“Am I in your way?” she said. “I shall have done in a moment.” + +“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?” + +“Nothing very particular. He is in Paris.” + +“Indeed? Are you writing to him?” + +“Yes,” said Constance, irritated by his disparaging tone. “Why not?” + +“Do as you please, of course. I am afraid he is a scamp.” + +“Are you? You know a great deal about him, I dare say.” + +“I am not much reassured by those who do know about him.” + +“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.” + +“Marian takes rather a rose-colored view of everybody, Marmaduke +included. You should talk to Nelly about him.” + +“I knew it. I knew, the minute you began to talk, who had set you on.” + +“I am afraid Nelly’s opinion is worth more than Marians.” + +“_Her_ opinion! Everybody knows what her opinion is. She is bursting +with jealousy of me.” + +“Jealousy!” + +“What else? Marmaduke has never taken the least notice of her, and she +is madly in love with him.” + +“This is quite a new light upon the affair. Constance, are you sure you +are not romancing?” + +“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.” + +“I can hardly believe it: I should not have supposed, from what I have +observed, that she cared about him.” + +You should not have supposed it from what she _said_: is that what you +mean? I dont care whether you believe it or not.” + +“Well, if you are so confident, there is no occasion to be acrimonious +about Elinor. She is more to be pitied than blamed.” + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +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. + +“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 +_she_?” + +“All quite well, thank you. Just show my fellow your traps; he will see +to them.” + +“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.” + +“Jump in.” + +“Thank you. And how is Marian?” + +“Quite well, thank you. _Everybody_ is quite well. The girls are at a +tennis party, or they would have come to meet you. Constance desired me +particularly to apologize.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, she is a capital trotter, this mare of mine. What do you think of +her?” + +“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?” + +“No. The place will be rather dull for you, I am afraid.” + +“Not at all, my dear fellow, not at all. I shall be satisfied and +thankful under all circumstances.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I am delighted to hear it. And dear Nelly?” + +“Oh, dear Nelly treats the subject in her usual way. But she is very +amusing.” + +“Ah, Jasper! Ah! An unstable nature there, an unstable nature! Elinor +has not been firmly trained. She needs to be tried by adversity.” + +“No doubt she will be. Most of us are.” + +“And dear Constance? Does she study?” + +“No.” + +“Ahem! A—have you——? That is St. Mildred’s yonder, is it not?” + +“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.” + +“No. At least, I intended to ask you about Marmaduke. He is coming +down, I understand.” + +“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. + +“Then,” said Lord Carbury, “we had better get down and stroll across +the lawn. Perhaps you are tired, though?” + +“Not at all. I should prefer it. What a lovely avenue! What greenery! +How—” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“A house at West Kensington! No, I did not know it. What has he done +that for?” + +“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.” + +“The vagabond! It is exactly as I have always said: Constance is too +tame for him. He does not care a d——” + +“Jasper, my dear fellow, gently,” said the clergyman, pressing his arm. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“You will not mind my staying, I hope, George,” she said, as she +resumed her seat. + +“A delightful precedent, and from a distinguished source,” said the +Rev. George. “Allow me to pass the bottle. Ha! ha!” + +“Thank you, no,” said the Countess. “I never take wine.” Her tone was +inconclusive, as if she intended to take something else. + +“Will you take brandy-and-soda?” said her son, rather brusquely. + +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.” + +“Mother,” said Jasper, “George has brought us a nice piece of news +concerning your pet Marmaduke.” + +The clergyman became solemn and looked steadily at his glass. + +“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.” + +“Oh, nothing! He has settled down domestically in a mansion at West +Kensington, that is all.” + +“What! Married!” + +“Unhappily,” said the Rev. George, “no, not married.” + +“Oh!” said the Countess slowly, as an expression of relief. “It is very +shocking, of course; very wrong indeed. Young men _will_ 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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Jasper, without the slightest appearance of having heard this speech, +strolled casually out of the room. The Countess, baffled, turned to her +sympathetic guest. + +“I am sure that you, George, must feel that it is absolutely necessary +for us to keep this matter to ourselves.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Thank you,” said Conolly. “If you ladies have thin shoes on as usual, +we had better come out of this.” + +“As we ladies happen to have our boots on,” said Marian, “we shall stay +as long as we like.” + +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. + +“Does that young man—Mr. Conolly—live at the Hall?” was the Rev. +George’s first remark to Constance. + +“No. He has rooms in Rose Cottage, that little place on Quilter’s +farm.” + +“Ha! Then he is very well off here.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Do you find him unpleasant—personally, I mean?” + +“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.” + +“I trust Marian is careful to limit her intercourse with him as much as +possible.” + +“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.” + +“It is a strange fancy of the girls, to study science.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +The Rev. George, missing the deference with which ladies not related to +him usually received his admonitions, changed the subject. + +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: + +“Have you resolved to go to London to-morrow; or will you wait until +Friday?” + +“To-morrow, Miss Lind. Can I do anything for you in town?” + +Marian hesitated painfully. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“N—no. Unless I call upon him, which I have no excuse for doing.” + +“Oh! I thought you knew him.” + +“I met him at that concert.” + +“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.” + +“So we were; but only once. We went there after the concert, and I have +never seen him since.” + +“Oh, indeed! I quite mistook.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Marian looked at him in some surprise. “I hardly know what I ought to +do,” she said, doubtfully. + +“Then do nothing,” said Conolly bluntly. “Or, if you want anything said +to this gentleman, write to him yourself.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“No. I thought you did.” + +Conolly shook his head. “Who does know it?” he said. + +“My brother George does; but he refused to tell me. I shall not ask him +again.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Then you have my advice without telling me. Dont meddle in it.” + +“But—” + +“But what?” + +“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.” + +“Are you sure you dont mean only that he can smooth matters over for +the present?” + +“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 +_wish_ you knew.” + +“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.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Marian, “you are wrong. He does not.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But her address is his address now, Mr. Conolly. I think it is +somewhere in West Kensington.” + +Conolly stopped, and turned upon her so suddenly that she recoiled a +step, frightened. + +“Since when, pray?” + +“Very lately, I think. I do not know.” + +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. + +“Permit me to leave you now,” he said, with an artificial politeness +worthy of Douglas himself. “Good-night.” + +“Good-night,” faltered Marian. + +He walked gravely away. Marian hurried into the veranda, where she +found Jasper and Elinor. The other couple had gone into the +drawing-room. + +“Hallo!” said Jasper, “where is Conolly? I want to say a word to him +before he goes.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Do I look disturbed? I hope Auntie wont notice it. I wish I could go +straight to bed without seeing anybody.” + +“Why? What is the matter?” + +“I will tell you to-night when you come in to me. I am disgusted with +myself; and I think Conolly is mad.” + +“Mad!” + +“On my word, I think Conolly has gone mad,” said Lord Jasper, returning +at this moment out of breath and laughing. + +Elinor, startled, glanced at Marian. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“He was not drunk, indeed,” said Marian. + +“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?” + +“I have been playing tennis all day; and I am quite tired out.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, Nelly, you ought not to talk so strongly about people. She would +never venture to tell me a made-up tale about Marmaduke.” + +“In my opinion, she would tell anybody anything for the sake of using +her tongue or pen.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Hush, Nelly. I am always in terror lest you should say something like +that before other people, out of sheer habit.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Then he is a donkey, which is worse.” + +“I wish he were more natural in his manner.” + +“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.” + +“How do you mean?” + +“Never mind. Good-night.” + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +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. + +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. + +“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 _Times_, Bob, and see if the piece is advertized yet.” + +“I should think so, by Jupiter,” said Marmaduke, patiently interrupting +his meal to open the newspaper. + +“Here is a separate advertisement for everybody. ‘The latest Parisian +success. _La petite Maison du Roi._ 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 _La petite Maison du Roi_, entitled King +Lewis on the lewis’—what the deuce does that mean?” + +“On the loose, of course.” + +“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’——” + +“Is that at the top?” + +“Yes.” + +“Before Rose Stella?” + +“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 _la belle Jeanneton_.’ +By the way, that is all rot. Cardinal Richelieu died four or five +hundred years before Madame Dubarry was born.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, what matter! Champagne does nobody any harm; and I get awfully +low without it.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“What does he say?” said Marmaduke, taking the letter from her. “‘_Back +at 6 on Wednesday evening. Have high tea. N.C._’ 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.” + +“He knows nothing. His note shews that. What _will_ 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.” + +“Go back! oh no, nonsense! The worst he can do is to cut you—and a good +job too.” + +“I wish he would. It would be a relief to me at present to know for +certain that he would.” + +“He cant be so very thin-skinned as you fancy, considering the time you +have been on the stage.” + +“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. + +“Dont think any more about it,” said Marmaduke. “He wont come.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“All right,” said Marmaduke, with alacrity. “Whatever you please. How +shall we go?” + +“Anyhow. Let us go to Hampton by train. When we get there we can settle +what to do afterward. Can you come now?” + +“Yes, whenever you are ready.” + +“Then I will run upstairs and dress. Go out and amuse yourself with +that blessed old lawn-mower until I come.” + +“Yes, I think I will,” said Marmaduke, seriously. “That plot near the +gate wants a trimming badly.” + +“What a silly old chap you are, Bob!” she said, stopping to kiss him on +each cheek as she left the room. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Conolly followed him to a secluded part of the shrubbery, where they +sat down on a bench. + +“Is there anything up?” said Marmaduke, much oppressed. + +“Will you excuse my speaking without ceremony?” + +“Oh, certainly. Fire away!” + +“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?” + +Marmaduke nodded, and stole a doubtful glance at Conolly’s face. + +“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.” + +“Well, I knew all that. At least, I suspected it. What is up now?” + +“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.” + +“But I have my rooms in Clarges Street still. This is not my house. It +was taken for another person.” + +“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.” + +“But I cant go away just now. There are reasons.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“Shall I see you down there—if I go?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What does _he_ care what becomes of me, the selfish brute!” cried +Susanna, passionately. + +“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.” + +“What brought him here?” she demanded, vehemently. + +“That reminds me. I am afraid I must go down to Carbury for a few +days.” + +“And what am I to do here alone? Are _you_ going to leave me too?” + +“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.” + +“I will go home. I can get on without you altogether. I will go home.” + +“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.” + +“What do I care about your people, or about you either?” + +“Very well, then,” said Marmaduke, offended, “you can go home if you +like. Perhaps your brother appreciates this sort of thing. I dont.” + +“Ah, you coward! You taunt me because you think I have no home. Do you +flatter yourself that I am dependent on you?” + +“Hold your tongue,” said Marmaduke, fiercely. “Dont you turn on me in +that fashion. Keep your temper if you want me to keep mine.” + +“You have ruined me,” said Susanna, sitting down on the grass, and +beginning to cry. + +“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?” + +“No!” screamed Susanna. + +“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. + +“Missis is looking for you, sir,” said the maid. + +“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.” + +“Yes, sir,” said the maid. “Any message for missis?” + +“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. + +“I am going to Carbury,” he said. “I dont know when I shall be back.” + +She passed on disdainfully, as if she had not heard him. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +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. + +“Good news for you and Constance, mother.” + +“Indeed?” said the Countess, smiling. + +“Yes. Conolly is coming down this afternoon to collect his traps and +leave you forever.” + +“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.” + +“I am glad he is going,” said Constance, “for Jasper’s sake.” + +“Thank you,” replied Jasper. “I thought you would be. He will be a +great loss to me.” + +“Nonsense!” said the Countess. “If another workman is needed, another +can easily be had.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Nothing like experiment for convincing you of the power of +electricity,” said Marmaduke. “Is there, Conny?” + +“It’s very wonderful; but I hate shots.” + +“Where is Marian?” said Lady Carbury. + +“I left her in the summer-house in the fruit garden,” said Elinor. “She +was reading.” + +“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.” + +“I’ll go,” said Marmaduke, eagerly. + +“No, no, Duke. You must not leave the table. I will send a servant.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“I suspect he has his reasons,” said Elinor. + +“I think it is a perfectly natural thing for him to do,” said +Constance, pettishly. “I see nothing extraordinary in it.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“With me! Oh, dear! What have I done?” + +“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?” + +“There was no one else, Marmaduke.” + +“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?” + +“Why not? Was there any special reason—” + +“Any special reason! Didnt your common sense tell you that a meeting +between him and me must be particularly awkward for both of us?” + +“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.” + +“Oh! Indeed! That was _all_, was it? Merely that I was in bad company.” + +“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.” + +Marmaduke stared very hard at her for a while, and then said, with the +emphasis of a man baffled by utter unreason: “Well, I _am_ 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?” + +“No, I—Never mind me.” + +“Never mind you!” said Marmaduke. “What are you looking like that for?” + +“Because—it is nothing: I only blushed. Dont be stupid, Duke.” + +“Blushed! Why dont you blush red, like other people, and not green? +Shall I get you something?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“And he warned you, in spite of all.” + +“More for your sake than for mine, I suspect. He’s rather sweet on you, +isnt he?” + +“Oh, Duke, Duke, are you not ashamed of yourself?” + +“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?” + +Marian looked at him apprehensively, and said nothing. + +“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.” + +“Dont tell me any more of this, Duke. It is not right.” + +“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.” + +“As if I would tell her! I promise that she shall never know from me. +Is that enough?” + +“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.” + +“Marmaduke!” + +“Not if I were fifty Marmadukes!” + +“Then you will break her heart.” + +“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.” + +“No, not aloud.” + +“Neither aloud or alow. I never proposed to her.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“And is that what you want me to manage for you?” + +“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.” + +“Dont say hard things about her. I think you might have a little +forbearance towards her under the circumstances.” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps there is something that honest men value more than brains.” + +“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—” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Happy-go-lucky Marmaduke. I think if neglect and absence could make +her forget you, you would have been forgotten before this.” + +“Yes. You see you must admit that I gave her no reason to suppose I +meant anything.” + +“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.” + +“Better do as I say. Leave matters alone for the present. But mind! no +speculating on my changing my intentions. I wont marry her.” + +“I wish you hadnt told me about it.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Aha! So _they_ 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.” + +“I was determined to stick up for _you_, Marmaduke.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“And _will_ you, after what you have just confessed?” + +“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.” + +“This evening!” + +“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.” + +“Pray dont talk about it to me, Duke. Here is Constance.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“As a punishment, you shall have no lunch. Mamma is very angry with you +both.” + +“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?” + +Constance replied by singing: + +“Oh yes, if you please, kind sir, she said; sir, she said; sir, she +said; +Oh! yes if you ple—ease, kind sir, she said.” + + +“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. + +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: + +“Well, I beg his pardon. I thought he was another of that woman’s +retainers. I never dreamt of his being her brother.” + +Marian was horror stricken. “You thought—! Oh, Nelly, what puts such +things into your head?” + +“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.” + +“I know you did; but I didnt think you were in earnest.” + +“No, you never can conceive my being in earnest when I differ from you, +until the event proves me to be right.” + +“I am afraid it will kill Constance.” + +“_Dont_, Marian!” cried Elinor, giving her chair a violent swing. + +“I am quite serious. You know how delicate she is.” + +“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?” + +“It seems to me that instead of sympathizing with the unfortunate girl, +both you and Marmaduke exult in her disappointment.” + +“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.” + +“Nonsense, Nelly! Really, you oughtnt to say such things.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“Oh, Nelly!” + +“—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_ 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.” + +“Stop Nelly! Pray stop! If you thought for a moment you would never say +such awful things.” + +“I thought we had agreed long ago that marriage is a mistake.” + +“Yes; but that is very different to what you are saying now.” + +“I cannot see——” + +“Pray stop, Nelly. Dont go on in that strain. It does no good; and it +makes me very uncomfortable.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Good-evening, Miss Lind,” he said respectfully, raising his hat. + +“Good-evening,” said she, trembling. + +“You are not looking quite well.” + +“I have walked too much; and I feel a little tired. That is why I had +to sit down. I shall be rested presently.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“They were very pleasant.” + +He shifted himself into an easier position, looking well pleased. Then +he said, carelessly, “Has Mr. Marmaduke Lind come down?” + +Marian reddened and felt giddy. + +“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.” + +Marian felt the hysteric globe at her throat as she tried to speak; but +she repressed it, and said: + +“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.” + +“Why!” said Conolly, with some indignation, “who has told you since?” + +“Marmaduke,” said Marian, roused to reply quickly by the energy of the +questioner. “He did not mean to be indiscreet: he thought I knew.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What misfortune?” + +Marian lost confidence again, and looked at him in silent distress. + +“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, _would_ you?” + +“You see, Mr. Conolly, I should really never have an opportunity of +doing them.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Aye. And possibly a lady of gentle nurture would not like me.” + +“On the contrary, clever people are so rare in society that I think you +would have a better chance than most men.” + +“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.” + +“You are jesting, Mr. Conolly. I do not believe that your manners give +you the least real concern.” + +“And you think that I may aspire in time—if I am successful in +public—to the hand of a lady?” + +“Surely you know as much of the world as I. Why should you not marry a +lady, if you wish to?” + +“I am afraid class prejudice would be too strong for me, after all.” + +“I dont think so. What hour is it now, Mr. Conolly?” + +“It wants ten minutes of seven.” + +“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.” + +Conolly rose silently and walked with her as far as the path from the +cottage to the laboratory. + +“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.” + +“And are you not coming back—not at all, I mean?” + +“Not at all.” + +“Oh!” said Marian slowly. + +“Good bye, Miss Lind.” + +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. + +Lest they should surprise one another in the act, neither of them +looked back at the other as they went their several ways. + + + + +BOOK II + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +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. + +“Capital. Capital,” said Mr. Lind. “He must give us one.” + +“You dont think that the beard has spoiled him, do you?” said Mrs. +Douglas. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Well, I believe the undertaking to be a commercially sound one; and—” + +“Fancy _you_ talking about commercial soundness!” + +“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.” + +“What is the discovery? I did not quite understand the prospectus.” + +“Well, it is called the Conolly Electro-motor.” + +“Yes, I know that.” + +“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.” + +“I must, indeed. And is it true that Mr. Conolly was a common working +man?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No doubt. Marian interests everybody; and even great discoverers, when +they are young, are only human.” + +“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.” + +“And what is the latest news of the family scamp?” + +“Do you mean my Reginald?” + +“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?” + +“Oh yes. Perfectly true.” + +“The reprobate! And he was always such a pleasant fellow.” + +“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.” + +“Well, _such_ a thing to do! And what happened?” + +“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——” + +“She is full of perversity, and always was.” + +“——and this incident did not damage his credit with _her_. 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“Well, I hardly wonder at his refusing. Of course, he might have known +that the motive of the offer was a kind one.” + +“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.” + +“What a lot of mischief! Dear me!” + +“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.” + +“How does Marmaduke stand with respect to money? I suppose his father +has stopped his allowance.” + +“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.” + +“The young scamp! I wonder he was clever enough to take advantage like +that.” + +“He has shewn no lack of acuteness of late. I suspect he is under +shrewd guidance.” + +“Have you ever seen the—the guidance?” + +“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.” + +“Yes. I think I have noticed them.” + +“And now, Mrs. Douglas, I fear I have paid you a very long visit.” + +“Why dont you come oftener?” + +“I wish I could find time. I have not so much leisure for enjoyment as +I used.” + +“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?” + +“Cordially. Cordially. Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +On the morning of the first Friday in May Marian received this letter: + +“Uxbridge Road, Holland Park, W. + + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“I am, dear Miss Lind, +“Yours sincerely, +“EDWARD CONOLLY. ” + + +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. + +“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.” + +“If I were in your place,” said Elinor, “I——” + +“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.” + +“Why do you do such things?” said Marian. + +“My dear, I _must_. 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 _Fortnightly Naturalist_, 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 _Hari Kari_ 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 _flora_ 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.” + +“How flattered he must feel!” said Elinor. + +“What article had you to write for papa?” said Marian. + +“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 _Dynamic Statistician_ next week. Have you seen Sholto Douglas +since he came back from the continent?” + +“No.” + +“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?” + +“What old quarrel?” + +“I always understood that he went abroad on your account.” + +“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.” + +“Come, come, my dear child! that is all nonsense. You must be kind to +the poor fellow. Perhaps he will be at the Academy.” + +“I hope not,” said Marian, quickly. + +“Why?” + +“I mean if he cherishes any grudge against me; for he will be very +disagreeable.” + +“A grudge against you! Ah, Marian, how little you understand him! What +perverse creatures all you young people are! I must bring about an +_éclaircissement_.” + +“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.” + +“But there is nothing to be _éclairci_,” said Marian. We are talking +nonsense, which is silly——” + +“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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +“What an extraordinary girl!” said Mrs. Fairfax, as Elinor opened her +catalogue at the end, and suddenly disappeared to the right amongst the +crowd. + +“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.” + +“But, my dear, consider the impropriety of a young girl walking about +by herself.” + +“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——” + +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: + +“I have been here half an hour; and I have not seen a single picture.” + +“Nor I,” she said timidly, looking down at her catalogue. “Shall we try +to see some now?” + +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. + +“I think we have done enough for one day,” she said at last. “The +watercolors and the sculpture must wait until next time.” + +“We had better watch for a vacant seat. You must be tired.” + +“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.” + +“Yes. That tall man? He has let his beard grow since.” + +“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.” + +“What happened?” + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“Whichever you please.” + +“Whichever I please!” + +“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.” + +“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: + +“What is your name?” + +“Edward, or, familiarly, Ned. Commonly Ted. In America, Ed. With, of +course, the diminutives Neddy, Teddy, and Eddy.” + +“I think I should prefer Ned.” + +“I prefer Ned myself.” + +“Have you any other name?” + +“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.” + +“Sebastian!” + +“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.” + +There was a pause. Then Marian spoke. + +“Do you intend to make our—our engagement known at once?” + +“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.” + +“I will. I think, as you say, the right course is to tell at once.” + +“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.” + +“We must take Nelly into our confidence. You will not object to that?” + +“Certainly not. I like Miss McQuinch.” + +“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?” + +“Opening day, for instance.” + +“Yes, if you wish.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Agreed. And now, Marian——” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“Marian does not stand on much ceremony with you, Mr. Conolly,” said +Miss McQuinch, glancing at him. + +“No,” said Conolly. “Do you think you could face the Academy again on +Monday at half-past four?” + +“Why?” + +“Miss Lind is coming to meet me here at that hour.” + +“Marian!” + +“Precisely. Marian. She has promised to marry me. At present it is a +secret. But it was to be mentioned to you.” + +“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. + +“Did you overhear us? I should have been more careful. You do not seem +surprised.” + +“Just a little, at your audacity. Not in the least at Marian’s +consenting.” + +“Thank you.” + +“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.” + +“Yes. I hope I deserve it. Do you think you will ever forgive me for +supplanting the hero Marian deserves?” + +“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.” + +“That is an undeserved stab,” said Conolly. + +“Never mind: I am always stabbing people. I suppose I like it,” she +added, as they went together to the vestibule. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Indeed? I was not aware that I had done anything to raise me from +obscurity.” + +“I assure you you are very much mistaken, or else very modest. Has no +one told you about the effect your book produced here?” + +“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.” + +“I mean your ‘Note on three pictures in last year’s _Salon_,’ with the +sonnets, and the fragment from your unfinished drama. Is it finished, +may I ask?” + +“It is not finished. I shall never finish it now.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“If you have no time to think, I envy you. But I am truly sorry that +your health remains so bad.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“And pray, Mrs. Leith Fairfax, what lady has so honored me?” + +“You must know, unless you are blind.” + +“Pardon me. I do not habitually imply what is not the case. I beg you +to believe that I do _not_ know.” + +“Not know! What moles men are! Poor Marian!” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Are you then in Miss Lind’s confidence? Did she ask you to tell me +this?” + +“What do you mean, Mr. Douglas?” + +“I am quite innocent of any desire to shock or offend you, Mrs. Leith +Fairfax. Does your question imply a negative?” + +“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_ would +consent to act as a go-between? Really, Mr. Douglas!” + +“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.” + +“Mistrust! Aversion! I tell you she is in love with you.” + +“But you have not, you admit, her authority for saying so, whereas I +_have_ her authority for the contrary.” + +“You do not understand girls. You are mistaken.” + +“Possibly; but you must pardon me if I hesitate to set aside my own +judgment in deference to your low estimate of it.” + +“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.” + +“No doubt. I trust that when they so humble themselves they may not +encounter a flippant repulse.” + +“If they do, it will spring from her unmerited regard for you.” + +He bowed slightly, and turned away, arranging his gloves as if about to +rise. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Expose myself to another refusal, perhaps?” + +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. + +“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—” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then let us get up and speak to her. Come.” + +“You must excuse me, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I have distinctly given her my +word that I will not intrude upon her again.” + +“Dont be so foolish.” + +Douglas’s face clouded. “You are privileged to say so,” he said. + +“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.” + +He bowed. Then Marian joined them, and Mrs. Fairfax again gave tongue. + +“Where have you been?” she cried. “You vanished from my side like a +sprite. I have been searching for you ever since.” + +“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?” + +“I think we saw her at some distance,” said Douglas. “I have not been +speaking to her.” + +“How did you enjoy yourself while you were away?” + +“As best I could.” + +“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.” + +“It is five minutes to six now, Miss Lind.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Douglas. We had better go, I think.” + +As they left the room, Mrs. Fairfax purposely lingered behind them. + +“Am I right in concluding that you are as frivolous as ever, Marian?” +he said. + +“Quite,” she replied. “To-day especially so. I am very happy to-day.” + +“May I ask why?” + +“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.” + +“Realized here? in the Academy?” + +“It was foreshadowed—promised, at home this morning; but it was +realized here.” + +“Did you know beforehand that I was coming?” + +“Not until to-day. Mrs. Leith Fairfax said that you would most likely +be here.” + +“And you are happy?” + +“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.” + +“And why? Am I not interested in your happiness?” + +“I suppose so. I hope so. But when you learn the truth, you will be +more astonished than gratified.” + +“I dare swear that you are mistaken. Is this dream of yours an affair +of the heart?” + +“Now you are beginning to ask questions.” + +“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.” + +“Well, you were not in a very good humor with me when you went away.” + +“I will forget that if you wish me to.” + +“I do wish you to forget it. And you forgive me?” + +“Most assuredly.” + +“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.” + +“I will call on your father to-morrow morning. May I?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“I will. But I fear I shall tear it up for its unworthiness afterward.” + +“Dont: I am not a critic. Talking of critics, where has Mrs. Leith +Fairfax gone to? Oh, there she is!” + +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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Thank you,” said Douglas. “I trust your people are quite well.” + +“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. + +“Dont roar so, Marmaduke,” said Marian. “Everybody is looking at you.” + +“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.” + +Mrs. Fairfax looked indignantly at him. Elinor looked round anxiously +for Conolly. Marian, struck with the same fear, moved toward the door. + +“Here, Marmaduke,” she said, offering him her hand. “Good-bye. You are +in one of your outrageous humors this afternoon.” + +“What am I doing?” he replied. “I am behaving myself perfectly. Let us +settle about the party before we go.” + +“Good evening, Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, coming up to them with the +umbrellas. “This is yours, I think, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.” + +“Good evening,” said Marmaduke, subsiding. “I——Well, you are all off, +are you?” + +“Quite time for us, I think,” said Elinor. “Good-bye.” + +Mrs. Fairfax, with a second and more distant bow, passed out with +Conolly and Douglas. Elinor waited a moment to whisper to Marmaduke. + +“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. + +“Missus wants to speak to you, sir, afore she goes,” said the man. + +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. + +“How do you propose to go home?” said Douglas. + +“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. + +“I will come with you as far as the club, if you will allow me,” said +Douglas. + +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. + +“Well, Susanna,” said he. “How are you?” + +“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied carelessly, her +eyes filling with tears, nevertheless. + +“I hear that I have been an uncle for some time past.” + +“Yes, on the wrong side of the blanket.” + +“What is its name?” he said more gravely. + +“Lucy.” + +“Is it quite well?” + +“I suppose not. According to Nurse, it is always ill.” + +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!” + +“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.” + +“You have it all your own way at the theatre now, I suppose. You are +quite famous.” + +“Yes,” she said, bitterly. “We are both celebrities. Rather different +from old times.” + +“We certainly used to get more kicks than halfpence. However, let us +hope all that is over now.” + +“Who were those women who were with you a minute ago?” + +“Cousins of Lind. Miss Marian Lind and Miss McQuinch.” + +“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?” + +“I intend to do so.” + +“The Lord help her then!” + +“Amen. Good-bye.” + +“Oh, good-bye. Go on to Soho,” she added, to the coachman, settling +herself fretfully on the cushions. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +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. + +“I should like to have a few words with you first, as we are alone +here,” said Douglas. + +“Certainly,” said Mr. Lind, assuming a mild dignity in anticipation of +being appealed to as a parent. “Certainly, Sholto.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“We shall not be very far asunder, I hope; and it is in Marian’s nature +to form many ties, but to break none.” + +“She is an amiable girl, my—my darling child. Does she know anything of +this?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You will, nevertheless, allow me to consider the conditions as +settled, since I leave them entirely in your hands.” + +“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.” + +“Surely I can give her enough. I should prefer to be solely responsible +for her welfare.” + +“Oh no. That would be too bad. Oh no, Sholto: I will give her +something, please God.” + +“As you wish, Mr. Lind. We can arrange it to your satisfaction +afterward. Do you intend returning to Westbourne Terrace soon?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Good evening, Mr. Lind. How do you do, Mr. Douglas?” + +“Oh!” said Mr. Lind. “You two are acquainted. I did not know that.” + +“Yes,” said Conolly, “I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Douglas at the +Academy yesterday evening.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“What!” said Douglas, incredulously. “Does not all trustworthy evidence +prove that flying is a dream?” + +“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.” + +“Very wonderful, indeed,” said Douglas, politely, looking askance at +him. + +“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.” + +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. + +“He is a Yankee, I suppose,’” said Douglas, as if ingenuity were a low +habit that must be tolerated in an American. + +“Yes. They are a wonderful people for that sort of thing. Curious turn +of mind the mechanical instinct is!” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Marian is looking for some music. She will be back directly.” + +He sat down and took an album from the table, saying: “Have you many +new faces here?” + +“Yes. But we never discard old faces for new ones. It is the old ones +that are really interesting.” + +“I have not seen this one of Mr. Lind before. It is capital. Ah! this +of you is an old friend.” + +“Yes. What do you think of the one of Constance on the opposite page?” + +“She looks as if she were trying to be as lugubrious as possible. What +dress is that? Is it a uniform?” + +“Yes. She joined a nursing guild. Didnt Mrs. Douglas tell you?” + +“I believe so. I forgot. She went into a cottage hospital or something +of that kind, did she not?” + +“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.” + +“Indeed! Where is she now?” + +“Back at Towers Cottage, moping, I suppose. That’s Mr. Conolly the +inventor, there under Jasper.” + +“So I perceive. Clever head, rather! A plain, hard nature, with no +depths in it. Is that his wife, with the Swiss bonnet?” + +“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.” + +“I thought men of his stamp always married early.” + +“No. He is engaged, and engaged to a lady of very good position.” + +“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?” + +“Last August, at Geneva. She does not like it—thinks it too +coquettish.” + +“Then perhaps she will give it to me.” + +“She will be only too glad, I daresay. You have caught her at a soft +moment to-night.” + +“I cannot find that duet anywhere,” said Marian, entering. “What! up +already, Sholto? Where is papa?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Thank you,” said Douglas, drawing it from the book. + +“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?” + +“Pshaw! No. I must have been a young fool. But it seems that I had the +grace even then to desire your sympathy.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Oh, the sofa! I looked only in the green case.” + +“I will go and hunt it out myself. Excuse me for a few minutes.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“We need not crowd ourselves with the table,” he said. “There will be +light enough. We only want to talk.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“Marian,” said he, after a pause: “you remember what passed between us +at the Academy yesterday?” + +“You mean our solemn league and covenant. Yes.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“That was not my fault, Marian.” + +“Then it must have been mine. However, it does not matter now.” + +“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?” + +“It was to see the electro-motor in the city, was it not?” + +“Good Heavens, Marian!” he said, rising, “what spirit of woman or +spirit of mischief tempts you to coquet with me even now?” + +“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.” + +“Marian!” he said, still remonstrantly. + +She looked at him with sudden dread, and instinctively recognized the +expression in his face. + +“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?” + +“Stop! Wait,” said Marian, very pale. “I must tell you that secret +myself.” + +“Hush. Do not be so moved. Remember that your confession is to be +whispered to me alone.” + +“Dont talk like that. It is all a mistake. My secret has nothing to do +with you.” Douglas drew back a little way. + +“I am engaged to be married.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“You are engaged to _me_,” he said. + +“I am not,” she replied. + +“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.” + +“Sholto,” said Marian, her cheeks beginning to redden: “you should not +speak to me like that.” + +“I say,” he cried fiercely, “that it is a lie!” + +“Whats the matter?” said Elinor, coming hastily into the room. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Gently, pray,” said he. “You can be heard all through the house. +Marian: what is the matter?” + +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.” + +“That is utterly false,” interrupted Marian, with excitement. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You need fear none from me,” said Douglas. “I do not propose to +continue my acquaintance with Miss Lind.” + +“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.” + +“Gently, Marian, gently. What am I to believe about this?” + +“What I have told you,” said Douglas, “I confirm _on my honor_, which +you can weigh against the pretences of a twice perjured woman.” + +“Sholto!” + +“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.” + +“If it is a secret, and you are a gentleman, you will hold your +tongue,” interposed Elinor, sharply. + +“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.” + +“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—” + +“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.” + +“You are already in the position of Mr. Conolly’s unsuccessful rival; +and you fill it with a very bad grace,” said Elinor. + +“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.” + +Marian flushed, and repressed a sob. “I wish I were under _his_ +protection now,” she said, looking reproachfully at Douglas as she +crossed the room. + +“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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“Mr. Lind, who has so suddenly and deservedly descended from ‘papa’ to +‘my father,’ judiciously sided with the stronger and richer party.” + +“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.” + +“Bosh! You didnt tell him because you knew you couldnt trust him; and +now you see how right you were.” + +“Even so, Nelly, I must not forget all his past care of me.” + +“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_ might have been _my_ 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!” + +“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.” + +“Any stranger would have taken your part. The footman would, if you had +asked him. But then, James is not your father.” + +“It seems a very small thing to be bidden to leave the room. But I will +never expose myself to a repetition of it.” + +“Quite right. But what do you mean to do? for, after all, though +parental love is an imposition, parental authority is a fact.” + +“I will get married.” + +“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.” + +“Ned must find out all that. I am sadly disappointed and disilluded, +Nelly.” + +“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?” + +“I dont know.” + +“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.” + +“Oh! she is not capable of doing such a thing.” + +“Isnt she? We shall see.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Very well. To bed be it,” said Marian. But she did not sleep at all as +well as Nelly. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +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: + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I told you to ask him to come here,” said Mr. Lind. + +“Well, thats what he said, sir,” said the clerk, speaking in official +Board School English. “Shloy gow to him and tell him again?” + +“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. + +“Ow, oy sy!” cried the clerk. “This is fawn, this is.” + +“Wots the row?” said another clerk. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Conolly remained politely attentive, but said nothing. Mr. Lind began +to feel very angry, but this helped him to the point. + +“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.” + +“Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, decisively: “your daughter is engaged to me.” + +Mr. Lind lost his temper, and rose, exclaiming, “I beg you will not +repeat that, either here or elsewhere.” + +“Pray be seated,” said Conolly courteously. + +“I have nothing more to say, sir.” + +Conolly rose, as though the interview were at an end, and seemed to +wait for his visitor to go. + +“We understand one another, I presume,” said Mr. Lind, dubiously. + +“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.” + +Mr. Lind sat down, and said with condescension, “I am quite willing to +listen to you.” + +“Thank you,” said Conolly. “Will you tell me what your objections are +to my engagement with your daughter?” + +“I had hoped, sir, that your common sense and knowledge of the world +would have rendered an explanation superfluous.” + +“They havnt,” said Conolly. + +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.” + +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: + +“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?” + +“I am quite aware of my daughter’s personal advantages. They are +additional reasons against her contracting an imprudent marriage.” + +“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.” + +“In fact, you are conferring a great honor on my family by +condescending to marry into it?” + +“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.” + +“What do you mean by an inevitable fact, sir?” + +“My marriage, of course. I assure you that it will take place.” + +“But I shall not permit it to take place. Do you think to ignore me in +the matter?” + +“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. + +“Do you know to whom you are speaking?” said Mr. Lind, driven by rage +and a growing fear of defeat into desperate self-assertion. + +“I am speaking,” said Conolly with a smile, “to my future +father-in-law.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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——” + +“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.” + +“You will bind yourself to do that?” + +“I cannot help myself. I have no more power to make her marry me than +you have to prevent her.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Radicalism is not considered a reproach amongst workmen,” said +Conolly. + +“I shall not fail to let her know the confidence with which you boast +of your power over her.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“I have considered it carefully, Mr. Lind; and I am satisfied with what +she possesses in her own right.” + +“Oh! You have ascertained _that_, have you?” + +“I should hardly have proposed to marry her but for her entire +pecuniary independence of me.” + +“Indeed. And have you explained to her that you wish to marry her for +the sake of securing her income?” + +“I have explained to her everything she ought to know, taking care, of +course, to have full credit for my frankness.” + +Mr. Lind, after regarding him with amazement for a moment, walked to +the door. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“The Conolly Electro-Motor Company of London, Limited. Queen Victoria +Street, E.C. + “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.” + + +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. + +“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.” + +“I wish I were not so nervous,” said Marian. “I am not really afraid, +but for all that, my heart is beating very unpleasantly.” + +“I wish I were in your place,” said Elinor. “I feel like a charger at +the sound of the trumpet.” + +“I am glad, for poor papa’s sake, that you are not,” said Marian, going +out. + +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. + +“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.” + +“You are mistaken in him, papa.” + +“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——” + +“I do not want to hear _anything_ about Sholto Douglas,” said Marian, +rising. + +“I expect you, Marian, to listen to what I have to say.” + +“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.” + +“Angry! I am sorry to hear you say so to me.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Of course, he would not marry me if I did not wish it.” + +“But he is willing that you should withdraw. He leaves you quite free.” + +“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.” + +“What!” said Mr. Lind, rising also. + +“Dont let us quarrel, papa,” said Marian, appealingly. “Why may I not +marry whom I please?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What _is_ a gentleman, papa?” + +“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.” + +“I only wish to do what is right. Surely there is no harm in arguing +when one is not convinced.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Do you mean that you refuse to obey me?” + +“I cannot obey you in this matter, papa. I—” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Certainly I mean it. Where shall we go, Nelly?” + +“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.” + +“Yes, that will do. Are you ready to come now?” + +“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?” + +“I have the housekeeping money; but that, of course, I shall not take. +I have thirty pounds of my own.” + +“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.” + +“Ridiculous! It will last longer than that. Oh!” + +“Well?” + +“We mustnt go, after all. I forgot _you_.” + +“What of me?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I am sure Ned will not object to your continuing with me, if I ask +him.” + +“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.” + +“Hush,” said Marian, who was standing near the window. “Here is George, +with a face full of importance.” + +“Uncle Reginald has written to him,” said Elinor. + +“Then the sooner we go, the better,” said Marian. + +“I do not care to have the whole argument over again with George.” + +As they passed through the hall on their way out they met the +clergyman. + +“Well, George,” said Elinor, “how are the heathen getting on in +Belgravia? You look lively.” + +“Are you going out, Marian,” he said, solemnly, disregarding his +cousin’s banter. + +“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?” + +“Certainly. I may want to speak to you before I go, Marian. When will +you return?” + +“I do not know. Probably we shall not be long. You will have plenty of +opportunities, in any case.” + +“Will you walk into the study, please, sir,” said the parlormaid. + +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. + +“Has your father spoken to you about an interview he had with me this +morning?” said Conolly, good-naturedly helping him out. + +“Yes. That, in fact, is one of the causes of my visit.” + +“What does he say?” + +“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.” + +“It does not matter. I can quite understand his feeling.” + +“It does matter—pardon me. We should be sorry to appear wanting in +consideration for you.” + +“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.” + +“But I assure you our only desire is to arrange everything in a +friendly spirit.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I cannot think you quite mean that, Mr. Conolly.” + +“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?” + +“Not wrong. I do not say for a moment that you are wrong. I——” + +“Mistaken. Ill-advised. Any term you like.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“Indeed, you quite mistake. I have no such feeling. We are willing to +treat you with every possible consideration.” + +“Then why object?” + +“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.” + +“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 _Reynold’s +Newspaper_. 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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Stay, Mr. Conolly! You show how little you understand the only true +significance——” + +“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.” + +“Pardon me, sir. He is a true gentleman.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“N—no. Oh, no. It does not matter.” + +“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 _are_ any others.” + +The clergyman received this challenge in silence. Then, after clearing +his throat uneasily twice, he said: + +“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.” + +“What circumstance is that?” + +“A circumstance connected with Mr. Marmaduke Lind, whom you mentioned +just now. You understand me, I presume?” + +“Oh! you have found that out?” + +“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.” + +“What do you suppose will be the result of that?” + +“I leave you to imagine,” said the clergyman indignantly, rising. + +“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?” + +“But surely—That is not very likely.” + +“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.” + +“I! When?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“That is hardly fair. I have heard you, and am willing to hear more, if +you have anything new to urge.” + +“You have certainly listened to my voice, Mr. Conolly. But I fear I +have used it to very little purpose.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Well, well,” said Conolly, kindly, rising as his visitor +disconsolately prepared to go, “you can try. _I_ got on by dint of +dogged faith in myself.” + +“And I get on by lowly faith in my Master. I would I could imbue you +with the same feeling!” + +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.” + +“Thank you, no. Not at all. Good-night,” said the clergyman, quickly, +and hastened away through the rain from Conolly’s civilities. + +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. + +“Master is in the drawing-room, sir, with Miss McQuinch,” she said, +meaning, evidently, “Look out for squalls.” + +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. + +“George,” said Mr. Lind, “close the door. Do you know the latest news?” + +“No.” + +“Marian has run away!” + +“Run away!” + +“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.” + +“With—?” + +“With _me_, in short.” + +“And you have counselled her to take this fatal step?” + +“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.” + +“Is this a time to display your bitter and flippant humor?” said the +Rev. George, indignantly. “I think the spectacle of a wrecked home—” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But, Uncle Reginald,” began Elinor, in a softer tone than before, +whilst the clergyman stood in doubt— + +“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.” + +Elinor looked at him as if she despaired of his reason. Then, seeing +her cousin slowly going to the door, she said: + +“You dont really mean to go on such a fool’s errand to Marian, George?” + +“Elinor!” cried Mr. Lind. + +“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 _me_ now; and I will tell her so, too, if I see any sign of her +letting herself be bullied.” + +“I fear Marian will not pay much heed to what I say to her,” said the +clergyman. + +“If you are coming,” said Elinor, “you had better come in my cab. +Good-night, Uncle Reginald.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“If she is resolved to quarrel with me, I cannot help it,” said Mr. +Lind, pettishly. + +“You know very well that she is the last person on earth to quarrel +with anyone.” + +“She has been indulged in every way. This is the first time she has +been asked to sacrifice her own wishes.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“So now she has nobody to turn to in the world except him. That is +sensible. Come, cousin George! I am off.” + +“I do not think I should do any good by going,” said the clergyman. + +“Then stay where you are,” said Elinor. “Good-night.” And she abruptly +left the room. + +“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 _he_ say?” + +“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.” + +“We cannot prevent it.” + +“Oh, surely we——” + +“I tell you we _cannot_ 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.” + +The clergyman stood by, cowed, and said nothing. + +“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, _she_ must be persuaded to leave +Marmaduke. Offer her money. Women of that sort drive a hard bargain; +but they have their price.” + +“But, sir, consider my profession. How can I go to drive a bargain with +a woman of evil reputation?” + +“Well, I must go myself, I suppose.” + +“Oh, no. I will go. Only I thought I would mention it.” + +“A clergyman can go anywhere. You are privileged. Come to breakfast in +the morning: we can talk over matters then.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +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 _pierrot_, 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. + +“Laurel Grove West Kensington +“Wednesday + + +“Dear Mr. George + “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. + “Believe me Dear Mr. George + + +“Yours sincerely +Lalage Virtue.” + + +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. + +“What room is this?” he asked, uneasily. + +“Missus’s Purjin bodoor, sir,” replied the main. + +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. + +“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.” + +“It seems a very magnificent dress, certainly,” said the clergyman, +nervously. + +“Thank you for the compliment——” + +“No, no,” said he, hastily. “I had no such intention.” + +“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?” + +“In what sense, may I ask?” + +“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.” + +“I really do not know, Madam. I am not an Orientalist; and my studies +take a widely different direction from yours.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I have come here,” he said, “to have a very serious conversation with +you.” + +“All right, Doctor. Fire away.” + +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.” + +“Of Ned?” said Susanna, frowning a little. “No. What should I know +about him?” + +“He is, I believe, about to be married.” + +“No!” screamed Susanna, throwing herself back, and making her bangles +and ornaments clatter. “Get out, Doctor. You dont mean it.” + +“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.” + +“Why? Who is he going to marry?” + +“Ahem! He has succeeded in engaging the affections of my sister.” + +“What! Your sister? Marian Lind?” + +“Yes.” + +Susanna uttered a long whistle, and then, with a conviction and +simplicity which prevented even the Rev. George from being shocked, +said: “Well, I _am_ 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?” + +“I do not know why you should suppose so. We have had no hand in the +matter. My sister has followed her own inclinations.” + +“Indeed! Let me tell you, young man, that your sister might have gone +farther and fared worse.” + +“Doubtless. However, you will see now how impossible it is that you +should remain in your present—that you should continue here, in fact.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“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.” + +“Why not?” + +“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.” + +“Just so, Doctor. You dont mind the sin; but when it comes to a +scandal——!” + +“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——” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Will it? I dont see it, Doctor. You think it will profit _you_: thats +plain enough. But it wont profit me; it wont profit Bob; and it wont by +any means profit the child.” + +“Not immediately, perhaps, in a worldly sense——” + +“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?” + +“I do not understand.” + +“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 _me_ to give up my establishment just to +keep her family in countenance.” + +“She knows nothing of my visit, I assure you.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“What is that to me? He doesnt want me to go and live with him, does +he?” + +“You quite misunderstand me. No such idea ever entered——” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I hope I have not offended you?” + +“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 _my_ income as our +separation will deprive _him_ 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.” + +“I thought Marmaduke had nearly a thousand a year, independently of his +father.” + +“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 _my_ 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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“But, my dear madam, consider the disgrace at present!” + +“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?” + +“Surely you do not suppose that she will dispense with the sacrament of +marriage before casting in her lot with your brother!” + +“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_ 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_ 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.” + +“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—” + +“Sh! Mademoiselle Lalage Virtue, if you please. Or you may call me +Susanna, if you like, since we are as good as related.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Thank you, no.” + +“Dont you drink at all?” + +“No.” + +“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?” + +“I must go,” said the Rev. George, rising, after hastily pretending to +look at his watch. “Will you excuse me?” + +“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. _Do_ stay.” + +“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. + +“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: + +“George: I’m astonished at you. I have not much opinion of parsons as a +rule; but I really did think that _you_ were to be depended on.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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: + +‘Poor odalisques in captive thrall +Must never let their charms pall: + If they get the sack + They ne’er come back; +For the Bosphorus is the boss for all +In this harem, harem, harem, harem, harum scarum place.’ + + +Intellectual, isnt it?” + +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. + +“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. + +“Marmaduke,” said the clergyman: “you are travelling as fast as you can +along the road to Hell.” + +As he hurried away, Marmaduke leaned against the gate and made the +villas opposite echo his laughter. + +“On my soul, it’s a shame,” said he, when he returned to the house. +“Poor old George!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Let him,” said Susanna. “He can tell them how little I care for their +opinion, anyhow.” + +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. + +“I have been to that woman,” said the clergyman. + +“Well, what does she say?” + +“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.” + +“No doubt; but apart from her personal charms, about which I am not +curious, is she willing to assist us?” + +“No. I could make no impression on her at all.” + +“Well, it cannot be helped. Did you say anything about Conolly’s +selling his interest here and leaving the country?” + +“No,” said the clergyman, struck with a sense of remissness. “I forgot +that. The fact is, I hardly had the oppor——” + +“Never mind. It is just as well that you did not: it might have made +mischief.” + +“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.” + +“May I ask,” said Mr. Lind, turning on him suddenly, “what objection +you have to Marian’s wishes being consulted in this matter?” + +The Rev. George recoiled, speechless. + +“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 _Court +Journal_ has a paragraph this week alluding to it with quite good +taste. Conolly is a very remarkable man; and, as the _Court Journal_ +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.” + +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?” + +“Why not, pray?” + +“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.” + +“Very good. Do not let me detain you. Good-bye.” + +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. + +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: + +“Dearly beloved Brethren: In the twenty-third verse of the third +chapter of St. Mark’s gospel, we find this question: ‘_How can Satan +cast out Satan_?’ 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. + +“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. + +“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, +‘_What went ye out for to see_?’ 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. + +“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! ‘_For though +thou wash thee with nitre and take thee much soap, yet thine iniquity +is marked before me, saith the Lord God_.’ 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. ‘_Can a maid forget her +ornaments, or a bride her attire? Yet my people have forgotten me days +without number, saith the Lord God_.’ 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? + +“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 ‘_Thou art full of +stirs, a joyous city: thy slain men are not slain with the sword, nor +dead in battle_.’ 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? + +“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.” + + + + +BOOK III + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +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. + +“How do you do?” she said. + +“Thank you: I am fairly well. You are quite well, I hope?” + +“I am in rude health. I hardly knew you at first.” + +“Am I altered?” + +“You are growing stout.” + +“Indeed? Time has not been so bounteous to me as to you.” + +“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. + +“No, no. You know I do not. I meant that you have achieved the +impossible—altered for the better.” + +“I am glad you think so. I cling to my good looks desperately now that +I am growing matronly. How is Mrs. Douglas?” + +“She is quite well, thank you. Mr. Conolly is, I trust—” + +“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.” + +“Oh! You mean that he is here in the gardens.” + +“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.” + +“That is it on our right. May I go through it with you?” + +“Just as you please.” + +“Thank you. It is a long time since we last met, is it not?” + +“More than a year. Fifteen months. I have not seen you since I was +married.” + +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.” + +“I had exactly the same doubt about you.” + +“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.” + +“Dont you think we had better not begin that. I generally repeat my +conversations to Ned. Not that he will mind, if you dont.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +“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!” + +“In a warm bath?” + +“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.” + +“Delightful! especially for me. I think we had better go and look for +Ned.” + +“Were I in his place I would not be absent from your side now—or ever.” + +“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.” + +“He is the only man I have ever stooped to envy.” + +“You have reason to,” said Marian, suddenly grave. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“To wit?” + +“That only as such could I win the woman I loved.” + +“Oh, you would not think so much of an insignificant factor like love +if you were Ned.” + +“May I ask, do you, too, think of love as ‘an insignificant factor’?” + +“I? Oh, I am not a sociologist. Besides, I have never been in love.” + +“What! You have never been in love?” + +“Not the real, romantic, burning, suicidal love your sonnets used to +breathe.” + +“Then you do not know what love is.” + +“Do you?” + +“You should know whether I do or not.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps so.” + +“In any case, you will be able to boast of having inspired the +passion.” + +“I hope so—at least, I mean that it is all nonsense. Do look at that +vegetable lobster of a thing, that cactus.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“Not toward you, on my honor.” + +“I did not mean that: I meant toward yourself.” + +“I am glad you have taken even that slender note of me. I find you +somewhat changed, too.” + +“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.” + +“The change in me has not produced that effect. I feel as though Marian +Lind were the history of my life.” + +“You have become quite a master of the art of saying pretty things. You +are nearly as glib at it as Ned.” + +“We have the same incentive to admiration.” + +“The same! You do not suppose that Ned pays _me_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“Seriously, do you think, if I made a raid on Manchester Square some +morning, I could coax back her old feeling for me?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“If you command me not to——” + +“I do command you.” + +“I must obey. But I fear that the more submissive I am, the more +imperious you will become.” + +“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.” + +“He is looking back at somebody now, as if he had missed the number.” + +“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.” + +“And has just remarked that there is a man talking to his wife.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Glad to see you, Mr. Douglas. We have been away all the winter. Are +you staying in London?” + +“Yes.” + +“I hope you will spend an occasional hour with us at Holland Park.” + +“You are very kind. Thank you: yes, if Mrs. Conolly will permit me.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh! let us fly. If we miss it, Nelly will be kept waiting half an +hour.” + +Then they parted, Douglas promising to come to them on that day week. + +“Dont you think he is growing very fat?” said she, as they walked away. + +“Yes. He is beginning to take the world easily. He does not seem to be +making much of his life.” + +“What matter, so long as he enjoys it?” + +“Pooh! He doesnt know what enjoyment means.” + +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. + +“Ned,” said she, suddenly. + +“My dear.” + +“Do you know that Sholto is more infatuated about me than ever?” + +“Naturally. You are lovelier than when he last saw you.” + +“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.” + +“No doubt you did. What station is this?” + +“I dont know.” Then, raising her voice so as to be overheard, she +exclaimed “Here is a stupid man coming into our carriage.” + +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. + +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. + +“Let me take your arm, Ned: I cannot keep up with you.” + +“Certainly.” + +“I hope I am not inconveniencing you,” she said, after a further +interval of silence. + +“Hm—no.” + +“I am afraid I am. It does not matter. I can get on by myself.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Oh! _Indeed_ I have not been in a bad temper. I have been most anxious +to spend a happy day.” + +“And I have been placidly reflective, and not anxious at all. Is that +what has provoked you?” + +“I am not provoked. But you might tell me what your reflections are +about.” + +“They would fill volumes, if I could recollect them.” + +“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?” + +“I forget.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“A pleasant subject for a fine Sunday! Thank you. I dont want to hear +any more.” + +“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.” + +“Why?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Lots of people bring ink on a doorstep. Tax collectors and gasmen +carry bottles in their pockets.” + +“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.” + +“Now, Ned, you know that you are talking utter nonsense.” + +“Yes, my dear. I think I perceive Nelly looking out of the window for +us. Here she is at the door.” + +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. + +“_You_ 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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I like this house. It is exactly my idea of a comfortable modern +home.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“We have a nice view of the sunset from here,” said Marian, in a low +voice, turning her forehead to the cool evening breeze. + +“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!” + +“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_ can gratify.” + +“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?” + +“I cannot. I hardly ever touch the piano when he is in the house.” + +“Why? Are you afraid of preventing him from having his turn?” + +“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.” + +“Are you sure that is not merely your fancy? It sounds very like it.” + +“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.” + +“Oh Lord! Yes, I remember. ‘Believe me if all,’ with variations.” + +“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 _entr’acte_ 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.” + +“Dear me! Why doesnt he get Rubinstein to play with him, since he is so +remarkably fastidious?” + +“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.” + +“A nice sort of man to be married to!” + +“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 _him_ +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_ 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.” + +“And do you never sing when you go out, as you used to?” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps he sees the effect his presence has on you.” + +“Even so, he ought to stay. He used to like _me_ to listen to _him_, at +first.” + +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?” + +“I dont know.” + +“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.” + +“Quarrel! He quarrel! I cannot explain to you how we are situated, +Nelly. You would not understand me.” + +“Suppose you try. For instance, is he as fond of you as he was before +you married him?” + +“I dont know.” + +Miss McQuinch shrugged herself impatiently. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, my dear, you see, when he tried the other plan, you did not like +that either. What is the unfortunate man to do?” + +“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.” + +“This is all pretty dismal, Marian. What sort of conduct on his part +would make you happy?” + +“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. _Her_ husband would be nothing without her.” + +“I am afraid I was right all along, Marian. Marriage _is_ a mistake. +There is something radically wrong in the institution. If you and Ned +cannot be happy, no pair in the world can.” + +“We might be very happy if——” Marian stopped to repress a sob. + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“I saw Marmaduke last week. He is not half so jolly as he was.” + +“He lives in chambers in Westminster now, and only comes out in this +direction occasionally to see Lucy. I am afraid _she_ 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.” + +“Does your—your Ned ever speak of her?” + +“No. He used to, before he changed as I described. Now, he never +mentions her. Hush! Here he is.” + +The sound of the organ had ceased; and Conolly came out and stood +between them. + +“How do you like my consoler, as Marian calls it?” said he. + +“Do you mean the organ?” + +“Yes.” + +“I wasn’t listening to you.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Probably,” said Conolly. + +“I do not think you should play so much on Sunday,” said Marian. + +“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.” + +“Pray do not begin to talk about religion, Ned.” + +“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.” + +“What do you mean by ‘_even_ Marian’?” said Elinor, sharply. + +“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.” + +“No,” said Elinor. “As far as I can judge from her account, you are a +monotonously amiable husband.” + +“Indeed! Hm! Would you like your coffee out here?” + +“Yes.” + +“Do not stir, Marian: I will ring for it.” + +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.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +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. + +“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.” + +“What! Has she gone?” said Douglas. + +“Why?” said Mrs. Douglas. “Did you know she was coming?” + +“She mentioned to me that she intended to come,” he replied, +carelessly; “but she bade me not to tell you.” + +“That accounts for your two visits. Well, Sholto, I do not blame you +for spending your time in gayer places than this.” + +“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.” + +“I did not expect to see her; and I told her so.” + +“Mother!” + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Douglas, gloomily. “She has a wonderful face.” + +“The less you see of her face, the better, Sholto. I hope you will not +go to her house too often.” + +“Do you doubt my discretion, mother?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“No, thank you, Sholto. I thought you would have stayed with me for a +cup of tea.” + +“Thank you, dear mother, no: not to-day. I promised to be at the club.” + +“If you promised, of course, you must go. Good-bye. You will come again +soon, will you not?” + +“Some day next week, if not sooner. Good-bye, mother.” + +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. + +At Hyde Park Corner, Douglas heard his name unceremoniously shouted. +Turning, he saw Marmaduke Lind, carelessly dressed, walking a little +behind him. + +“Where are you going to?” said Marmaduke, abruptly. + +“Why do you ask?” said Douglas, never disposed to admit the right of +another to question him. + +“I want to have a talk with you. Come and lunch somewhere, will you?” + +“Yes, if you wish.” + +“Let’s go to the South Kensington Museum.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Well, as you please. I have not been to the Museum for years.” + +“All right. Come al——oh, damn! There’s Lady Carbury and Constance +coming out of the Park. Dont look at them. Come on.” + +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. + +“Mamma,” she said, “there’s Marmaduke and Sholto Douglas.” + +“Where???” said the Countess, lifting her head quickly. “Josephs, drive +slowly. Where are they, Constance?” + +“They are going away. I believe Marmaduke saw us. There he is, passing +the hospital.” + +“We must go and speak to them. Look pleasant, child; and dont make a +fool of yourself.” + +“Surely youll not speak to him, mamma! You dont expect me——” + +“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.” + +“I say,” said Marmaduke, finding himself out-manoeuvred: “come back. +There they are right ahead, confound them. What are they up to?” + +“It cannot be helped,” said Douglas. “There is no escape. You must not +cross: it would be pointedly rude.” + +Marmaduke went on grumbling. When he attempted to pass, the Countess +called his name, and greeted him with smiles. + +“We want to know how your father is,” she said. “We have had such +alarming accounts of him. I hope he is better.” + +“They havnt told me much about him,” said Marmaduke. “There was deuced +little the matter with the governor when I saw him last.” + +“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.” + +“You never asked me to go and see you.” + +“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?” + +“No. I cant stand the Bishop. Besides, I have taken to dining in the +middle of the day.” + +“Come after dinner, then?” + +“Mamma,” said Constance, peevishly, “can’t you see that he does not +want to come at all? What is the use of persecuting him?” + +“No, I assure you,” said Marmaduke. “It’s only the Bishop I object to. +I’ll come after dinner, if I can.” + +“And pray what is likely to prevent you?” said the Countess. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Thank you: I’d rather walk. A man should have gloves and a proper hat +for your sort of travelling.” + +“Nonsense! you look very nice. Besides, it is only down the Brompton +Road.” + +“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 _her_,”—indicating Constance, who +was conversing with Douglas. + +“You are incorrigible: I give you up. Good-bye, and dont forget +to-morrow evening.” + +“I wonder,” said Marmaduke, as the carriage drove off, “what she’s +saying about me to Constance now.” + +“That you are the rudest man in London, perhaps.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“You were good enough to ask my advice about something,” said Douglas. +“What is the matter?” + +“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.” + +“I did not know that you had been living at home. I thought your father +and you were on the usual terms.” + +“My father! Look here: I mean home—_my_ home. My place at Hammersmith, +not down at the governor’s.” + +“Oh! I beg your pardon.” + +“Of course, you know all about my establishment there with Lalage +Virtue? her real name is Susanna Conolly.” + +“Is it true, then, that she is a cousin of Marian’s husband?” + +“Cousin! She’s his sister, and Marian’s sister-in-law.” + +“I never believed it.” + +“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 +_would_ 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.” + +“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?” + +“So I would, only for the child. I _have_ 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 _me_ 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. _Her_ 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.” + +“I hardly understand your hesitation, Lind. You can take the little +girl out of her hands; allow her something; and be quit of her.” + +“Thats very easy to say; but I cant drag her child away from her if she +insists on keeping it.” + +“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.” + +“No, no,” said Marmaduke, impatiently. “You dont understand. Youre +talking as if I were a rake living with a loose woman.” + +Douglas looked at him doubtfully. “I confess I do not understand,” he +said. “Perhaps you will be good enough to explain.” + +“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.” + +“She must certainly be a very extraordinary woman if she refused to +marry you. Are you sure she is not married already?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Do you mean to say that she knew?” + +“Of course she did. Conolly told her, fairly enough. He’s an +extraordinary card, that fellow.” + +“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 _cousin_ that you were with.” + +“Uncle Rej. is an old liar. So are most of the family: I never believe +a word they say.” + +“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.” + +“I expect youre about right. She wants me to meet her here to-day at +half past three. Thats the reason I came.” + +“Do you know that it now wants twenty minutes of four?” + +“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.” + +“I should be in the way at present.” + +“Then good-bye.” + +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. + +“Here I am,” said Constance to him, playfully. + +“So I see,” said Marmaduke, recognizing her with rueful astonishment. +“You knew I was looking for you, did you?” + +“Of course I did, sir.” + +“Youre clever, so you are. What are you doing here?” + +“Dont you see? I am copying a picture.” + +“Oh! it’s very pretty. Which one are you copying?” + +“What an impertinent question! You can tell my poor copy well enough, +only you pretend not to.” + +“Yes, now that I look closely at it, I fancy it’s a little like Mary +the maid of the inn there.” + +“It’s not Mary: it’s Maria—Sterne’s Maria.” + +“Indeed! Do you read Sterne?” + +“Certainly not,” said Constance, looking very serious. + +“Then what do you paint his Maria for? How do you know whether she is a +fit subject for you?” + +“Hush, sir! You must not interrupt my work.” + +“I suppose you have lots of fun here over your art studies, eh?” + +“Who?” + +“You, and all the other girls here.” + +“Oh, I am sure I dont know any of them.” + +“Quite right, too, your ladyship. Dont make yourself cheap. I hope none +of the low beggars ever have the audacity to speak to you.” + +“I dont know anything about them,” said Lady Constance, pettishly. “All +I mean is that they are strangers to me.” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“Who is that girl?” said Susanna, as they went out. + +“That’s Lady Constance, whom I was to have married.” + +“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.” + +“She is a little fool.” + +“She will not be such a little fool as to try to snub me again, I +think. Bob: did you get my letter?” + +“Of course I got it, or I shouldnt be here.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, I dont believe a word of it.” + +“That’s plain speaking.” + +“There is no use mincing matters. You are just as likely to stop +drinking as you are to stop breathing.” + +“Perhaps I shall stop breathing before long.” + +“Very likely, at your present rate.” + +“That will be a relief to you.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes. Of course, _you_ are the aggrieved party. Where’s Lucy?” + +“I dont know, and I dont care.” + +“Well, I want to know; and I do care. Is she at home?” + +“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.” + +“She is better there than with you. What harm has she done you that you +should talk about her in that way?” + +“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.” + +“What did you do to her for saying it?” + +“Dont lose your temper. I didnt strangle her, nor even box her ears. +Why should I? She only repeats what you teach her.” + +“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.” + +Susanna sat down on a bench, and looked down at her feet. After a few +moments, she tightened her lips; rose; and walked away. + +“Hallo! Where are you going to?” said Marmaduke, following her. + +“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.” + +“No, you shant,” said Marmaduke, seizing her arm, and forcibly stopping +her. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I have a good mind to do it.” + +“Well, _do_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“What good is the house to me?” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“Thats all nonsense, Susanna. You must.” + +“Must I? Do you think you can make me take your money as you made me +sit down here? by force!” + +“I only offer you what I owe you. Those debts——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I shall not trouble you long.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But——” + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +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. + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +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: + +Now Ready, a New and Cheaper Edition, crown 8vo, 5s. + + +THE WATERS OF MARAH, + + +BY ELINOR MCQUINCH. + + +“Superior to many of the numerous tales which find a ready sale at the +railway bookstall.” _Athenaeum_. + “There is nothing to fatigue, and something to gratify, the idle + reader.” _Examiner_. + “There is a ring of solid metal in ‘The Waters of Marah.’” _Daily + Telegraph_. + “Miss McQuinch has fairly established her claim to be considered + the greatest novelist of the age.” _Middlingtown Mercury._ + + “Replete with thrilling and dramatic incident….. Instinct with + passion and pathos.” _Ladies’ Gazette_. + + +TABUTEAU & SON, COVENT GARDEN. + + +“That is very flattering,” said Douglas, as he replaced the paper on +the table. + +“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. + +“Still in your difficulties, Lind?” he said, with his perfunctory air +of concern, looking at the garden with some interest. + +“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.” + +“So much the better! I hope it has not cost you too much.” + +“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.” + +“I congratulate you.” + +“I dont feel comfortable about her.” + +“Absurd, man! What better could you have done?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes: she is always in good spirits when he is away.” + +“Indeed?” + +“It seems to me that they dont pull together. I think she is afraid of +him.” + +“You dont mean to say that he ill-treats her?” said Douglas, fiercely. + +“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.” + +“Is that all? He embarrasses her by his behavior, I suppose. Perhaps +she is afraid of his allowing his breeding to peep out.” + +“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.” + +“Sholto,” said Marian, joining them: “have you spoken to little Lucy?” + +“No.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Not at all,” said Douglas. + +“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.” + +Lucy stopped playing, and said, “What for?” + +“Because I ask you to, dear,” said Marian, gently. + +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: + +“Let her stay out, since she chooses to be obstinate.” + +“She is really too bad to-day,” said Marian. “I am quite shocked at +her.” + +“She is quite right not to come in and be handed round for inspection +like a doll,” said Elinor. + +“She is very bold not to come when she is told,” said Marian. + +“Yes, from your point of view,” said Elinor. “I like bold children.” + +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. + +“Oh no, not on Sunday,” said Marian. “Whist is too wicked.” + +“Then what the dickens _may_ we do?” said Marmaduke. “May Nelly play +_écarté_ with me?” + +“Well, please dont play for money. And dont sit close to the front +window.” + +“Come along, then, Nell. You two may sing hymns, if you like.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It is kind of you to say that, Marian. Will you have black or white?” + +“White, please, unless you wish me to be always making moves with your +men.” + +“Now. Will you move?” + +“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.” + +“Very well. You may rely upon it I shall think more of my adversary +than of my game. Check.” + +“Oh! You have done it in three moves. That is not fair. I won’t play +any more unless you take back that.” + +“No, I assure you it is not checkmate. My bishop should be at the other +side for that. There! of course, that will do.” + +“What a noise Marmaduke makes over his cards! I hope the people next +door will not hear him swearing.” + +“Impossible. You must not move that knight: it exposes your king. Do +you know, I think there is a great charm about this house.” + +“Indeed? Yes, it is a pretty house.” + +“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.” + +“What do you mean, Sholto?” + +“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.” + +“Check,” said Marian. “Mind your game, sir.” + +“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.” + +“I wish you would not make suggestions of that sort, Sholto. You make +me uncomfortable. Something _might_ happen to Ned. I wish he were home. +He is very late.” + +“Happy man. You can be serious when you think about him. I envy him.” + +“What! Sholto Douglas stoop to envy any mortal! Prodigious!” + +“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.” + +“You are really talking the greatest nonsense.” + +“No doubt I am. Still in love, Marian, you see. There is no harm in +telling you so now.” + +“On the contrary, it is now that there is harm. For shame, Sholto!” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“That means that you have never experienced it.” + +“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.” + +“I verily believe that you have not. The future has one more pang in +store for me; for you will surely love some day.” + +“I am getting too old for that, I fear. At what age, pray, did you +receive the arrow in your heart?” + +“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.” + +“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 _can_ one meet seriousness in modern society except by +chaff?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Do you know any such man? You must not attribute that sort of hardness +to me.” + +“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.” + +“Yes; because she suffers her heart to direct her.” + +“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.” + +“There! I wont play any more,” said Miss McQuinch, suddenly, at the +other end of the room. “Have you finished your chess, Marian?” + +“We are nearly done. Ring for the lamps, please, Nelly. Let us finish, +Sholto.” + +“Whose turn is it to move? I beg your pardon for my inattention.” + +“Mine—no, yours. Stop! it must be mine. I really dont know.” + +“Nor do I. I have forgotten my game.” + +“Then let us put up the board. We can finish some other night.” + +It had become dark by this time; and the lamps were brought in whilst +Douglas was replacing the chessmen in their box. + +“Now,” said Marian, “let us have some music. Marmaduke: will you sing +Uncle Ned for us? We have not heard you sing for ages.” + +“I believe it is more than three years since that abominable concert at +Wandsworth; and I have not heard you sing since,” said Elinor. + +“I forget all my songs—havnt sung one of them for months. However, here +goes! Have you a banjo in the house?” + +“No,” said Marian. “I will play an accompaniment for you.” + +“All right. See here: you need only play these three chords. When one +sounds wrong, play another. Youll learn it in a moment.” + +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. + +“Ah!” he said, surprised. “I thought somebody was singing.” + +“Oh dear no!” said Elinor drily. “You must have been mistaken.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Have you any news?” said Marmaduke at last. “Douglas knows the whole +business. We are all friends here.” + +“Only what we expected,” said Conolly. “Affairs are exactly as they +were. I called to-day at her address—” + +“How did you get it?” said Marmaduke. + +“I wrote for it to her at the theatre.” + +“And did she send it?” + +“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.” + +“Oh, Ned, you did not really say that to her!” said Marian. + +“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.” + +“I do not think I would have said so.” + +“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.” + +“Did she tell you what she intends to do?” said Marmaduke. + +“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.” + +“Has she any intention of reforming her habits?” said Elinor, bluntly. + +“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?” + +“Lucy is in disgrace,” said Elinor. Marian looked at her +apprehensively. + +“In disgrace!” said Conolly, more seriously. “How so?” + +Elinor described what had taken place in the garden. When she told how +the child had disregarded Marian’s appeal, Conolly laughed. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Apparently it is,” said Conolly, complacently. + +“What would you have done?” said Marian suddenly, interrupting Douglas. + +“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.’” + +“I would not ask why,” said Marian. “I would do it.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Has the evening been a pleasant one, Miss McQuinch?” said Conolly, +left alone with her. + +“Yes: we have had a very pleasant evening indeed. We played chess and +_écarté_; 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.” + +“And then I came in and spoiled it all. Eh?” + +“Certainly not. Why do you say that?” + +“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?” + +“Dont you like Marian’s singing?” + +“Could you not have refrained from that most indiscreet question?” + +“I ought to have. It came out unawares. Do not answer it.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I know you are displeased because it is not good enough for me; but +how can I help myself? Poor Marian——” + +“Do hush!” said Elinor. “Here she is.” + +“You need not be in such a hurry, Duke,” said Marian. “What can it +matter to you how late you get back?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Marian: Douglas is in love with you.” + +She blushed; thought a moment; and said quietly, “Very well. I shall +not ask him to come again.” + +“Why?” + +She colored more vividly and suddenly, and said, “I thought you cared. +I beg your pardon.” + +“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.” + +“And do you like men to be in love with me?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Of course. A man always does tell it, sooner or later.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“What do you mean by that?” she said, rising. + +“Marian,” he said, looking straight at her: “are you dissatisfied?” + +“What reason have I to—” + +“Never mind the reasons. Are you?” + +“No,” said she, steadfastly. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +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. + +“Mrs. Leith Fairfax, sir.” + +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. + +“_How_ do you do, Mr. Conolly?” said Mrs. Fairfax, as he entered. “I +need not ask: you are looking so well. Have I disturbed you?” + +“You have—most agreeably. Pray sit down.” + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Conolly, convinced that this was not true. “She promised to +do so in her last letter.” + +Mrs. Fairfax, on the point of publishing a few supplementary fictions, +checked herself, and looked suspiciously at him. + +“The air of Sark has evidently benefited you,” he said, as she paused. +“You are looking very well—I had almost said charming.” + +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.” + +“He has been described to me as an inveterate lion hunter.” + +“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?” + +“I am too busy. Besides, it will do Marian good to be rid of me for a +while.” + +“Absurd, Mr. Conolly! You should not leave her there by herself.” + +“By herself! Why, is not the place full?” + +“Yes; but I do not mean that. There is nobody belonging to her there.” + +“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?” + +“Oh! Is Mr. Douglas in charge of her?” + +“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.” + +“No. Sholto Douglas will provide against that.” + +“Your opinion confirms the accounts I have had from other sources. It +appears that Mr. Douglas is very attentive to my wife.” + +“Very, indeed, Mr. Conolly. You must not think that I am afraid of +anything—anything—” + +“Anything?” + +“Well—Oh, you know what I mean. Anything wrong. At least, not exactly +wrong, but—” + +“Anything undomestic.” + +“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.” + +“Pretty ladies whose husbands are never seen, often get talked about in +the world, do they not?” + +“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!” + +“I must apologize, I did not mean to cross-examine you. Naturally, of +course, you would not like to make me uneasy about Marian.” + +“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.” + +“Indeed! I rather infer that I should be very much in the way.” + +“The more reason for you to go, Mr. Conolly.” + +“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.” + +“Mr. Conolly; is this indifference, or supreme confidence?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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. + +“Exactly so. But I do not wish you to think that I have observed +anything particular.” + +“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——” + +“Good heavens, Mr. Conolly, you must not mention _me_ 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!” + +“But I should have thought that the opinion of an old and valued friend +like yourself would have special weight with her.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“Out of the question, Mr. Conolly.” + +“—I must trust to your guidance in the matter. What do you suggest?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“You wont mind my fiddling with these machines while I talk,” said +Conolly. + +“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.” + +“So you are going on to Sark, you say?” + +“Yes. May I ask whether you will be persuaded to come?” + +“No, for certain. I have other fish to fry here.” + +“I think it would renovate your health to come for a few days.” + +“My health is always right as long as I have work. Did you meet Mrs. +Fairfax outside?” + +“A—yes. I passed her.” + +“You spoke to her, I suppose?” + +“A few words. Yes.” + +“Do you know what she came here for?” + +“No. But stay. I am wrong. She mentioned that she came for a book she +lent you.” + +“She mentioned what was not true. What did she say to you about +Marian?” + +“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.” + +The clergyman looked so guilty as he said this that Conolly laughed +outright at him. “You mean,” he said, “that Marian is _not_ 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.” + +“That is, of course, unless I should see her really acting +indiscreetly.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“But Marian has been educated to feel only in accordance with her +duty.” + +“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.” + +“You surprise and distress me. This is the first intimation I have +received of your having any cause to complain of Marian.” + +“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 _is_ well mastered.” + +“What is truth?” said the clergyman, sententiously. + +“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.” + +“This is very strange. We always looked upon Marian as an exceptionally +amiable girl.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Admitted,” interposed Conolly, hastily. “Here is my workman’s tea. Are +you fond of scones?” + +“I hardly know. Anything—the simplest fare, will satisfy me.” + +“So it does me, when I can get nothing better. Help yourself, pray.” + +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. + +“Come,” he said, “I am sure that a few judicious words would lead to an +explanation between you and Marian.” + +“I also think that a few words might do so. But they would not be +judicious words.” + +“Why not? Can it be injudicious to restore harmony in a household?” + +“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.” + +“Oh no! Oh dear no! A few kind words; an appeal to her good sense; a +little concession on both sides——” + +“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?” + +“Well, it would depend on circumstances.” + +“But you know the circumstances on which it depends. How would you +begin?” + +“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.” + +“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_ +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.” + +“If you would allow me to appeal to her religious duty——” + +“Religion! She doesnt believe in it.” + +“What!” exclaimed the clergyman, unaffectedly shocked. “Surely, +surely——” + +“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 _her_ business. However, we need not argue about that: we know one +another’s views and can agree to differ.” + +“I should be false to my duty as a Christian priest if I made any such +agreement.” + +“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.” + +“But what do you intend to do, then?” + +“What _can_ 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 _locum tenens_ send the congregation asleep.” + +“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.” + +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: + +“My dear Marian + + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Yours, dear Marian, in solitude, +“NED.” + + +The answer came two days later than return of post, and ran thus: + +“Melbourne House, Sark, +“Sunday. + + +“My dear Ned + + +“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 _never_ paid so soon by _anybody_. 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 _portières_. + +“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. + +“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 _was_ 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. + +“Your affectionate +“MARIAN.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +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. + +“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.” + +“Dont begin to talk like that,” said Marian, crossly. “People _do_ 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.” + +“Thats rather a good sentence,” said Elinor. “Your talk is more +classical than my writing. But what would the departed Marian Lind have +said?” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“I did _not_ 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.” + +“And what do you think now?” + +“I think that I did not know what I was talking about.” + +“I believe you were in love with Ned when you married him, and long +enough before that, too.” + +“Of course I loved him. I love him still.” + +“Do you, really? To hear you, one would think that you only respected +him as a superior.” + +“You have no right to say that. You dont understand.” + +“Perhaps not. Would you mind explaining?” + +“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——” + +Elinor laughed. “Go on,” she said. “What is the other sort?” + +“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.” + +“Indeed! Isnt the difference between the two sorts much the same as the +difference between the old love and the new?” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I think I will take another cup of tea. You neednt stop flying out at +me, though: I dont mind it.” + +“Excuse me. I did not mean to fly out at you.” + +“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?” + +Marian turned to the fire, and remained silent. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I wish you would not speak harshly to me, even in jest. It hurts me.” + +“Serve you right! I am not a bit remorseful. No matter: let us talk of +something else. Where did those flowers come from?” + +“Douglas sent them. I am going to the theatre to-night; and I wanted a +bouquet.” + +“Very kind of him. I wonder he did not bring it himself. He rarely +misses an excuse for coming.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Nelly!” + +“Bother Nelly! It is true; and you know it as well as I do.” + +“If he fancies himself in love with me, I cannot help it.” + +“You can help his following you about.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Good-evening,” said Elinor. “So you are going to the theatre, too?” + +“Why?” said Douglas. “Is any one coming with us? Shall we have the +pleasure of your company?” + +“No,” replied Elinor, drily. “I thought Mr. Conolly was perhaps going +with you.” + +“I shall be very glad, I am sure, if he will,” said Douglas. + +“He will not,” said Marian. “I doubt if he will come home before we +start.” + +“You got my flowers safely, I see.” + +“Yes, thank you. They are beautiful.” + +“They need be, if you are to wear them.” + +“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. + +“I am very glad she went,” said Marian, when Douglas returned. “She +annoys me. Everything annoys me.” + +“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.” + +“What other life can I lead?” + +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. + +“Sholto,” she said, after an interval of silence, “you must not come +here any more.” + +“What!” + +“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.” + +“I have left all that behind me. I am a failure: you know why. Let us +talk no more of it.” + +“Do not go on like that,” said Marian, pettishly. “I dont like it.” + +“I am afraid to say or do anything, you are so easily distressed.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Go on,” she said. “I am not angry. What else?” + +“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. _He_ 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?” + +“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.” + +“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? +_He_ 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.” + +“For what hour have you ordered the carriage?” + +“The carriage! Is that what you say to me at such a moment? Are you +still flippant as ever?” + +“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?” + +“Seven.” + +“Then it is time for me to dress. You will not mind waiting here +alone?” + +“If you would only give me one hopeful word, I think I could wait +happily forever.” + +“What can I say?” + +“Say that you love me.” + +“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.” + +He was chilled by her solemn tone; but he made a movement as if to +embrace her. + +“No,” she said, stopping him. “I am his wife still. I have not yet +pronounced my own divorce.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Oh! Let us go. We shall be late.” + +“I shall not see you to-morrow, Douglas. Good-night.” + +“Good-night,” said Douglas, keeping at some distance; for he did not +care to offer Conolly his hand before Marian now. “Pleasant journey.” + +“Thank you. Hallo! [Marian had impatiently turned back.] What have you +forgotten?” + +“My opera-glass,” said Marian. “No, thanks: you would not know where to +look for it: I will go myself.” + +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. + +“Marian,” he said: “you have been crying to-day. Is anything wrong? or +is it only nervousness?” + +“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?” + +“It does to me, not to anyone else. Are you more cheerful now?” + +“Yes, I am all right. I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like.” + +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.” + +“Well, I had better go with Douglas, since it will make you happier.” + +“Go with Douglas, my dear one, if it will make _you_ 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“There is no light here,” he said, following her in. “Is it possible +you have been waiting in the dark?” + +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. + +“Where has Marian gone to?” she asked. + +“Is she out?” he said, suddenly grave. “You forget that I have come +straight from Glasgow.” + +“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.” + +He pursed his lips a little and looked attentively at her, but said +nothing. + +“Wont you go and open it?” she said anxiously. “It must contain some +explanation.” + +“I am afraid the explanation is obvious.” + +“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.” + +“You shall read it by all means. Will you excuse me whilst I fetch it?” + +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: + +“I suppose this is it. I laid my hand on it in the dark.” + +“Are you going to open it?” she said, hardly able to contain herself. + +“No.” + +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. + +“Why wont you?” + +“I really dont know. Somehow, I am not curious. It interests you. Pray +open it.” + +“I will die first. If it lie there until I open it, it will lie there +forever.” + +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. + +“It is very sad for you,” said Conolly, sympathetically. “He is an +educated man; but I cannot think that he has much in him.” + +“He is a selfish, lying, conceited hound. Educated, indeed! And what +are _you_ going to do, may I ask?” + +“Eat my supper. I am as hungry as a bear.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“What _can_ I do, Miss McQuinch?” he said, gently. + +“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.” + +“Thank you,” he said, good-humoredly. “But you see she does not wish to +live with me.” + +“Good God, man, what woman do you think _could_ 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—_dear_ Mr. +Conolly—youre not really insensible—you will, wont you?” + +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. + +She snatched it up again. “Here,” she said. “‘_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_.’ That is what her +letter says, since you condescend to ask.” + +“It is too late, then. You felt that as you read it, I think?” + +“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. ‘_Pray forget her_.’ 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!” + +“It was a good plan,” said Conolly, submissively. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Thank you,” said Conolly. “Presently, Armande.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Have you really calculated that it is twice as easy to make a woman +happy as to feed a man?” + +“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?” + +“I am afraid—judging by the result—that I am not naturally clever at +kissing.” + +“No, I should think not, indeed. Then you had better go and do what you +_are_ clever at—eat your dinner.” + +“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?” + +“Well, what is the point of that?” + +“You remind me a little of the nurse. I have had a sort of fall this +evening.” + +“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 _as_ sorry. I have not said all I think.” + +“What more?” + +“Nothing of any use to say. I see I am wasting my time here—and no +doubt wasting yours too.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“That is so. But there are a few things to be faced. First, I have to +set Marian and myself free.” + +“How?” + +“Divorce her.” + +“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.” + +“She also.” + +“So that she may marry him—from a sense of duty. That will be so happy +for her!” + +“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.” + +“Do you care about that? _I_ dont.” + +“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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“All right,” said Nelly, shortly. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“Dont understand.” + +“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 _mésalliance_ for Marian’s +sake that I realized how infinitely beneath me and my class was the one +I had married into.” + +“_Mésalliance!_—with Marian! I take back the shake hands.” + +“_Mésalliance_ 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—” + +“Hush!” said Elinor, interrupting him. “What is that noise outside?” + +The house bell began to ring violently; and they could hear a confused +noise of voices and footsteps without. + +“Can she have come back?” said Elinor, starting up. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Nonsense!” said Conolly. “I have some news that will sober him. Here +is Miss McQuinch. Are you going?” + +“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.” + +“Not yet, Nelly. Wont um stay and talk to um’s Marmadukes?” + +“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. + +“Marian is not in, I presume,” said the clergyman, when they were +seated. + +“No.” said Conolly. “She has eloped with Douglas.” + +They stared at him. Then Marmaduke gave a long whistle; and the +clergyman rose, pale. “What do you mean, sir?” he said. + +Conolly did not answer; and the Rev. George slowly sat down again. + +“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.” + +The Rev. George covered his face with his handkerchief and sobbed. + +“Come, shut up, old fellow; and dont make an ass of yourself,” said +Marmaduke. “What are you going to do, Conolly?” + +“I must simply divorce her.” + +“Go for heavy damages, Conolly. Knock a few thousand out of him, just +to punish him.” + +“He could easily afford it. Besides, why should I punish him?” + +“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.” + +Conolly shook his head. + +“There is no such thing as divorce known to the Church. ‘What God hath +joined together, let no man put asunder.’” + +“She had no right to bolt,” said Marmaduke. “Thats certain.” + +“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.” + +“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? + +“We never had rows.” + +“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.” + +“But have you ascertained whither they have gone?” said the clergyman, +distractedly. “Will you not follow them?” + +“I know nothing of their movements. Probably they are crossing to New +York.” + +“But surely you ought to follow her,” said the Rev. George. “You may +yet be in time to save her from worse than death.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I know not how to break this wretched news to my father,” said the +Rev. George, turning disconsolately from his sottish cousin to Conolly. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“I dont know. The Countess is in a hurry. I’m not. But I suppose it +will be some time in spring.” + +“You have made up your mind to it at last?” + +“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 _did_ 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.” + +The clergyman rose, and slowly pulled on his woolen gloves. + +“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.” + +“I had rather go alone, if you intend to behave as you did before.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +BOOK IV + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“There is no use in putting off the confession any longer, Nelly: I +have made an utter fool of myself. _I wish I were back with Ned again_. +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“MARIAN.” + + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +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. + +“It is an infernal day,” he said presently. + +Marian sighed, and roused herself. “The rooms look cheerless in winter +without the open fireplaces we are accustomed to in England.” + +“Damn the rooms!” he muttered. + +Marian took up her letter again. + +“Do you know that he has filed a petition for divorce?” he said, +aggressively. + +“Yes.” + +“You might have mentioned it to me. Probably you have known it for days +past.” + +“Yes. I thought it was a matter of course.” + +“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.” + +“Is it of importance, then?” + +“Certainly it is—of vital importance.” + +“Have you any other news? From whom have you heard?” + +“I have received some private letters.” + +“Oh! I beg your pardon.” + +Five minutes passed in silence. He looked out of the window, frowning. +She sat as before. + +“How much longer do you intend to stay in this place?” he said, turning +upon her suddenly. + +“In New York?” + +“This is New York, I believe.” + +“I think we may as well stay here as anywhere else.” + +“Indeed! On what grounds have you arrived at that cheering conclusion?” + +Marian shrugged her shoulders. “I dont know,” she said. + +“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.” + +“So it seems.” + +“What does that mean?” + +“That you do not seem to be happy either.” + +“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?” + +“Sholto!” said Marian, rising quickly, and looking at him in surprise. + +“Spare me these airs,” he said, coldly. “You will have to accustom +yourself to hear the truth occasionally.” + +She sat down again. “I am not giving myself airs,” she said, earnestly. +“I am astonished. Have I really been sulky?” + +“You have been in the sulks for days past: and you are in them at this +moment.” + +“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.” + +“That is rather an old-fashioned retort.” + +“Sholto: I do not know whether you intend it or not; but you are +speaking very slightingly to me.” + +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.” + +“You to make them permanent? I do not understand.” + +“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.” + +She looked at him; and he went back to the window. + +“My husband’s suit cannot be defended,” she said. “Doubtless you will +act according to the dictates of the London clubs.” + +“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.” + +“But it would be a false plea,” said Marian, raising her voice. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“Yes,” she said. “Good-bye.” + +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. + +“Why do you say good-bye?” he said, after clearing his throat uneasily. + +“I do not like to leave you without saying it.” + +“I hope you have not misunderstood me, Marian. I did not mean that we +should part.” + +“I know that. Nevertheless, we shall part. I will never sleep beneath +the same roof with you again.” + +“Come!” he said, shutting the door: “this is nonsense. You are out of +temper.” + +“So you have already told me,” she said, becoming pale. + +“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.” + +“Pray let us have no more words about it. I need no apologies, and +desire no advances. Good-bye is enough.” + +“But, Marian,” said he, coming nearer, “you must not fancy that I have +ceased to love you.” + +“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.” + +“Let us go elsewhere.” + +“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.” + +“Do you think I am going to strike you?” + +“No, because you dare not. But I will not listen to oaths or abuse.” + +“What have you to complain of? What is your grievance?” + +“I make no complaint. I exercise the liberty I bought so dearly to go +where I please and do what I please.” + +“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.” + +“But for that I would have left you before. I am very sorry.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Who is——? What do you mean?” + +“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.” + +“I understand. You think I am leaving you to go to some other man. I +will tell you now the true reason.” + +“Do,” said he, sarcastically, biting his lip. + +“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.” + +Douglas stared at her. “_I_ selfish and narrow-minded!” he said, with +the calm of stupefaction. + +“Yes.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps not. I do not violently resent things; but I cannot forget +them, nor feel as I did before they happened.” + +“You think so at present. Let us cease this bickering. Lovers’ quarrels +should not be carried too far.” + +“I am longing to cease it. It worries me; and it does not alter my +determination in the least.” + +“Do you mean——” + +“I do mean. Dont look at me like that: you make me angry instead of +frightening me.” + +“And do you think I will suffer this quietly?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Vas you reeng?” said the waiter doubtfully, retreating a step. + +“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.” + +The waiter, smiting vaguely, looked first at the retreating figure of +Douglas, and then at Marian. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Is Mr. Forster leaving the hotel?” she asked. + +“I dont know his arrangements, madam.” + +“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.” + +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. + +It was still early in the afternoon when she left the hotel and drove +to the Crawfords’. + +“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. + +“I just expected you’d soon git tired of being grand all by yourself in +the hotel yonder.” + +“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?” + +“_You_ cant live on ten dollars a week in New York nor on a hundred. +You rode here, didnt you?” + +“Yes, of course.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No! Do! Did you ever tell the General that?” + +“General Crawford! Oh, no.” + +“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.” + +“I am. I have deserted a very good husband.” + +“It’s a pity you didnt find that out a little sooner, isnt it?” + +“I know, Mrs. Crawford. I thought I was acting for the best.” + +“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 _you_ tell me youve done it on morl +grounds! Who educated you, child? And what do you intend to do now?” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“Perhaps you would rather not assist me. You may tell me so candidly. I +shall not be offended.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“But nobody knows you.” + +“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?” + +“If you wish, my dear. I dont ask you for it; but I will take it +kindly.” + +“I know you will. You must have heard all about me. Mr. Forster’s real +name is Douglas.” + +Mrs. Crawford stifled a whoop of surprise. “And you! Are you——?” + +“I am.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“No, of course not,” said Mrs. Crawford. “But whose fault was it?” + +“Mine. Altogether mine. I wish you would tell people that Mr. Conolly +is blameless in the matter.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“What do you think of this neighborhood?” said Mrs. Crawford. + +“It is a fine, wide street,” replied Marian; “but it looks as if it +needed to be swept and painted.” + +“The other end is quieter. I’m afraid you wont like living here.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“Oh, she wont trouble you. You can keep to yourself, English fashion.” + +“Then let us agree at once. I cannot face any more searching and +bargaining.” + +“Youre looking pale. Are you sure you are not ill?” + +“No. It is nothing. I am rather tired.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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: +“_Separated. Write to new address. Have I forfeited my money?_” This +cost her nearly five dollars. + +“Only that you must find out about your money, I wouldnt have let you +spend all that,” said Mrs. Crawford. + +“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.” + +“We may as well be getting back to Mrs. Myers’s now. It’s late.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Oh! Thats so, is it? Humph! I see I shall have to come and look after +you occasionally.” + +“Why?” + +“Never you mind, my dear. But dont go moping, nor going without food to +save money. Take care of yourself.” + +“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.” + +“This is it. Now good-bye. I’ll see you soon. Meanwhile, you take care +of yourself, as youre told.” + +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. + +“I think——” + +“God bless us!” ejaculated the servant, starting and turning a comely +dirty face toward Marian. + +“Did I frighten you?” said Marian, herself startled by the exclamation. + +“You put the life acrass in me,” said the servant, panting, and +pressing her hand on her bosom. + +“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.” + +“Very well, miss.” + +“What is your name?” + +“Liza Redmon’, miss.” + +“I should like some light, Eliza, if you please.” + +“Yis, miss. Would you wish to take your tay now, miss?” + +“Yes, thank you.” + +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. + +“My luggage will be sent here this evening or to-morrow, Eliza. Will +you tell me when it comes?” + +“Yis, miss.” + +“You know that my name is _Mrs_. Forster, do you not?” + +“Mrs. Forster. Yis, miss.” + +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. + +“Eliza. Eli-za!” Marian shuddered. + +“Yis, yis,” said Eliza, impatiently, opening a door. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“It does not matter at all, Mrs. Myers. Your servant has been very +attentive to me.” + +“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.” + +“For whom?” + +“A person that Mrs. Crawford promised to tell you about.” + +“So she did,” said Marian. “But I did not know she was young.” + +“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.” + +“Yis, maam,” said Eliza, looking in. + +“You stay in the house, Eliza, do you hear? I wont have you go out.” + +“Could I spake a word to you, maam?” said Eliza, lowering her voice. + +“No, Eliza. I’m engaged with Mrs. Forster.” + +“She wants to see you,” whispered Eliza. + +“Go downrs, Eliza, this minute. I wont see her.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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!” + +Marian shrank from her touch, and recovered her courage. + +“Do you know me?” she said. + +“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.” + +“Are you Miss Susanna Conolly?” + +“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. + +“I am afraid we shall disturb the house if we talk here. We had better +say good-night.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, no,” said Marian, yielding to a feeling of pity. “Come into my +room. There is a scrap of fire there still.” + +“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?” + +“No,” said Marian, foreseeing with a bitter pang and a terrible blush +what must follow. “He is in England. I am alone here.” + +“Well, why—? what—? I dont understand.” + +“Have you not read the papers?” said Marian, in a low voice, turning +her head away. + +“Papers! No, not since I saw an account of my brilliant _debût_ here, +of which I suppose you have heard. I never read: I do nothing but +drink. What has happened?” + +Marian hesitated. + +“Is it any secret?” said Susanna. + +“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.” + +“You dont mean to say youre on the loose!” cried Susanna. + +Marian was silent. + +“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?” + +“I have left him,” said Marian, sternly. “You need impute no fault to +your brother in the matter, Miss Conolly. He is quite blameless.” + +“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.” + +“He is very well, thank you.” + +“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?” + +“He is going to be married in the spring.” + +“Who to?” + +“To Lady Constance Car——” + +“Damn that woman!” exclaimed Susanna. “I hate her. She was always +throwing herself at his head. Curse her! Damn her! I wish——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“If you particularly wish it, I will,” said Marian, not disguising her +reluctance. + +“Youd rather not, of course,” said Susanna, despondently. + +“I am afraid I cannot be of any use to you.” + +“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?” + +“Quite.” + +“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.” + +“I will come and see you. I do not wish to avoid you if you are in +trouble.” + +“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.” + +“Good-night,” said Marian, overcoming her repugnance to Susanna’s hand, +and clasping it. “Remember that my name here is Mrs. Forster.” + +“All right. Good-night. Thank you. You will never be sorry for having +compassion on me.” + +“Wont you take a light?” + +“I dont require one. I can find what I want in the dark.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +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. + +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. + +“Where the devil is the carriage?” said Marmaduke, loudly. + +“Hush! Everybody can hear you,” said Lady Constance. + +“What do I care whether—Hal-lo! Douglas! How are you?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“But you didnt cut him, mamma.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I believe you are going to be married,” said Douglas. “Allow me to +congratulate you.” + +“Thank you. Fine day, isnt it?” + +“Very fine.” + +Marmaduke walked on in silence. Douglas presently recommenced the +conversation. + +“I only arrived in London last night. I have come from New York.” + +“Indeed. Pleasant voyage?” + +“Very pleasant.” + +Another pause. + +“Has anything special happened during my absence?” + +“Nothing special.” + +“Was there much fuss made about my going?” + +“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.” + +“Oh, my dear fellow, you neednt stand on ceremony with me.” + +“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.” + +“I told you so!” + +“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.” + +“You have taken offence needlessly. I changed the subject +inadvertently.” + +“Hm! Well, has she come back with you?” + +“No.” + +“Do you mean that youve thrown her over?” + +“I have said nothing of the kind. As a matter of fact, she has thrown +me over.” + +“Thats very strange. You are not going to marry her then, I suppose?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +The party on the steps ceased chatting and began to stare. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“My apartments are at hand,” said Douglas. + +“I suppose I had better leave you,” said Marmaduke. + +“Your presence will not embarrass me in the least,” said Conolly. + +“I have not sought this interview,” said Douglas. “I therefore prefer +Mr. Lind to witness what passes.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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?’ + +“I decline to admit that it concerns me in any way.” + +“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.” + +“I know nothing of it.” + +“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.” + +“I do not know that you have any right to ask such questions.” + +“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.” + +“I have no fear of being compromised. None whatever.” + +Conolly nodded, and waited for an answer. + +“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.” + +“Thank you. Thats all right: she will be able to hold out until she +hears from us. Good-afternoon.” + +“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.” + +“Quite so, quite so,” assented Conolly, carelessly. “Good-bye, Lind.” +And he took his hat and went out. + +“By George!” said Marmaduke, admiringly, “he did that damned +well—_damned_ 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.” + +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?” + +“Thats your own story, isnt it? At least, I understood you to say so as +we came along.” + +“Let him say so, and I’ll thrash him like, a dog in the street. I’ll——” + +“Whats the use of thrashing a man who will simply hand you over to the +police? and quite right, too! What rot!” + +“We shall see. We shall see.” + +“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.” + +“I am not in a rage.” + +“Very well. Have it your own way.” + +“Will you take a challenge to him from me?” + +“No. I am not a born fool.” + +“That is plain speaking.” + +Marmaduke put his hands into his pockets, and whistled. “I think I will +take myself off,” he said, presently. + +“As you please,” replied Douglas, coldly. + +“I will look in on you some day next week, when you have cooled down a +bit. Good-bye.” + +Douglas said nothing, and Marmaduke, with a nod, went out. Some minutes +later the servant entered and said that Mr. Lind was below. + +“What! Back again!” said Douglas, with an oath. + +“No, sir. It’s old Mr. Lind—Mr. Reginald.” + +“Did you say I was in?” + +“The man belonging to the house did, sir.” + +“Confound his officiousness! I suppose he must come up.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Douglas bowed. + +“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.” + +“The meeting was not a pleasant one. I shall take steps to make Mr. +Conolly understand that.” + +“Nothing approaching to violence, I trust.” + +“No. Mr. Conolly’s discretion averted it. I am not sure that a second +interview between us will end so quietly.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“No.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Douglas cleared his throat, but did not speak. + +“Well?” said Mr. Lind after a pause, reddening. + +“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.” + +“I am not speaking to you as a man of the world. I am speaking as a +father, and as a gentleman.” + +“Doubtless your position as a father is an unfortunate one. I can +sympathize with your feelings. But as a gentleman——” + +“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. + +“Sir!” + +“I repeat, as a scoundrel—if you deny your duty in the matter.” + +“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.” + +“No man who betrays a lady and refuses to make her all the reparation +in his power can claim to be a gentleman.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“It may be so, but I shall never put it to the test.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“If you refuse me the justice you owe to my daughter, you need not +couple that refusal with an insult.” + +“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.” + +“Douglas,” said Mr. Lind, trembling, “I will make you repent this. I +will have satisfaction.” + +“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.” + +“You are a coward, sir.” Douglas rang the bell. “I will expose you in +every club in London.” + +“Shew this gentleman out,” said Douglas to his servant. + +“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.” + +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. + +“How do you do?” said the latter pleasantly, but without the +unceremonious fellowship that had formerly existed between them. + +“Thank you,” said Douglas, “I am quite well.” + +A pause followed, Jasper not knowing exactly what to say next. + +“I am considering where I shall dine,” said Douglas. “Have you dined +yet?” + +“No. I promised to dine at home this evening. My mother likes to have a +family dinner occasionally.” + +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. + +“Yes, I fear so. However, I hope it will pass over.” + +“It shews no sign of passing over as yet, then?” + +“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.” + +“Presuming, of course, that popular feeling is a matter about which I +am likely to concern myself.” + +“That is a question for you to decide. Excuse the hint.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Conolly is a particular friend of mine, Douglas, Let us drop the +subject, if you dont mind.” + +“If he is your friend, of course I have nothing more to say. I think I +will turn in here and dine. Good-evening.” + +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. + +“Good heavens!” she said in a half-whisper: “you here! What madness +possessed you to come back?” + +“I had no further occasion to stay away.” + +“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?” + +“I have no intention of leaving it at present.” + +“But you cannot stay here.” + +“Pray why not? Is not London large enough for any man who does not live +by the breath of the world?” + +“Out of the question, Mr. Douglas. Absolutely out of the question. You +_must_ go away for a year at the very least. You must yield something +to propriety.” + +“I shall yield nothing. I can do without any section of society that +may feel called upon to do without me.” + +“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.” + +“I have not heard her story.” + +“It is only that you have parted from—you know.” + +“That is true. Can I gratify your curiosity in any other particular?” + +“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.” + +“You will do wisely, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. What I have suffered, I have +suffered. I desire no pity, and will endure none.” + +“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.” + +“Thank you,” said Douglas, coldly, stepping back, and raising his hat, +“I shall not intrude on you. Good-evening.” + +She waved her hand at him; and the cab departed. He walked quickly back +to Charles Street, and called his servant. + +“I suppose no one has called?” + +“Yes, sir. Mrs. Douglas came very shortly after you went out. She +wishes you to go to the Square this evening, sir.” + +“This evening? I am afraid—Buckstone.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Is she looking well?” + +“A little tired, sir. But quite well, I have no doubt.” + +“How much of the luggage have you unpacked?” + +“Only your portmanteau, sir. I thought——” + +“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.” + +“Very good, sir.” + +Douglas then sat down and wrote the note. + +“My dear Mother: + + +“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, + +“Your affectionate son, +“SHOLTO DOUGLAS.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +One day Eliza, out of patience, came to Mrs. Myers, and said: + +“A’ thin, maam, will you come up and spake to Miss Conolly. She’s rasin +ructions above stairs.” + +“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs. Myers. “Cant you keep her quiet?” + +“Arra, how can I kape her quiet, an she cryin an roarin, dyin an +desarted?” + +“Ask Mrs. Forster to go in and coax her to stop.” + +“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.” + +“There’s no use in my going up, Eliza. What can I do?” + +Eliza had nothing to suggest. “I’m sure, maam,” she pleaded, “if she +wont mind you, she wont mind me—bad manners to her!” + +Mrs. Myers hesitated. The lodger became noisier. + +“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. + +“What _is_ the matter with you, Miss Susan? Youre goin on fit to raise +the street.” + +“For God’s sake go and get something for me. Make the doctor do +something. I’m famishing. I must be poisoned.” + +“Lord forbid!” + +“Look at me. I cant eat anything. Oh! I cant even drink. I tell you I +am dying of thirst.” + +“Well, Miss Susan, thers plenty for you to eat and drink.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Your house is all you care about. Curse you! I hope you may die +deserted yourself. Dont go away. _Dear_ Aunt Sally, you wont leave me +here alone, will you? If you do, I’ll scream like a hundred devils.” + +“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?” + +“Oh, bother! Are _you_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Hush, pray,” said Marian, putting her bonnet aside and sitting down by +the sofa. “What is the matter?” + +“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?” + +“Yes. You ought not to wound her as you did just now. She has been very +kind to you.” + +“I dont care. Oh, dear me, I wonder how long this is going to last?” + +“Shall I go for the doctor?” + +“No; what can he do? Stay with me. I wish I could sleep or eat.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I was twenty-five in June last” + +“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.” + +“Do not disturb yourself with vain regrets. Think of something else. +Shall we talk about Marmaduke?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, you mean Lucy. She was a lively little imp.” + +“Would you not like to see her again?” + +“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?” + +“I wish I had the good fortune to be a mother.” + +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_ +would just as soon gossip and swear at her as go to tea with the +Queen.” + +“I am not shocked at all. You see as badly as other people when your +eyes are shut.” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps the end of you on earth will be a good beginning for you +somewhere else, Susanna.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Very well. I only suggested it in case you should feel uneasy.” + +“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.” + +“I will not. Let me get you another pillow.” + +“No,” said Susanna, drowsily: “dont touch me.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“All right,” said the doctor. “Keep quiet; youll be well presently. +Dont be in a hurry to talk.” + +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: + +“Is Miss Conolly seriously hurt?” + +“Oa, blessed hour! she’s kilt. Her head’s dhreepin wid blood.” + +Marian shuddered and felt faint again. + +“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.” + +“You did very wrong in getting it, Eliza.” + +“What could I do, miss, when she axed me?” + +“There is no use in crying over it now. It would have been kinder to +have kept it from her.” + +“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!” + +Here the doctor returned. “How are you now?” he said. + +“I think I am better. Pray dont think of me. How is she?” + +“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. + +“How awful!” said Marian, stunned. “Are you quite sure? She seemed +better this morning.” + +“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!” + +“Doctor: I must go out and telegraph the news to London. I know one of +her relatives there.” + +The doctor shook his head. “I will telegraph if you like, but you must +stay here. Youre not yet fit to go out.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Amen,” said Marian. + +“It’s sure and sartin. There never was a Conolly a Prodestan yet.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“If he does, I must leave New York, Mrs. Crawford.” + +“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.” + +“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 _could_ not.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What does he expect from a woman? If youre not good enough for him, he +must be very hard to please.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“But if visitors come, Mrs. Crawford?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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—— + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I dont understand.” + +“No,” he said gently, but with a gesture of despair; “how could you? +You never did, and you never will.” + +“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 +_never_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“I suppose I have deserved it,” said Marian; “but unkind words from you +are a new experience. You are very unlike yourself to-night.” + +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.” + +“You spoke plainly enough to her,” said Marian, glancing at the bed, +“but in the long run it did her no good.” + +“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!’” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“You see a change in me, then?” + +“You are not quite yourself, I think.” + +“I tell you again that I _am_ 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.” + +“Oh, not unless you wish it too,” said Marian, a little bewildered. + +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. + +“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?” + +“I cannot,” she said, bending her head almost on her hands. “I should +disgrace you. And there is another reason.” + +“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?” + +“It is not yet born. But it will be.” + +“That is no reason to me. Do you think I shall be a worse father to it +than he would have been?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I think it is a good thing to be free,” said Marian, timidly. + +“That means ‘I will not.’” + +“Not ‘will not’; but I think I had better not.” + +“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: + +‘For always in thine eyes, O Liberty, +Shines that high light whereby the world is saved; +And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee.’ + + +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.” + +“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?” + +“I am prepared for it. You may refuse or accept: I foresee how I shall +adapt myself to either set of circumstances.” + +“Yes, I forgot. You foresee everything,” said Marian, with some +bitterness. + +“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.” + +“Good-night,” said Marian rather forlornly, after a pause, proffering +her hand. + +“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.” + +“You are too wise, Ned,” she said, suffering him to replace her gently +in the chair. + +“It is impossible to be too wise, dearest,” he said, and unhesitatingly +turned and left her. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11354 *** |