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.”