“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.