The Irrational Knot/Chapter XIV
On Sunday afternoon Douglas walked, facing a glorious sunset, along
Uxbridge Road to Holland Park, where he found Mrs. Conolly, Miss
McQuinch, and Marmaduke. A little girl was playing in the garden. They
were all so unconstrained, and so like their old selves, that Douglas at
once felt that Conolly was absent.
"I am to make Ned's excuses," said Marian. "He has some pressing family affairs to arrange." She seemed about to explain further; but Marmaduke looked so uneasily at her that she stopped. Then, resuming gaily, she added, "I told Ned that he need not stand on ceremony with you. Fancy my saying that of you, the most punctilious of men!"
"Quite right. I am glad that Mr. Conolly has not suffered me to interfere with his movements," he replied, with a smile, which he suppressed as he turned and greeted Miss McQuinch with his usual cold composure. But to Marmaduke, who seemed much cast down, he gave an encouraging squeeze of the hand. Not that he was moved by the misfortunes of Marmaduke; but he was thawed by the beauty of Marian.
"We shall have a pleasant evening," continued Marian. "Let us fancy ourselves back at Westbourne Terrace again. Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad. Let us think that it is one of our old Sunday afternoons. Sholto had better go upstairs and shave, to heighten the illusion."
"Not for me, since I cannot see myself, particularly if I have to call you Mrs. Conolly. If I may call you Marian, as I used to do, I think that our conversation will contain fewer reminders of the lapse of time."
"Of course," said Marian, disregarding an anxious glance from Elinor. "What else should you call me? We were talking about Nelly's fame when you came in. The colonial edition of her book has just appeared. Behold the advertisement!"
There was a newspaper open on the table; and Marian pointed to one of its columns as she spoke. Douglas took it up and read the following:
Now Ready, a New and Cheaper Edition, crown 8vo, 5s.
THE WATERS OF MARAH,
BY ELINOR MCQUINCH.
"Superior to many of the numerous tales which find a ready sale at
the railway bookstall." Athenaeum.
"There is nothing to fatigue, and something to gratify, the idle
reader." Examiner.
"There is a ring of solid metal in 'The Waters of Marah.'" Daily Telegraph.
"Miss McQuinch has fairly established her claim to be considered
the greatest novelist of the age." Middlingtown Mercury.
"Replete with thrilling and dramatic incident..... Instinct with
passion and pathos." Ladies' Gazette.
TABUTEAU & SON, COVENT GARDEN.
"That is very flattering," said Douglas, as he replaced the paper on the table.
"Highly so," said Elinor. "Coriolanus displaying his wounds in the Forum is nothing to it." And she abruptly took the paper, and threw it disgustedly behind the sofa. Just then a message from the kitchen engaged Marian's attention, and Douglas, to relieve her from her guests for the moment, strolled out upon the little terrace, whither Marmaduke had moodily preceded him.
"Still in your difficulties, Lind?" he said, with his perfunctory air of concern, looking at the garden with some interest.
"I'm out of my difficulties clean enough," said Marmaduke. "There's the child among the currant bushes; and I am rid of her mother: for good, I suppose."
"So much the better! I hope it has not cost you too much."
"Not a rap. I met her in the museum after our confab on Wednesday, and told her what you recommended: that I must have the child, and that she must go. She said all right, and shook hands. I havnt seen her since."
"I congratulate you."
"I dont feel comfortable about her."
"Absurd, man! What better could you have done?"
"Thats just what I say. It was her own fault; I did all in my power. I offered her five hundred pounds down. She wouldnt have it, of course; but could I help that? Next day, when she sent her maid for her things, I felt so uneasy that I came to Conolly, and told him the whole affair. He behaved very decently about it, and said that I might as well have left her six months ago for all the good my staying had done or was likely to do. He has gone off to see her to-day—she is in lodgings somewhere near the theatre; and he will let me know in case any money is required. I should like to know what they are saying to one another about me. They're a rum pair."
"Well, let us eat and drink; for to-morrow we die," said Douglas, with an unnatural attempt at humor. "Marian seems happy. We must not spoil her evening."
"Yes: she is always in good spirits when he is away."
"Indeed?"
"It seems to me that they dont pull together. I think she is afraid of him."
"You dont mean to say that he ill-treats her?" said Douglas, fiercely.
"No: I dont mean that he thrashes her, or anything of that sort. And yet he is just that sort of chap that I shouldnt be surprised at anything he might do. As far as ordinary matters go, he seems to treat her particularly well. But Ive noticed that she shuts up and gets anxious when he comes into the room; and he has his own way in everything."
"Is that all? He embarrasses her by his behavior, I suppose. Perhaps she is afraid of his allowing his breeding to peep out."
"Not she. His manners are all right enough. Besides, as he is a genius and a celebrity and all that, people dont expect him to be conventional. He might stand on his head, if he chose."
"Sholto," said Marian, joining them: "have you spoken to little Lucy?"
"No."
"Then you are unacquainted with the most absolute imp on the face of the earth," said Elinor. "You neednt frown, Marmaduke: it is you who have made her so."
"Leave her alone," said Marmaduke to Marian, who was about to call the child. "Petting babies is not in Douglas's line: she will only bore him."
"Not at all," said Douglas.
"It does not matter whether she bores him or not," said Marian. "He must learn to take a proper interest in children. Lucy: come here."
Lucy stopped playing, and said, "What for?"
"Because I ask you to, dear," said Marian, gently.
The child considered for a while, and then resumed her play. Miss McQuinch laughed. Marmaduke muttered impatiently, and went down the garden. Lucy did not perceive him until he was within a few steps of her, when she gave a shrill cry of surprise, and ran to the other side of a flower-bed too wide for him to spring across. He gave chase; but she, with screams of laughter, avoided him by running to and fro so as to keep on the opposite side to him. Feeling that it was undignified to dodge his child thus, he stopped and bade her come to him; but she only laughed the more. He called her in tones of command, entreaty, expostulation, and impatience. At last he shouted to her menacingly. She placed her thumbnail against the tip of her nose; spread her fingers; and made him a curtsy. He uttered an imprecation, and returned angrily to the house, saying, between his teeth:
"Let her stay out, since she chooses to be obstinate."
"She is really too bad to-day," said Marian. "I am quite shocked at her."
"She is quite right not to come in and be handed round for inspection like a doll," said Elinor.
"She is very bold not to come when she is told," said Marian.
"Yes, from your point of view," said Elinor. "I like bold children."
Marmaduke was sulky and Marian serious for some time after this incident. They recovered their spirits at dinner, when Marian related to Douglas how she had become reconciled to his mother. Afterward, Marmaduke suggested a game at whist.
"Oh no, not on Sunday," said Marian. "Whist is too wicked."
"Then what the dickens may we do?" said Marmaduke. "May Nelly play écarté with me?"
"Well, please dont play for money. And dont sit close to the front window."
"Come along, then, Nell. You two may sing hymns, if you like."
"I wish you could sing, Sholto," said Marian. "It is an age since we last had a game of chess together. Do you still play?"
"Yes," said Douglas; "I shall be delighted. But I fear you will beat me now, as I suppose you have been practising with Mr. Conolly."
"Playing with Ned! No: he hates chess. He says it is a foolish expedient for making idle people believe they are doing something very clever when they are only wasting their time. He actually grumbled about the price of the table and the pieces; but I insisted on having them, I suppose in remembrance of you."
"It is kind of you to say that, Marian. Will you have black or white?"
"White, please, unless you wish me to be always making moves with your men."
"Now. Will you move?"
"I think I had rather you began. Remember our old conditions. You are not to checkmate me in three moves; and you are not to take my queen."
"Very well. You may rely upon it I shall think more of my adversary than of my game. Check."
"Oh! You have done it in three moves. That is not fair. I won't play any more unless you take back that."
"No, I assure you it is not checkmate. My bishop should be at the other side for that. There! of course, that will do."
"What a noise Marmaduke makes over his cards! I hope the people next door will not hear him swearing."
"Impossible. You must not move that knight: it exposes your king. Do you know, I think there is a great charm about this house."
"Indeed? Yes, it is a pretty house."
"And this sunset hour makes it additionally so; Besides, it is inexpressibly sad to see you here, a perfectly happy and perfectly beautiful mistress of this romantic foreign home."
"What do you mean, Sholto?"
"I call it a foreign home because, though it is yours, I have no part nor lot in it. Remember, we are only playing at old times to-night. Everything around, from the organ to the ring on your finger, reminds me that I am a stranger here. It seems almost unkind of you to regret nothing whilst I am full of regrets."
"Check," said Marian. "Mind your game, sir."
"Flippant!" exclaimed Douglas, impatiently moving his king. "I verily believe that if your husband were at the bottom of the Thames at this moment, you would fly off unconcernedly to some other nest, and break hearts with as much indifference as ever."
"I wish you would not make suggestions of that sort, Sholto. You make me uncomfortable. Something might happen to Ned. I wish he were home. He is very late."
"Happy man. You can be serious when you think about him. I envy him."
"What! Sholto Douglas stoop to envy any mortal! Prodigious!"
"Yes: it has come to that with me. Why should I not envy him? His career has been upward throughout. He has been a successful worker in the world, where I have had nothing real to do. When the good things I had been dreaming of and longing for all my life came in his path, he had them for the mere asking. I valued them so highly that when I fancied I possessed them, I was the proudest of men. I am humble enough now that I am beggared."
"You are really talking the greatest nonsense."
"No doubt I am. Still in love, Marian, you see. There is no harm in telling you so now."
"On the contrary, it is now that there is harm. For shame, Sholto!"
"I am not ashamed. I tell you of my love because now you can listen to me without uneasiness, knowing that it is no longer associated with hope, or desire, or anything but regret. You see that I do not affect the romantic lover. I eat very well; I play chess; I go into society; and you reproach me for growing fat."
Marian bent over the chessboard for a moment to hide her face. Then she said in a lower voice, "I have thoroughly convinced myself that there is no such thing as love in the world."
"That means that you have never experienced it."
"I have told you already that I have never been in love, and that I dont believe a bit in it. I mean romantic love, of course."
"I verily believe that you have not. The future has one more pang in store for me; for you will surely love some day."
"I am getting too old for that, I fear. At what age, pray, did you receive the arrow in your heart?"
"When I was a boy, I loved a vision. The happiest hours of my life were those in which I was slowly, tremulously daring to believe that I had found my vision at last in you. And then the dreams that followed! What a career was to have been mine! I remember how you used to reproach me because I was austere with women and proud with men. How could I have been otherwise? I contrasted the gifts of all other women with those of my elect, and the lot of all other men with my own. Can you wonder that, doing so, I carried my head among the clouds? You must remember how unfamiliar failure was to me. At school, at Oxford, in society, I had sought distinction without misgiving, and attained it without difficulty. My one dearest object I deemed secure long before I opened my lips and asked expressly for it. I think I walked through life at that time like a somnambulist; for I have since seen that I must have been piling mistake upon mistake until out of a chaos of meaningless words and smiles I had woven a Paphian love temple. At the first menace of disappointment—a thing as new and horrible to me as death—I fled the country. I came back with only the ruins of the doomed temple. You were not content to destroy a ruin: the feat was too easy to be glorious. So you rebuilt it in one hour to the very dome, and lighted its altars with more than their former radiance. Then, as though it were but a house of cards—as indeed it was nothing else—you gave it one delicate touch and razed it to its foundations. Yet I am afraid those altar lamps were not wholly extinguished. They smoulder beneath the ruins still."
"I wonder why they made you the Newdigate poet at Oxford, Sholto: you mix your metaphors most dreadfully. Dont be angry with me: I understand what you mean; and I am very sorry. I say flippant things because I must. How can one meet seriousness in modern society except by chaff?"
"I am not angry. I had rather you did not understand. The more flippant you are, the more you harden my heart; and I want it to be as hard as the nether millstone. Your pity would soften me; and I dread that."
"I believe it does every man good to be softened. If you ever really felt what you describe, you greatly over-estimated me. What can you lose by a little more softness? I often think that men—particularly good men—make their way through the world too much as if it were a solid mass of iron through which they must cut—as if they dared not relax their hardest edge and finest temper for a moment. Surely, that is not the way to enjoy life."
"Perhaps not. Still, it is the way to conquer in life. It may be pleasant to have a soft heart; but then someone is sure to break it."
"I do not believe much in broken hearts. Besides, I do not mean that men should be too soft. For instance, sentimental young men of about twenty are odious. But for a man to get into a fighting attitude at the barest suggestion of sentiment; to believe in nature as something inexorable, and to aim at being as inexorable as nature: is not that almost as bad?"
"Do you know any such man? You must not attribute that sort of hardness to me."
"Oh no; I was not thinking of you. I was not thinking of anyone in fact. I only put a case. I sometimes have disputes with Ned on the subject. One of his cardinal principles is that there is no use in crying for spilt milk. I always argue that as irremediable disasters are the only ones that deserve or obtain sympathy, he might as well say that there is no use in crying for anything. Then he slips out of the difficulty by saying that that was just what he meant, and that there is actually no place for regret in a well-regulated scheme of life. In debating with women, men brazen out all the ridiculous conclusions of which they are convicted; and then they say that there is no use in arguing with a woman. Neither is there, because the woman is always right."
"Yes; because she suffers her heart to direct her."
"You are just as bad as the rest of your sex, I see. Where you cannot withold credit from a woman, you give it to her heart and deny it to her head."
"There! I wont play any more," said Miss McQuinch, suddenly, at the other end of the room. "Have you finished your chess, Marian?"
"We are nearly done. Ring for the lamps, please, Nelly. Let us finish, Sholto."
"Whose turn is it to move? I beg your pardon for my inattention."
"Mine—no, yours. Stop! it must be mine. I really dont know."
"Nor do I. I have forgotten my game."
"Then let us put up the board. We can finish some other night."
It had become dark by this time; and the lamps were brought in whilst Douglas was replacing the chessmen in their box.
"Now," said Marian, "let us have some music. Marmaduke: will you sing Uncle Ned for us? We have not heard you sing for ages."
"I believe it is more than three years since that abominable concert at Wandsworth; and I have not heard you sing since," said Elinor.
"I forget all my songs—havnt sung one of them for months. However, here goes! Have you a banjo in the house?"
"No," said Marian. "I will play an accompaniment for you."
"All right. See here: you need only play these three chords. When one sounds wrong, play another. Youll learn it in a moment."
Marmaduke's voice was not so fresh, nor his fun so spontaneous, as at Wandsworth; but they were not critical enough to appreciate the difference: they laughed like children at him. Elinor was asked to play; but she would not: she had renounced that folly, she said. Then, at Douglas's request, Marian sang, in memory of Wandsworth, "Rose, softly blooming." When she had finished, Elinor asked for some old melodies, knowing that Marian liked these best. So she began gaily with The Oak and the Ash and Robin Adair. After that, finding both herself and the others in a more pathetic vein, she sang them The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington, and The Banks of Allan Water, at the end of which Marmaduke's eyes were full of tears, and the rest sat quite still. She paused for a minute, and then broke the silence with Auld Robin Gray, which affected even Douglas, who had no ear. As she sang the last strain, the click of a latchkey was heard from without. Instantly she rose; closed the pianoforte softly; and sat down at some distance from it. Her action was reflected by a change in their behavior. They remembered that they were not at home, and became more or less uneasily self-conscious. Elinor was the least disturbed. Conolly's first glance on entering was at the piano: his next went in search of his wife.
"Ah!" he said, surprised. "I thought somebody was singing."
"Oh dear no!" said Elinor drily. "You must have been mistaken."
"Perhaps so," said he, smiling. "But I have been listening carefully at the window for ten minutes; and I certainly dreamt that I heard Auld Robin Gray."
Marian blushed. Conolly did not seem to have been moved by the song. He was alert and loquacious: before he had finished his greeting and apology to Douglas, they all felt as little sentimental as they had ever done in their lives. Marian, after asking whether he had dined, became silent, and dropped the pretty airs of command which, as hostess, she had worn before.
"Have you any news?" said Marmaduke at last. "Douglas knows the whole business. We are all friends here."
"Only what we expected," said Conolly. "Affairs are exactly as they were. I called to-day at her address—"
"How did you get it?" said Marmaduke.
"I wrote for it to her at the theatre."
"And did she send it?"
"Of course. But she did not give me any encouragement to call on her, and, in fact, evidently did not want to see me. Her appearance has altered very much for the worse. She is a confirmed dipsomaniac; and she knows it. I advised her to abstain in future. She asked me, in her sarcastic, sisterly way, whether I had any other advice to give her. I told her that if she meant to go on, her proper course was to purchase a hogshead of brandy; keep it by her side; and condense the process of killing herself, which may at present take some years, into a few days."
"Oh, Ned, you did not really say that to her!" said Marian.
"I did indeed. The shocking part of the affair is not, as you seem to think, my giving the advice, but that it should be the very best advice I could have given."
"I do not think I would have said so."
"Most likely not," said Conolly, with a smile. "You would have said something much prettier. But dipsomania is not one of the pretty things of life; nor can it by any stretch of benevolent hypocrisy be made to pass as one. When Susanna and I get talking, we do not waste time in trying to spare one another's feelings. If we did, we should both see through the attempt and be very impatient of it."
"Did she tell you what she intends to do?" said Marmaduke.
"She has accepted an American engagement. When that draws to a close, it will, she says, be time enough for her to consider her next step. But she has no intention of leaving the stage until she is compelled."
"Has she any intention of reforming her habits?" said Elinor, bluntly.
"I should say every intention, but no prospect of doing so. Dipsomaniacs are always intending to reform; but they rarely succeed. Has Lucy been put to bed?"
"Lucy is in disgrace," said Elinor. Marian looked at her apprehensively.
"In disgrace!" said Conolly, more seriously. "How so?"
Elinor described what had taken place in the garden. When she told how the child had disregarded Marian's appeal, Conolly laughed.
"Lucy has no sense of how pretty she would have looked toddling in obediently because her aunt asked her to," he said. "She is, like all children, very practical, and will not assist in getting up amiable little scenes without good reason rendered."
Elinor glanced at Marian, and saw that though Douglas was speaking to her in a low voice, she was listening nervously to her husband. So she said sharply, "It is a pity you were not here to tell us what to do."
"Apparently it is," said Conolly, complacently.
"What would you have done?" said Marian suddenly, interrupting Douglas.
"I suppose," said Conolly, looking round at her in surprise, "I should have answered her question—told her what she was wanted for. If I asked you to do anything, and you enquired why, you would be extremely annoyed if I answered, 'because I ask you.'"
"I would not ask why," said Marian. "I would do it."
"That would be very nice of you," said Conolly; "but you cannot: expect such a selfish, mistrustful, and curious animal as a little child to be equally kind and confiding. Lucy is too acute not to have learned long since that grown people systematically impose on the credulity and helplessness of children."
"Thats true," said Elinor, reluctantly. Marian turned away and quietly resumed her conversation with Douglas. After a minute she strolled with him into the garden, whither Marmaduke had already retired to smoke.
"Has the evening been a pleasant one, Miss McQuinch?" said Conolly, left alone with her.
"Yes: we have had a very pleasant evening indeed. We played chess and écarté; and we all agreed to make old times of it. Marmaduke sang for us; and Marian had us nearly in tears with those old ballads of hers."
"And then I came in and spoiled it all. Eh?"
"Certainly not. Why do you say that?"
"Merely a mischievous impulse to say something true: jealousy, perhaps, because I missed being here earlier. You think, then, that if I had been here, the evening would have been equally pleasant, and Marian equally happy in her singing?"
"Dont you like Marian's singing?"
"Could you not have refrained from that most indiscreet question?"
"I ought to have. It came out unawares. Do not answer it."
"That would make matters worse. And there is no reason whatever why the plain truth should not be told. When I was a child I heard every day better performances than Marian's. She believes there is something pretty and good in music, and patronizes it accordingly to the best of her ability. I do not like to hear music patronized; and when Marian, lovely as she is, gives her pretty renderings of songs which I have heard a hundred times from singers who knew what they were about, then, though I admire her as I must always, my admiration is rather increased than otherwise when she stops; because then I am no longer conscious of a deficiency which even my unfortunate sister could supply."
"Your criticism of her singing sounds more sincere than your admiration of her loveliness. I am not musician enough to judge. All I know is that her singing is good enough for me."
"I know you are displeased because it is not good enough for me; but how can I help myself? Poor Marian—"
"Do hush!" said Elinor. "Here she is."
"You need not be in such a hurry, Duke," said Marian. "What can it matter to you how late you get back?"
"No," said Marmaduke. "I've got to write home. The governor is ill; and my mammy will send me a five-sheet sermon if I neglect writing to-night. You will keep Lucy for another week, wont you? Box her ears if she gives you any cheek. She wants it: she's been spoiled."
"If we find we can do no better than that with her, we shall hand her back to you," said Conolly. Then the visitors took their leave. Marian gently pressed Douglas's hand and looked into his eyes as he bade her farewell. Elinor, seeing this, glanced uneasily at Conolly, and unexpectedly met his eye. There was a gleam of cynical intelligence in it that did not reassure her. A few minutes later she went to bed, leaving the couple alone together. Conolly looked at his wife for a moment with an amused expression; but she closed her lips irresponsively, and went to the table for a book which she wanted to bring upstairs. She would have gone without a word had he not spoken to her.
"Marian: Douglas is in love with you."
She blushed; thought a moment; and said quietly, "Very well. I shall not ask him to come again."
"Why?"
She colored more vividly and suddenly, and said, "I thought you cared. I beg your pardon."
"My dear," he replied, amiably: "if you exclude everybody who falls in love with you, we shall have no one in the house but blind men."
"And do you like men to be in love with me?"
"Yes. It makes the house pleasant for them; it makes them attentive to you; and it gives you great power for good. When I was a romantic boy, any good woman could have made a saint of me. Let them fall in love with you as much as they please. Afterwards they will seek wives according to a higher standard than if they had never known you. But do not return the compliment, or your influence will become an evil one."
"Ned: I had not intended to tell you this; but now I will. Sholto Douglas not only loves me, but he told me so to-day."
"Of course. A man always does tell it, sooner or later."
Marian sat down on the sofa and looked at him for some time gravely and a little wistfully. "I think," she said, "I should feel very angry if any woman made such a confession to you."
"A Christian British lady does not readily forgive a breach of convention; nor a woman an invasion of her privileges, even when they have become a burden to her."
"What do you mean by that?" she said, rising.
"Marian," he said, looking straight at her: "are you dissatisfied?"
"What reason have I to—"
"Never mind the reasons. Are you?"
"No," said she, steadfastly.
He smiled indulgently; pressed her hand for a moment against his cheek; and went out for the short walk he was accustomed to take before retiring.