"I can tell you nothing as to what we are likely to do next. As Sholto
has given up all his prospects for me, I cannot honorably desert him. I
know now that I have ruined myself for nothing, and I must at least try
to hide from him that he has done likewise. I can see that he is not
happy; but he tries so desperately to persuade himself that he is, and
clings so to the idea that the world is well lost for me, that I have
not the heart to undeceive him. So we are still lovers; and, cynical
though it sounds, I make him a great deal happier in my insincerity than
I could if I really loved him, because I humor him with a cunning quite
incompatible with passion. He, on the other hand, being still sincere,
tries my patience terribly with his jealousies and importunities. As he
has nothing to do, he is almost always with me; and a man who has no
office to go to--I dont care who he is--is a trial of which you can have
no conception. So much for our present relations. But I fear--indeed I
know--that they will not last long. I dare not look steadily at the
future. In spite of all that he has sacrificed for me, I cannot live
forever with him. There are times at which he inspires me with such a
frenzy of aversion and disgust that I have to put the strongest
constraint upon myself to avoid betraying my feelings to him. We
intended going to the West Indies direct from here, in search of some
idyllic retreat where we could live alone together. He still entertains
this project; but as I have totally abandoned it I put him off with some
pretext for remaining here whenever he mentions it. I have only one hope
of gaining a separation without being open to the reproach of having
deserted him. You remember how we disputed that Saturday about the
merits of a grand passion, which I so foolishly longed for. Well, I have
tried it, and proved it to be a lamentable delusion, selfish,
obstinate, blind, intemperate, and transient. As it has evaporated from
me, so it will evaporate from Sholto in the course of time. It would
have done so already, but that his love was more genuine than mine. When
the time comes, he will get rid of me without the least remorse; and so
he will have no excuse for reviving his old complaints of my treachery.

"One new and very disagreeable feature in my existence, which I had
partly prepared myself for, is the fear of detection. We sailed before
our flight had become public; and as there was fortunately no one on
board who knew us, I had a nine days' respite, and could fearlessly
approach the other women, who, I suppose, would not have spoken to me
had they known the truth. But here it is different. Ned's patents are so
much more extensively worked here than in England, and the people are so
go-ahead, that they take a great interest in him, and are proud of him
as an American. The news got into the papers a few days after we
arrived. To appreciate the full significance of this, you should know
what American newspapers are. One of them actually printed a long
account of my going away, with every paragraph headed in large print,
'Domestic Unhappiness,' 'The Serpent in the Laboratory,' 'The
Temptation,' 'The Flight,' 'The Pursuit,' and so on, all invented, of
course. Other papers give the most outrageous anecdotes. Old jokes are
revived and ascribed to us. I am accused of tearing his hair out, and he
of coming home late at nights drunk. Two portraits of ferocious old
women supposed to be Ned's mother-in-law have been published. The latest
version appeared in a Sunday paper, and is quite popular in this hotel.
According to it, Ned was in the habit of 'devoting me to science' by
trying electrical experiments on me. 'This,' the account says, 'was kind
of rough on the poor woman.' The day before I 'scooted,' a new machine
appeared before the house, drawn by six horses. 'What are them men
foolin' round with, Mr. C.?' said I. 'That's hubby's latest,' replied
Ned. 'I guess it's the boss electro-dynamic fixin' in the universe.
Full charge that battery with a pint of washing soda, an' youll fetch up
a current fit to ravage a cont'nent. You shall have a try t'morro'
mornin', Sal. Youre better seasoned to it than most Britishers; but if
it dont straighten your hair and lift the sparks outer your
eyelashes--!' 'You bet it wont, Mr. C.,' said I. That night (this is
only what the paper says, mind) I stole out of bed; arranged the wires
on each side of Ned so that if he stirred an inch he would make contact;
charged the battery; and gently woke him, saying, 'Mr. C, love, dont
stir for your life. Them things that's ticklin' your whiskers is the
conductors of that boss fixin' o' yourn. If I was you, I'd lie still
until the battery runs down.' 'Darn it all,' said Ned, afraid to lift
his lips for a shout, and coming out in cold water all over the
forehead, 'it wont run down for a week clear.' 'That'll answer me
nicely,' I replied. 'Good-bye, Mr. C. Young Douglas from the corner
grocery is waitin' for me with a shay down the avenue.' I cannot help
laughing at these things, but they drive Sholto frantic. He is always
described in them as a young man from some shop or other. He tries hard,
out of delicacy, to keep the papers which contain them away from me; but
I hear about them at breakfast, and buy them downstairs in the hall for
myself. Another grievance of Sholto's is that I will not have meals
privately. But my dislike to being always alone with him is greater than
my dread that my secret will leak out, and that some morning I shall see
in the people's faces that the Mrs. Forster who has so often been
regaled with the latest account of the great scandal, is no other than
the famous Mrs. Conolly. That evil day will come, sooner or later; but I
had rather face it in one of these wonderful hotels than in a
boarding-house, which I might be asked to leave. As to taking a house of
our own, I shrink from any such permanent arrangement. We are noticed a
good deal. Sholto is, of course, handsome and distinguished; and people
take a fancy to me just as they used to long ago. I was once proud of
this; but now it is a burden to me. For instance, there was a Mrs.
Crawford staying here with her husband, a general, who has just built a
house here. She was so determined to know me that I found it hard to
keep her off without offending her. At last she got ill; and then I felt
justified in nursing her. Sholto was very sulky because I did so, and
wanted to know what business it was of mine. I did not trouble myself
about his anger, and Mrs. Crawford was well in two days. In fact, I
think Sholto was right in saying that she had only overeaten herself.
After that I could avoid her no longer, and she was exceedingly kind to
me. She wanted to introduce me to all her New York friends, and begged
me to leave the hotel and go to her new mansion. There was plenty of
room for us, she said. I did not know what to say. I could not repay her
kindness by going to her house under false colors, and letting her
introduce me to her circle; and yet I could make no reasonable excuse.
At last, seeing that she attributed my refusals to pride, I told her
plainly that if her friends were to learn my history by any accident
they might not thank her for the introduction. She was quite confounded;
but she did not abate her kindness in the least, although my reservation
of confidence in only giving her a hint of the truth, checked her
advances. You may think this an insane indiscretion on my part; but if
you knew how often I have longed to stand up before everybody and
proclaim who I am, and so get rid of the incubus of a perpetual
falsehood, you would not be so much surprised. There is one unspeakable
blessing in American law. It is quite easy to obtain a divorce. One can
get free without sacrificing everything except bare existence. I do not
care what anybody may argue to the contrary, our marriage laws are
shameful.

"I shall expect to hear from you very soon. If you desert me, Nelly,
there is no such thing as friendship in the world. I want particularly
to know what Ned did--as far as you know--when he heard the news. Is
papa very angry? And, above all, could you find out how Mrs. Douglas is?
I thought that Sholto would be uneasy and remorseful about her; but he
does not really care half so much as I do. How selfish I have been! I
used to flatter myself that I was thoughtful for others because I made a
habit--a detestably self-conscious habit--of being considerate in
trifles. And in the end, after being so vain-gloriously attentive to the
momentary comfort of all connected with me, I utterly forgot them and
thought only of myself when their whole happiness was concerned. I never
knew how high I stood in my own estimation until I found how far the
discovery of my folly and selfishness made me fall. Tell me everything".
I cannot write any more now. My eyes are smarting: I feel as if I had
been writing for a whole month instead of two days. Good-bye for three
weeks.

"MARIAN."

"P.S. I have just learnt from a very severe criticism in one of the
papers that Mdlle. Lalage Virtue has failed here completely. I fear from
the wording that her unfortunate habit was apparent to the audience."




CHAPTER XIX


On a cold afternoon in January, Sholto Douglas entered a hold in New
York, and ascended to a room on the first floor. Marian was sitting
there, thinking, with a letter in her lap, She only looked up for a
moment when he entered; and he plucked off his sealskin gloves and threw
aside his overcoat in silence.

"It is an infernal day," he said presently.

Marian sighed, and roused herself. "The rooms look cheerless in winter
without the open fireplaces we are accustomed to in England."

"Damn the rooms!" he muttered.

Marian took up her letter again.

"Do you know that he has filed a petition for divorce?" he said,
aggressively.

"Yes."

"You might have mentioned it to me. Probably you have known it for days
past."

"Yes. I thought it was a matter of course."

"Or rather you did not think at nil. I suppose you would have left me in
ignorance forever, if I had not heard from London myself."

"Is it of importance, then?"

"Certainly it is--of vital importance."

"Have you any other news? From whom have you heard?"

"I have received some private letters."

"Oh! I beg your pardon."

Five minutes passed in silence. He looked out of the window, frowning.
She sat as before.

"How much longer do you intend to stay in this place?" he said, turning
upon her suddenly.

"In New York?"

"This is New York, I believe."

"I think we may as well stay here as anywhere else."

"Indeed! On what grounds have you arrived at that cheering conclusion?"

Marian shrugged her shoulders. "I dont know," she said.

"Nor do I. You do not seem happy here. At least, if you are, you fail to
communicate your state of mind to those about you."

"So it seems."

"What does that mean?"

"That you do not seem to be happy either."

"How in the devil's name can you expect me to be happy in this city? Do
you think it is pleasant to have no alternative to the society of
American men except that of a sulky woman?"

"Sholto!" said Marian, rising quickly, and looking at him in surprise.

"Spare me these airs," he said, coldly. "You will have to accustom
yourself to hear the truth occasionally."

She sat down again. "I am not giving myself airs," she said, earnestly.
"I am astonished. Have I really been sulky?"

"You have been in the sulks for days past: and you are in them at this
moment."

"There is some misunderstanding between us then; for you have seemed to
me quite cross and out of sorts for the last week; and I thought you
were out of temper when you came in just now."

"That is rather an old-fashioned retort."

"Sholto: I do not know whether you intend it or not; but you are
speaking very slightingly to me."

He muttered something, and walked across the room and back. "I am quite
clear on one point at least," he said. "It was not for this sort of
thing that I crossed the Atlantic with you; and you had bettor make our
relations more agreeable if you wish me to make them permanent."

"You to make them permanent? I do not understand."

"I shall not shrink from explaining myself. If your husband's suit is
undefended, he will obtain a decree which will leave you a single woman
in six months. Now, whatever you may think to the contrary, there is not
a club in London that would hold me in any way bound to marry you after
the manner in which you have behaved. Let me remind you that your future
position depends on your present conduct. You have apparently forgotten
it."

She looked at him; and he went back to the window.

"My husband's suit cannot be defended," she said. "Doubtless you will
act according to the dictates of the London clubs."

"I do not say so," he said, turning angrily. "I shall act according to
the dictates of my own common sense. And do not be too sure that the
petition will be unopposed. The law recognizes the plea of connivance."

"But it would be a false plea," said Marian, raising her voice.

"I shall not discuss that with you. Whether your husband was blind, or
merely kept his eyes shut will not be decided by us. You have been
warned. We will drop the subject now, if you please."

"Do you suppose," said Marian, with a bright color in her cheeks, "that
after what you have said, anything could induce me to marry you?"

He was startled, and remained for a moment motionless. Then he said, in
his usual cold tone, "As you please. You may think better of it. I will
leave you for the present. When we meet again, you will be calmer."

"Yes," she said. "Good-bye."

Without answering, he changed his coat for a silk jacket, transferred
his cigar-case to a pocket in it, and went out. When he had passed the
threshold, he hesitated, and returned.

"Why do you say good-bye?" he said, after clearing his throat uneasily.

"I do not like to leave you without saying it."

"I hope you have not misunderstood me, Marian. I did not mean that we
should part."

"I know that. Nevertheless, we shall part. I will never sleep beneath
the same roof with you again."

"Come!" he said, shutting the door: "this is nonsense. You are out of
temper."

"So you have already told me," she said, becoming pale.

"Well, but--Marian: perhaps I may have spoken rather harshly just now;
but I did not mean you to take it so. You must be reasonable."

"Pray let us have no more words about it. I need no apologies, and
desire no advances. Good-bye is enough."

"But, Marian," said he, coming nearer, "you must not fancy that I have
ceased to love you."

"Above all," said Marian, "let us have no more of that. You say you hate
this place and the life we lead here. I am heartily sick of it, and have
been so for a long time."

"Let us go elsewhere."

"Yes, but not together. One word," she added resolutely, seeing his
expression become fierce. "I will not endure any violence, even of
language, from you. I know of old what you are when you lose your
temper; and if you insult me I will summon aid, and proclaim who I am."

"Do you think I am going to strike you?"

"No, because you dare not. But I will not listen to oaths or abuse."

"What have you to complain of? What is your grievance?"

"I make no complaint. I exercise the liberty I bought so dearly to go
where I please and do what I please."

"And to desert me when I have sacrificed everything for you. I have
incurred enormous expenses; alienated my friends; risked my position in
society; and broken my mother's heart for your sake."

"But for that I would have left you before. I am very sorry."

"You have heard something in that letter which makes you hope that your
husband will take you back. Not a woman in London will speak to you."

"I tell you I am not going back. Oh, Sholto, dont be so mean. Can we not
part with dignity? We have made a mistake. Let us acknowledge it
quietly, and go our several ways."

"I will not be got rid of so easily as you suppose," he said, his face
darkening menacingly. "Do you think I believe in your going out alone
from this hotel and living by yourself in a strange city? Come! who is
it?"

"Who is----? What do you mean?"

"What new connexion have you formed? You were very anxious about our
ship returning the other day--anxious about the mails, of course.
Perhaps also about the surgeon."

"I understand. You think I am leaving you to go to some other man. I
will tell you now the true reason."

"Do," said he, sarcastically, biting his lip.

"I will. I am leaving you because, instead of loving you, as I foolishly
thought I could, I neither respect nor even like you. You are utterly
selfish and narrow-minded; and I deserve my disappointment for having
deserted for your sake a far better man. I am sorry you have sacrificed
so much for me; but if you had been worthy of a woman's regard, you
would not have lost me."

Douglas stared at her. "_I_ selfish and narrow-minded!" he said, with
the calm of stupefaction.

"Yes."

"I may have been narrow-minded in devoting myself so entirely to you,"
said he slowly, after a pause. "But, though I do not ask for gratitude,
I think I have been sufficiently a loser to disregard such a monstrous
assertion as that I am selfish."

"You show your selfishness by dwelling on what you have lost. You never
think of what I have lost. I make no profession of unselfishness. I am
suffering for my folly and egoism; and I deserve to suffer."

"In what way, pray, are you suffering? You came here because you had a
wretched home, and a husband who was glad to be rid of you. You do what
you like, and have what you like. Name one solitary wish of yours that
has not been silently gratified."

"I do not find fault with you. You have been generous in supplying me
with luxuries such as money can obtain. But it was not the want of money
that made me fancy my home wretched. It is not true that I can do as I
like. How many minutes is it since you threatened to cast me off if I
did not make myself agreeable to you? Can you boast of your generosity
after taunting me with my dependence on you?"

"You misunderstood me, Marian. I neither boasted, nor threatened, nor
taunted. I have even apologized for that moment's irritation. If you
cannot forgive such a trifle, you yourself can have very little
generosity."

"Perhaps not. I do not violently resent things; but I cannot forget
them, nor feel as I did before they happened."

"You think so at present. Let us cease this bickering. Lovers' quarrels
should not be carried too far."

"I am longing to cease it. It worries me; and it does not alter my
determination in the least."

"Do you mean----"

"I do mean. Dont look at me like that: you make me angry instead of
frightening me."

"And do you think I will suffer this quietly?"

"You may suffer it as you please," said Marian, stepping quietly to the
wall, and pressing a button. "I will never see you again if I can help
it. If you follow me, or persecute me in any way, I will appeal to the
police for protection as Mrs. Conolly. I despise you more than I do any
one on earth."

He turned away, and snatched up his coat and hat. She stood apparently
watching him quietly, but really listening with quickened heart to his
loud and irregular breathing. As he opened the door to go out, he was
confronted on the threshold by a foreign waiter.

"Vas you reeng?" said the waiter doubtfully, retreating a step.

"I will not be accountable for that woman's expenses from this time
forth," said Douglas, pointing at her, "You can keep her at your own
risk, or turn her into the streets to pursue her profession, as you
please."

The waiter, smiting vaguely, looked first at the retreating figure of
Douglas, and then at Marian.

"I want another room, if you please," she said. "One on any of the upper
floors will do; but I must have my things moved there at once."

Her instructions were carried out after some parley. In the meantime,
Douglas's man servant appeared, and said that he had been instructed to
remove his master's luggage.

"Is Mr. Forster leaving the hotel?" she asked.

"I dont know his arrangements, madam."

"I guess I do, then," said a sulky man, who was preparing to wheel away
Marian's trunk. "He's about to shift his billet to the Gran' Central."

Marian, still in a towering rage, sat down in her new room to consider
her situation. To fix her attention, which repeatedly wandered to what
had passed between her and Douglas, she counted her money, and found
that she had, besides a twenty pound note which she had brought with her
from London, only a few loose dollars in her purse. Her practice in
housekeeping at Westbourne Terrace and Holland Park had taught her the
value of money too well to let her suppose that she could afford to
remain at a first rate American hotel with so small a sum in her
possession. At home Conolly had made her keep a separate banking
account; and there was money to her credit there; but in her ignorance
of the law, she was not sure that she had not forfeited all her property
by eloping. She resolved to move at once into some cheap lodging, and to
live economically until she could ascertain the true state of her
affairs, or until she could obtain some employment, to support her. She
faced poverty without fear, never having experienced it.

It was still early in the afternoon when she left the hotel and drove to
the Crawfords'.

"So you have come at last," cried Mrs. Crawford, who was fifty years of
age and stout, but leaner in the face than fat Englishwomen of that age
usually are.

"I just expected you'd soon git tired of being grand all by yourself in
the hotel yonder."

"I fear I shall have to be the reverse of grand all by myself in some
very shabby lodging," said Marian. "Dont be surprised Mrs. Crawford. Can
one live in New York on ten dollars a week?"

"_You_ cant live on ten dollars a week in New York nor on a hundred. You
rode here, didnt you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Of course. If you have only ten dollars a week you should have walked.
I know the sort you are, Mrs. Forster. You wont be long getting rid of
your money, no matter where you live. But whats wrong? Hows your
husband?"

"I dont know. I hope he is quite well," said Marian, her voice trembling
a little. "Mrs. Crawford: you are the only friend I have in America;
and you have been so very kind to me that since I must trouble some one,
I have ventured to come to you. The truth is that I have left my
husband; and I have only about one hundred dollars in the world. I must
live on that until I get some employment, or perhaps some money of my
own from England."

"Chut, child! Nawnsnse!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawford, with benevolent
intolerance. "You go right back to your husband. I spose youve had a
rumpus with him; but you mustnt mind that. All men are a bit selfish;
and I should say from what I have seen of him that he is no exception to
the rule. But you cant have perfection. He's a fine handsome fellow; and
he knows it. And, as for you, I dont know what they reckon you in
England; but youre the best-looking woman in Noo York: thats surtn. It's
a pity for such a pair to fall out."

"He is not selfish," said Marian. "You never saw him. I am afraid I must
shock you, Mrs. Crawford. Mr. Forster is not my husband."

"No! Do! Did you ever tell the General that?"

"General Crawford! Oh, no."

"Think of that man being cuter than me, a woman! He always said so. And
the grit you must have, to tell it out as cool as that! Well! I'm sorry
to hear it though, Mrs. Forster. It's a bad account--a very bad one. But
if I take what you said just now rightly, youre married."

"I am. I have deserted a very good husband."

"It's a pity you didnt find that out a little sooner, isnt it?"

"I know, Mrs. Crawford. I thought I was acting for the best."

"Thought you were acting for the best in running away from a good
husband! Well, you British aristocrats are singular. You throw stones at
us because our women are so free and our divorces so easy. Yet youre
always scandlizing us; and now _you_ tell me youve done it on morl
grounds! Who educated you, child? And what do you intend to do now?"

"For the present, only to get a lodging. Will you tell me where I should
look for one? I dont know the east from the west end of this town; and I
am so inexperienced that I might make a mistake easily as to the
character of the places. Will you direct me to some street or quarter in
which I should he likely to find suitable rooms? I can live very
economically."

"I dont know what to do," said Mrs. Crawford, perplexedly, turning her
rings on her fingers. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And you so
pretty!"

"Perhaps you would rather not assist me. You may tell me so candidly. I
shall not be offended."

"You mustnt take me up like that. I must have a talk with the General
about you. I dont feel like letting you go into some ordinary place by
yourself. But I cant ask you to stay here without consulting----"

"Oh, no, you must not think of any such thing: I must begin to face the
world alone at once. I assure you, Mrs. Crawford, I could not come here.
I should only keep your friends away."

"But nobody knows you."

"Sooner or later I should meet someone who does. There are hundreds of
people who know me by sight, who travel every year. Besides, my case is
a very public one, unfortunately. May I take you into my confidence?"

"If you wish, my dear. I dont ask you for it; but I will take it
kindly."

"I know you will. You must have heard all about me. Mr. Forster's real
name is Douglas."

Mrs. Crawford stifled a whoop of surprise. "And you! Are you----?"

"I am."

"Only think! And that was Douglas! Why, I thought he was a
straight-haired, sleeky, canting snake of a man. And you too are not a
bit like what I thought. You are quite a person, Mrs.--Mrs. Conolly."

"I have no right to bear that name any longer. Pray call me by my
assumed name still, and keep my secret. I hope you do not believe all
the newspapers said?"

"No, of course not," said Mrs. Crawford. "But whose fault was it?"

"Mine. Altogether mine. I wish you would tell people that Mr. Conolly is
blameless in the matter."

"He will take care of his own credit, never fear. I am sure you got some
provocation: I know what men are. The General is not my first husband."

"No, I got no provocation. Mr. Conolly is not like other men. I got
discontented because I had nothing to desire. And now, about the
lodgings, Mrs. Crawford. Do not think I am changing the subject from
reticence. It is the question of money that makes me anxious. All my
resources would be swallowed up at the hotel in less than a week."

"Lodgings? You mean rooms, I guess. People here mostly go to
boarding-houses. And as to the cheapness, you dont know what cheapness
is. Cant you make some arrangement with your great relations in England?
Have you no property of your own?"

"I cannot tell whether my property remains my own or not. You must
regard me as a poor woman. I am quite determined to have the lodgings;
and I should like to arrange about them at once; for I am rather upset
by something that happened this morning."

"Well, if you must, you must, I know a place that might suit you: I
lived in it myself when I was not so well off as I am at present. It is
a little down-town; but you will have to put up with that for the sake
of economy."

Mrs. Crawford, who had read in the papers of her guest's relationship to
the Earl of Carbury, then sent for her carriage, and dressed herself
handsomely. When they had gone some distance, they entered a wide
street, crossed half way along by an avenue and an elevated railway.

"What do you think of this neighborhood?" said Mrs. Crawford.

"It is a fine, wide street," replied Marian; "but it looks as if it
needed to be swept and painted."

"The other end is quieter. I'm afraid you wont like living here."

Marian had hitherto thought of such streets as thoroughfares, not as
places in which she could dwell. "Beggars cannot be choosers," she said,
with affected cheerfulness, looking anxiously ahead for the promised
quiet part.

"Boarding-houses are so much the rule here, that it is not easy to get
rooms. You will find Mrs. Myers a good soul, and though the house is not
much to look at, it is comfortable enough inside."

The appearance of the street improved as they went on; and the house
they stopped at, though the windows were dingy and the paint old, was
better than Marian had hoped for a minute before. She remained in the
carriage whilst her companion conferred with the landlady within. Twenty
minutes passed before Mrs. Crawford reappeared, looking much perplexed.

"Mrs. Myers has a couple of rooms that would do you very well; only you
would be on the same floor with a woman who is always drunk. She has
pawned a heap of clothes, and promises to leave every day; but Mrs.
Myers hasnt got rid of her yet. It's very provoking. She's quiet, and
doesnt trouble any one; but still, of course----"

"She cannot interfere with me," said Marian. "If that is the only
objection, let it pass. I need have nothing to say to her. If she is not
violent nor noisy, her habits are her own affair."

"Oh, she wont trouble you. You can keep to yourself, English fashion."

"Then let us agree at once. I cannot face any more searching and
bargaining."

"Youre looking pale. Are you sure you are not ill?"

"No. It is nothing. I am rather tired."

They went in together; and Marian was introduced to Mrs. Myers, a
nervous widow of fifty. The rooms were small, and the furniture and
carpets old and worn; but all was clean; and there was an open fireplace
in the sitting-room.

"They will do very nicely, thank you," said Marian. "I will send for my
luggage; and I think I will just telegraph my new address and a few
words to a friend in London."

"If you feel played out, I can see after your luggage," said Mrs.
Crawford. "But I advise you to come back with me; have a good lunch at
Delmonico's; and send your cablegram yourself."

Marian roused herself from a lassitude which was coming upon her, and
took Mrs. Crawford's advice. When they returned to the richer quarter of
the town, and especially after luncheon, her spirits revived. At the
hotel she observed that the clerk was surprised when, arranging for the
removal of her luggage and the forwarding of her letters, she mentioned
her new address. Douglas, she found, had paid all expenses before
leaving. She did not linger in the building; for the hotel staff stared
at her curiously. She finished her business by telegraphing to Elinor:
"_Separated. Write to new address. Have I forfeited my money?_" This
cost her nearly five dollars.

"Only that you must find out about your money, I wouldnt have let you
spend all that," said Mrs. Crawford.

"I did not think it would have cost so much," said Marian. "I was
horrified when he named the price. However, it cannot be helped."

"We may as well be getting back to Mrs. Myers's now. It's late."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Marian, sighing. "I am sorry I did not ask
Nelly to telegraph me. I am afraid my funds will not last so long as I
thought."

"Well, we shall see. The General was greatly taken with you for the way
you looked after me when I was ill yonder; so you have two friends in
Noo York City, at any rate."

"You have proved that to me to-day. I am afraid I shall have to trouble
you further if I get bad news. You will have to help me to find some
work."

"Yes. Never mind that until the bad news comes. I hope you wont mope at
Mrs. Myers's. How does the American air agree with you?"

"Pretty well. I was sick for the first two days of our passage across,
and somehow my digestion seems to have got out of order in consequence.
Of late I have been a little unwell in the mornings."

"Oh! Thats so, is it? Humph! I see I shall have to come and look after
you occasionally."

"Why?"

"Never you mind, my dear. But dont go moping, nor going without food to
save money. Take care of yourself."

"It is nothing serious," said Marian, with a smile. "Only a passing
indisposition. You need not be uneasy about me. This is the house, is it
not? I shall lose myself whenever I go out for a walk here."

"This is it. Now good-bye. I'll see you soon. Meanwhile, you take care
of yourself, as youre told."

It was dark when Marian entered her new residence. Mrs. Myers was
standing at the open door, remonstrating with a milkman. Marian hastily
assured her that she knew the way, and went upstairs alone. She was
chilled and weary; her spirits had fallen again during her journey from
the telegraph office. As she approached her room, hoping to find a good
fire, she heard a flapping noise, which was suddenly interrupted by the
rattle of a falling poker, followed by the exclamation, in a woman's
voice, "Och, musha, I wouldnt doubt you." Marian, entering, saw a robust
young woman kneeling before the grate, trying to improve a dull fire
that burnt there. She had taken up the poker and placed it standing
against the bars so that it pointed up the chimney; and she was now
using her apron fanwise as a bellows. The fire glowed in the draught;
and Marian, by its light, noted with displeasure that the young woman's
calico dress was soiled, and her hair untidy.

"I think----"

"God bless us!" ejaculated the servant, starting and turning a comely
dirty face toward Marian.

"Did I frighten you?" said Marian, herself startled by the exclamation.

"You put the life acrass in me," said the servant, panting, and pressing
her hand on her bosom.

"I am sorry for that. I was going to say that I think you need not take
any further trouble with the fire. It will light of itself now."

"Very well, miss."

"What is your name?"

"Liza Redmon', miss."

"I should like some light, Eliza, if you please."

"Yis, miss. Would you wish to take your tay now, miss?"

"Yes, thank you."

Eliza went away with alacrity. Marian put off her bonnet and furs, and
sat down before the fire to despond over the prospect of living in that
shabby room, waited on by that slipshod Irish girl, who roused in her
something very like racial antipathy. Presently Eliza returned, carrying
a small tray, upon which she had crowded a lighted kerosene lamp, a
china tea service, a rolled-up table cloth, a supply of bread and
butter, and a copper kettle. When she had placed the lamp on the
mantelpiece, and the kettle by the fire, she put the tray on the sofa,
and proceeded to lay the cloth, which she shook from its folds and
spread like a sail in the air by seizing two of the corners in her
hands, and pulling them apart whilst she held the middle fold in her
teeth. Then she adroitly wafted it over the table, making a breeze in
which the lamp flared and Marian blinked. Her movements were very rapid;
and in a few moments she had arranged the tea service, and was ready to
withdraw.

"My luggage will be sent here this evening or to-morrow, Eliza. Will you
tell me when it comes?"

"Yis, miss."

"You know that my name is _Mrs_. Forster, do you not?"

"Mrs. Forster. Yis, miss."

Marian made no further attempt to get miss changed to maam; and Eliza
left the room. As she crossed the landing, she was called by someone on
the same floor. Marian started at the sound. It was a woman's voice,
disagreeably husky: a voice she felt sure she had heard before, and yet
one that was not familiar to her.

"Eliza. Eli-za!" Marian shuddered.

"Yis, yis," said Eliza, impatiently, opening a door.

"Come here, alanna," said the voice, with mock fondness. The door was
then closed, and Marian could hear the murmur of the conversation which
followed. It was still proceeding when Mrs. Myers came in.

"I didnt ought to have left you to find your way up here alone, Mrs.
Forster," she said; "but I do have such worry sometimes that I'm bound
to leave either one thing or another undone."

"It does not matter at all, Mrs. Myers. Your servant has been very
attentive to me."

"The hired girl? She's smart, she is--does everything right slick away.
The only trouble is to keep her out of that room. She's in there now.
Unless I am always after her, she is slipping out on errands, pawning
and buying drink for that unfortunate young creature."

"For whom?"

"A person that Mrs. Crawford promised to tell you about."

"So she did," said Marian. "But I did not know she was young."

"She's older than you, a deal. I knew her when she was a little girl,
and I often forget how old she is. She was the prettiest child! Even now
she would talk you into anything. But I cant help her. It's nothing but
drink, drink, drink from morning til night. There's Eliza coming out of
her room. Eliza."

"Yis, maam," said Eliza, looking in.

"You stay in the house, Eliza, do you hear? I wont have you go out."

"Could I spake a word to you, maam?" said Eliza, lowering her voice.

"No, Eliza. I'm engaged with Mrs. Forster."

"She wants to see you," whispered Eliza.

"Go downrs, Eliza, this minute. I wont see her."

"Mrs. Myers," cried the voice. Marian again shrank from the sound. "Mrs.
My-ers. Aunt Sally. Come to your poor Soozy." Mrs. Myers looked
perplexedly at Marian. The voice resumed after a pause, with an affected
Yankee accent, "I guess I'll raise a shine if you dont come."

"I must go," said Mrs. Myers. "I promise you, Mrs. Forster, she shall
not annoy you. She shall go this week. It aint right that you should be
disturbed by her."

Mrs. Myers went into the other room. Eliza ran downrs, and Marian
heard her open the house door softly and go out. She also heard
indistinctly the voices of the landlady and her lodger. After a time
these ceased, and she drank her tea in peace. She was glad that Mrs.
Myers did not return, although she made no more comfortable use of her
solitude than to think of her lost home in Holland Park, comparing it
with her dingy apartment, and pressing her handkerchief upon her eyes
when they became too full of tears. She had passed more than an hour
thus when Eliza roused her by announcing the arrival of the luggage.
Thereupon she bestirred herself to superintend its removal to her
bedroom, where she unpacked a trunk which contained her writing-case and
some books. With these were stowed her dresses, much miscellaneous
finery, and some handsomely worked underclothing. Eliza, standing by,
could not contain her admiration; and Marian, though she did not permit
her to handle the clothes, had not the heart to send her away until she
had seen all that the trunk contained. Marian heard her voice afterward
in the apartment of the drunken lodger, and suspected from its emphasis
that the girl was describing the rare things she had seen.

Marian imparted some interest to her surroundings that evening by
describing them in a letter to Elinor. When she had finished, she was
weary; and the fire was nearly out. She looked at her watch, and,
finding to her surprise that is was two hours after midnight, rose to go
to bed. Before leaving the room, she stood for a minute before the
old-fashioned pier-glass, with one foot on the fender, and looked at her
image, pitying her own weariness, and enjoying the soft beauty of her
face and the gentleness of her expression. Her appearance did not always
please her; but on this occasion the mirror added so much to the solace
she had found in writing to Elinor, that she felt almost happy as she
took the lamp to light her to her bedroom.

She had gone no farther than the landing when a sound of unsteady
footsteps on the stairs caused her to stop. As she lifted the lamp and
looked up, she saw a strange woman descending toward her, holding the
balustrade, and moving as though with pains in her limbs. This woman,
whose black hair fell nearly to her waist, was dressed in a crimson
satin dressing-gown, warmly padded, and much stained and splashed. She
had fine dark eyes, and was young, bold-looking, and handsome; but when
she came nearer, the moist pallor of her skin, the slackness of her
lower lip and jaw, and an eager and worn expression in her fine eyes,
gave her a thirsty, reckless leer that filled Marian with loathing. Her
aspect conveyed the same painful suggestion as her voice had done
before, but more definitely; for it struck Marian, with a shock, that
Conolly, in the grotesque metamorphosis of a nightmare, might appear in
some such likeness. The lamp did not seem to attract her attention at
first; but when she came within a few steps, she saw some one before
her, and, dazzled by the light, peered at Marian, who lost her presence
of mind, and stood motionless. Gradually the woman's expression changed
to one of astonishment. She came down to the landing; stopped, grasping
the handrail to steady herself; and said in her husky voice:

"Oh, Lord! It's not a woman at all. It's D. Ts." Then, not quite
convinced by this explanation, she suddenly stretched out her hand and
attempted to grasp Marian's arm. Missing her aim, she touched her on the
breast, and immediately cried, "Mrs. Ned!"

Marian shrank from her touch, and recovered her courage.

"Do you know me?" she said.

"I should rather think I do. I have gone off a good deal in my
appearance, or you would know me. Youve seen me on the stage, I suppose.
I'm your sister-in-law. Perhaps you didnt know you had one."

"Are you Miss Susanna Conolly?"

"Thats who I am. At least I am what is left of Miss Susanna. You dont
look overjoyed to make my acquaintance; but I was as good-looking as you
once. Take my advice, Mrs. Ned: dont drink champagne. The end of
champagne is brandy; and the end of brandy is----" Susanna made a
grimace and indicated herself.

"I am afraid we shall disturb the house if we talk here. We had better
say good-night."

"No, no. Dont be in such a hurry to get rid of me. Come into my room
with me for a while. I'll talk quietly: I'm not drunk. Ive just slept it
off; and I was coming down for some more. You may as well keep me from
it for a few minutes. I suppose Ned hasnt forbidden you to speak to me."

"Oh, no," said Marian, yielding to a feeling of pity. "Come into my
room. There is a scrap of fire there still."

"We used to lodge in this room long ago, in my father's time," said
Susanna, following Marian into the room, and reclining with a groan on
the sofa. "I'm rather in a fog, you know: I cant make out how the deuce
you come to be here. Did Ned send you to look after me? Is he in New
York? Is he here?"

"No," said Marian, foreseeing with a bitter pang and a terrible blush
what must follow. "He is in England. I am alone here."

"Well, why--? what--? I dont understand."

"Have you not read the papers?" said Marian, in a low voice, turning her
head away.

"Papers! No, not since I saw an account of my brilliant _debГ»t_ 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."