"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."