"It seems to me that the worst view of things is always the true one in
this world. Nelly and Jasper were right about you."

"Aha! So _they_ saw what I felt. You cant say I did not make my
intentions plain enough to every unbiassed person. The Countess was
determined to get Constance off her hands; Constance was determined to
have me; and you were determined to stick up for your own notions of
love and honeysuckles."

"I was determined to stick up for _you_, Marmaduke."

"Dont be indignant: I knew you would stick up for me in your own way.
But what I want to shew is, that only three people believed that I was
in earnest; and those three were prejudiced."

"I wish you had enlightened Constance, and deceived all the rest of the
world, instead. No doubt I was wrong, very wrong. I am very sorry."

"Pshaw! It doesnt matter. It will all blow over some day. Hush, I hear
the garden gate opening. It is Constance, come to spy what I am doing
here with you. She is as jealous as a crocodile--very nearly made a
scene yesterday because I played with Nelly against her at tennis. I
have to drive her to Bushy Copse this afternoon, confound it!"

"And _will_ you, after what you have just confessed?"

"I must. Besides, Jasper says that Conolly is coming this evening to
pack up his traps and go; and I want to be out of the way when he is
about."

"This evening!"

"Yes. Between ourselves, Marian, Susanna and I were so put out by the
cool way he carried on when he called, that we had a regular quarrel
after he went; and we haven't made it up yet."

"Pray dont talk about it to me, Duke. Here is Constance."

"So you are here," said Constance, gaily, but with a quick glance at
them. "That is a pretty way to bring your cousin in to luncheon, sir."

"We got chatting about you, my ownest," said Marmaduke; "and the subject
was so sweet, and the moments were so fleet, that we talked for quite an
hour on the strict q.t. Eh, Marian?"

"As a punishment, you shall have no lunch. Mamma is very angry with you
both."

"Always ready to make allowances for her, provided she sends you to
lecture me, Conny. Why dont you wear your hat properly?" He arranged her
hat as he spoke. Constance laughed and blushed. Marian shuddered. "Now
youre all that fancy painted you: youre lovely, youre divine. Are you
ready for Bushy Copse?"

Constance replied by singing:

  "Oh yes, if you please, kind sir, she said; sir, she said; sir, she said;
  Oh! yes if you ple--ease, kind sir, she said."

"Then come along. After your ladyship," he said, taking her elbows as if
they were the handles of a wheelbarrow, and pushing her out before him
through the narrow entrance to the summer-house. On the threshold he
turned for a moment; met Marian's reproachful eyes with a wink; grinned;
and disappeared.

For half an hour afterward Marian sat alone in the summer-house,
thinking of the mistake she had made. Then she returned to the Cottage,
where she found Miss McQuinch writing in the library, and related to her
all that had passed in the summer-house. Elinor listened, seated in a
rocking-chair, restlessly clapping her protended ankles together. When
she heard of Conolly's relationship to Susanna, she kept still for a
few moments, looking with widely opened eyes at Marian. Then, with a
sharp laugh, she said:

"Well, I beg his pardon. I thought he was another of that woman's
retainers. I never dreamt of his being her brother."

Marian was horror stricken. "You thought--! Oh, Nelly, what puts such
things into your head?"

"So would you have thought it if you had the least gumption about
people. However, I was wrong; and I'm glad of it. However, I was right
about Marmaduke. I told you so, over and over and over again."

"I know you did; but I didnt think you were in earnest."

"No, you never can conceive my being in earnest when I differ from you,
until the event proves me to be right."

"I am afraid it will kill Constance."

"_Dont_, Marian!" cried Elinor, giving her chair a violent swing.

"I am quite serious. You know how delicate she is."

"Well, if she dies of any sentiment, it will be wounded vanity. Serve
her right for allowing a man to be forced into marrying her. I believe
she knows in her soul that he does not care about her. Why else should
she be jealous of me, of you, and of everybody?"

"It seems to me that instead of sympathizing with the unfortunate girl,
both you and Marmaduke exult in her disappointment."

"I pity her, poor little wretch. But I dont sympathize with her. I dont
pity Marmaduke one bit: if the whole family cuts him he will deserve it
richly, but I do sympathize with him. Can you wonder at his preference?
When we went to see that woman last June I envied her. There she was,
clever, independent, successful, holding her own in the world, earning
her living, fascinating a crowd of people, whilst we poor respectable
nonentities sat pretending to despise her--as if we were not waiting
until some man in want of a female slave should offer us our board and
lodging and the privilege of his lordly name with 'Missis' before it for
our lifelong services. You may make up as many little bread-and-butter
romances as you please, Marian; but I defy you to give me any sensible
reason why Marmaduke should chain himself for ever to a little inane
thing like Constance, when he can enjoy the society of a capable woman
like that without binding himself at all."

"Nonsense, Nelly! Really, you oughtnt to say such things."

"No. I ought to keep both eyes tight shut so that I may be contented in
that station to which it has pleased God to call me."

"Imagine his proposing to marry her, Nell! I am just as wicked as you;
for I am very glad she refused; though I cant conceive why she did it."

"Perhaps," said Miss McQuinch, becoming excited, "she refused because
she had too much good sense: aye, and too much common decency to accept.
It is all very well for us fortunate good-for-nothings to resort to
prostitution----"

"Oh, Nelly!"

"--I say, to prostitution, to secure ourselves a home and an income.
Somebody said openly in Parliament the other day that marriage was the
true profession of women. So it is a profession; and except that it is a
harder bargain for both parties, and that society countenances it, I
dont see how it differs from what we--bless our virtuous
indignation!--stigmatize as prostitution. _I_ dont mean ever to be
married, I can tell you, Marian. I would rather die than sell myself
forever to a man, and stand in a church before a lot of people whilst
George or somebody read out that cynically plain-spoken marriage service
over me."

"Stop Nelly! Pray stop! If you thought for a moment you would never say
such awful things."

"I thought we had agreed long ago that marriage is a mistake."

"Yes; but that is very different to what you are saying now."

"I cannot see----"

"Pray stop, Nelly. Dont go on in that strain. It does no good; and it
makes me very uncomfortable."

"I'll take it out in work," said Nelly calmly, returning to her
manuscript. "I can see that, as you say, talking does no good. All the
more reason why I should have another try at earning my own living. When
I become a great novelist I shall say what I like and do what I please.
For the present I am your obedient, humble servant."

At any other time Marian would have protested, and explained, and
soothed. Now she was too heavily preoccupied by her guilty conscience.
She strolled disconsolately to the window, and presently, seeing that
Miss McQuinch was at work in earnest and had better not be disturbed,
went off for a lonely walk. It was a glorious afternoon; and nature
heaped its peculiar consolations on her; so that she never thought of
returning until the sun was close to the horizon. As she came, tired,
through the plantation, with the evening glow and the light wind, in
which the branches were rustling and the leaves dropping, lulling her
luxuriously, she heard some one striding swiftly along the path behind.
She looked back; but there was a curve in the way; and she could not see
who was coming. Then it occurred to her that it might be Conolly.
Dreading to face him after what had happened, she stole aside among the
trees a little way, and sat down on a stone, hoping that he might pass
by without seeing her. The next moment he came round the curve, looking
so resolute and vigorous that her heart became fainter as she watched
him. Just opposite where she sat, he stopped, having a clear view of the
path ahead for some distance, and appeared puzzled. Marian held her
breath. He looked to the left through the trees, then to the right,
where she was.

"Good-evening, Miss Lind," he said respectfully, raising his hat.

"Good-evening," said she, trembling.

"You are not looking quite well."

"I have walked too much; and I feel a little tired. That is why I had to
sit down. I shall be rested presently."

Conolly sat down on a felled trunk opposite Marian. "This is my last
visit to Carbury Towers," he said. "No doubt you know that I am going
for good."

"Yes," said Marian. "I--I am greatly obliged to you for all the pains
you have taken with me in the laboratory. You have been very patient. I
suppose I have often wasted your time unreasonably."

"No," said Conolly, unceremoniously, "you have not wasted my time: I
never let anybody do that. My time belonged to Lord Carbury, not to
myself. However, that is neither here nor there. I enjoyed giving you
lessons. Unless you enjoyed taking them, the whole obligation rests on
me."

"They were very pleasant."

He shifted himself into an easier position, looking well pleased. Then
he said, carelessly, "Has Mr. Marmaduke Lind come down?"

Marian reddened and felt giddy.

"I want to avoid meeting him," continued Conolly; "and I thought perhaps
you might know enough of his movements this evening to help me to do so.
It does not matter much; but I have a reason."

Marian felt the hysteric globe at her throat as she tried to speak; but
she repressed it, and said:

"Mr. Conolly: I know the reason. I did not know before: I am sure you
did not think I did. I made a dreadful mistake."

"Why!" said Conolly, with some indignation, "who has told you since?"

"Marmaduke," said Marian, roused to reply quickly by the energy of the
questioner. "He did not mean to be indiscreet: he thought I knew."

"Thought! He never thought in his life, Miss Lind. However, he was right
enough to tell you; and I am glad you know the truth, because it
explains my behavior the last time we met. It took me aback a bit for
the moment."

"You were very forbearing. I hope you will not think me intrusive if I
tell you how sincerely sorry I am for the misfortune which has come to
you."

"What misfortune?"

Marian lost confidence again, and looked at him in silent distress.

"To be sure," he interposed, quickly. "I know; but you had put it all
out of my head. I am much obliged to you. Not that I am much concerned
about it. You will perhaps think it an instance of the depravity of my
order, Miss Lind; but I am not one of those people who think it pious to
consider their near relatives as if they were outside the natural course
of things. I never was a good son or a good brother or a good patriot in
the sense of thinking that my mother and my sister and my native country
were better than other people's because I happened to belong to them. I
knew what would happen some day, though, as usual, my foreknowledge did
not save me from a little emotion when the event came to pass. Besides,
to tell you the truth, I dont feel it as a misfortune. You know what my
sister's profession is. You told me how you felt when you saw her act.
Now, tell me fairly, and without stopping to think of whether your
answer will hurt me, would you consent to know her in private even if
you had heard nothing to her disadvantage? Would you invite her to your
house, or go to a party at which all the other women were like her?
Would you introduce young ladies to her, as you would introduce them to
Miss McQuinch? Dont stop to imagine exceptional circumstances which
might justify you in doing these things; but tell me yes or no, _would_
you?"

"You see, Mr. Conolly, I should really never have an opportunity of
doing them."

"By your leave, Miss Lind, that means No. Honestly, then, what has
Susanna to lose by disregarding your rules of behavior? Even if, by
marrying, she conciliated the notions of your class, she would only give
some man the right to ill-treat her and spend her earnings, without
getting anything in return--and remember there is a special danger of
that on the stage, for several reasons. She would not really conciliate
you by marrying, for you wouldnt associate with her a bit the more
because of her marriage certificate. Of course I am putting her
self-respect out of the question, that being a matter between herself
and her conscience, with which we have no concern. Believe me, neither
actresses nor any other class will trouble themselves about the opinion
of a society in which they are allowed to have neither part nor lot.
Perhaps I am wrong to talk about such matters to you; but you are
trained to feel all the worst that can be felt for my sister; and I feel
bound to let you know that there is something to be said in her defence.
I have no right to blame her, as she has done me no harm. The only way
in which her conduct can influence my prospects will be through her
being an undesirable sister-in-law in case I should want to marry."

"If the person you choose hesitate on that account, you can let her go
without regret," said Marian. "She will not be worthy of your regard."

"I am not so sure of that," said Conolly, laughing. "You see, Miss Lind,
if that invention of mine succeeds, I may become a noted man; and it is
fashionable nowadays for society to patronize geniuses who hit on a new
illustration of what people call the marvels of science. I am ambitious.
As a celebrity, I might win the affections of a duchess. Who knows?"

"I should not advise you to marry a duchess. I do not know many of them,
as I am a comparatively humble person; but I am sure you would not like
them."

"Aye. And possibly a lady of gentle nurture would not like me."

"On the contrary, clever people are so rare in society that I think you
would have a better chance than most men."

"Do you think my manners would pass? I learnt to dance and bow before I
was twelve years old from the most experienced master in Europe; and I
used to mix with all the counts, dukes, and queens in my father's opera
company, not to mention the fashionable people I have read about in
novels."

"You are jesting, Mr. Conolly. I do not believe that your manners give
you the least real concern."

"And you think that I may aspire in time--if I am successful in
public--to the hand of a lady?"

"Surely you know as much of the world as I. Why should you not marry a
lady, if you wish to?"

"I am afraid class prejudice would be too strong for me, after all."

"I dont think so. What hour is it now, Mr. Conolly?"

"It wants ten minutes of seven."

"Oh!" cried Marian, rising. "Miss McQuinch is probably wondering whether
I am drowned or lost. I must get back to the Hall as fast as I can. They
have returned from Bushy Copse before this; and I am sure they are
asking about me."

Conolly rose silently and walked with her as far as the path from the
cottage to the laboratory.

"This is my way, Miss Lind," said he. "I am going to the laboratory.
Will you be so kind as to give my respects to Miss McQuinch. I shall not
see her again, as I must return to town by the last train to-night."

"And are you not coming back--not at all, I mean?"

"Not at all."

"Oh!" said Marian slowly.

"Good bye, Miss Lind."

He was about to raise his hat as usual; but Marian, with a smile, put
out her hand. He took it for the first time; looked at her for a moment
gravely; and left her.

Lest they should surprise one another in the act, neither of them looked
back at the other as they went their several ways.




BOOK II




CHAPTER VII


In the spring, eighteen months after his daughter's visit to Carbury
Towers, Mr. Reginald Harrington Lind called at a house in Manchester
Square and found Mrs. Douglas at home. Sholto's mother was a widow lady
older than Mr. Lind, with a rather glassy eye and shaky hand, who would
have looked weak and shiftless in an almshouse, but who, with plenty of
money, unlimited domestic service, and unhesitating deference from
attendants who were all trained artists in their occupation, made a fair
shew of being a dignified and interesting old lady. When he was seated,
her first action was to take a new photograph from a little table at her
side, and hand it to him without a word, awaiting his recognition of it
with a shew of natural pride and affection which was amateurish in
comparison to the more polished and skilful comedy with which her
visitor took it and pretended to admire it.

"Capital. Capital," said Mr. Lind. "He must give us one."

"You dont think that the beard has spoiled him, do you?" said Mrs.
Douglas.

"Certainly not: it is an improvement," said Mr. Lind, decisively. "You
are glad to have him back again with you, I dare say. Ah yes, yes" (Mrs.
Douglas's eyes had answered for her). "Did he tell you that he met me? I
saw him on Wednesday last for the first time since his return to London.
How long was he away?"

"Two years," she replied, with slow emphasis, as if such an absence
were hardly credible. "Two long years. He has been staying in Paris, in
Venice, in Florence: a month here, a week there, dissatisfied
everywhere. He would have been almost as happy with me at home. And how
is Marian?"

"Well," said Mr. Lind, smiling, "I believe she is still disengaged; and
she professes to be fancy free. She is fond of saying, generally, that
she will never marry, and so forth. That is the new fashion with young
women--if saying what they dont mean can be called a new fashion."

"Marian is sure to get married," said Mrs. Douglas. "She must have had
offers already. There are few parents who have not cause to envy you."

"We have both been happy in that respect, Mrs. Douglas. Sholto is a
highly distinguished young man. I wish I had started in life with half
his advantages. I thought at one time he was perhaps becoming attached
to Marian."

"You are quite sure, Mr. Lind, that you could forgive his being a plain
gentleman? A little bird whispered to me that you desired a title for
Marian."

"My dear Mrs. Douglas, we, who are familiar with titles, understand
their true value. I should be very sorry to see Marian lose, by an
unsuitable alliance, the social position I have been able to give her. I
should set my face resolutely against such an alliance. But few English
titles can boast a pedigree comparable with Sholto's. The name of
Douglas is historic--far more so than that of Lind, which is not even
English except by naturalization. Besides, Sholto's talents are very
remarkable. He will certainly adopt a political career; and, with his
opportunities and abilities, a peerage is anything but a remote
contingency."

"Sholto, you know, is perfectly unembarrassed. There is not a charge on
his property. I think that even Marian, good as she is, and lovely as
she is, will not easily find a better match. But I am well known to be a
little crazy about my dear boy. That is because I know him so much
better than anyone else does. Now let us talk about other matters. Let
me see. Oh yes, I got a prospectus of some company from the city the
other day; and whose name should there be upon the list of directors but
Reginald Harrington Lind's! And Lord Carbury's, too! Pray, is the entire
family going into business?"

"Well, I believe the undertaking to be a commercially sound one; and--"

"Fancy _you_ talking about commercial soundness!"

"True. It must sound strange to you. But it is no longer unusual for men
in my position to take an active part in the direction of commerce. We
have duties as well as privileges. I gave my name and took a few shares
chiefly on the recommendation of Jasper and of my own stockbroker. I
think there can be no doubt that Jasper and Mr. Conolly have made a very
remarkable discovery, and one which must prove highly remunerative and
beneficial."

"What is the discovery? I did not quite understand the prospectus."

"Well, it is called the Conolly Electro-motor."

"Yes, I know that."

"And it--it turns all sorts of machinery. I cannot explain it
scientifically to you: you would not understand me. But it is, in short,
a method of driving machinery by electricity at a less cost than by
steam. It is connected in principle with the conservation of energy and
other technical matters. You must come and see the machinery at work
some day."

"I must, indeed. And is it true that Mr. Conolly was a common working
man?"

"Yes, a practical man, undoubtedly, but highly educated. He speaks
French and Italian fluently, and is a remarkable musician. Altogether a
man of very superior attainments, and by no means deficient in culture."

"Dear me! Jasper told me something of that sort about him; but Lady
Carbury gave him a very different character. She assured me that he was
sprung from the dregs of the people, and that she had a great deal of
trouble to teach him his proper place. Still, we know that she is not
very particular as to what she says when she dislikes people. Yet she
ought to know; for he was Jasper's laboratory servant--at least so she
said."

"Oh, surely not a servant. Jasper never regarded him in that light. The
Countess disapproves of Jasper's scientific pursuits, and sets her face
against all who encourage him in them. However, I really know nothing
about Mr. Conolly's antecedents. His manner when he appears at our board
meetings is quiet and not unpleasant. Marian, it appears, met him at
Towers Cottage the year before last, and had some scientific lessons
from him. He was quite unknown then. It was rather a curious
coincidence. I did not know of it until about a month ago, when he read
a paper at the Society of Arts on his invention. I attended the meeting
with Marian; and when it was over, I introduced him to her, and was
surprised to learn that they knew one another already. He told me
afterward that Marian had shewn an unusual degree of cleverness in
studying electricity, and that she greatly interested him at the time."

"No doubt. Marian interests everybody; and even great discoverers, when
they are young, are only human."

"Ah! Perhaps so. But she must have shewn some ability or she would never
have elicited a remark from him. He is full of his business."

"And what is the latest news of the family scamp?"

"Do you mean my Reginald?"

"Dear me, no! What a shame to call poor Reggy a scamp! I mean young
Marmaduke, of course. Is it true that he has a daughter now?"

"Oh yes. Perfectly true."

"The reprobate! And he was always such a pleasant fellow."

"Yes; but he is annoyingly inconsiderate. About a fortnight ago, Marian
and Elinor went to Putney to a private view at Mr. Scott's studio. On
their way back they saw Marmaduke on the river, and, rather
unnecessarily, I think, entered into conversation with him. He begged
them to come to Hammersmith in his boat, saying that he had something
there to shew them. Elinor, it appears, had the sense to ask whether it
was anything they ought not to see; but he replied on his honor that it
was something perfectly innocent, and promised that they should be
delighted with it. So they foolishly consented, and went with him to
Hammersmith, where they left the river and walked some distance with
him. He left them in a road somewhere in West Kensington, and came back
after about fifteen minutes with a little girl. He actually presented
her to Marian and Elinor as a member of the family whom they, as a
matter of course, would like to know."

"Well, _such_ a thing to do! And what happened?"

"Marian seems to have thought of nothing but the prettiness of the
unhappy child. She gravely informed me that she forgave Marmaduke
everything when she saw how he doted on it. Elinor has always shewn a
disposition to defend him----"

"She is full of perversity, and always was."

"----and this incident did not damage his credit with _her_. However,
after the little waif had been sufficiently petted and praised to
gratify Master Marmaduke's paternal feelings, they came home, and,
instead of holding their tongues, began to tell all our people what a
dear little child Marmaduke had, and how they considered that it ought
not to be made to suffer for his follies. In fact, I think they would
have adopted it, if I had allowed them."

"That is Marian all over. Some of her ideas will serve her very well
when she goes to heaven; but they will get her into scrapes in this
wicked world if you do not take care of her."

"I fear so. For that reason I tolerate a degree of cynicism in Elinor's
character which would otherwise be most disagreeable to me. It is often
useful in correcting Marian's extravagances. Unfortunately, the incident
at Hammersmith did not pass off without making mischief. It happens that
my sister Julia is interested in a Home for foundling girls--a
semi-private place, where a dozen children are trained as domestic
servants."

"Yes. I have been through it. It is very neat and pretty; but they
really treat the poor girls as if they ought to be thankful for
permission to exist. Their dresses are so ugly!"

"Possibly. I assure you that presentations are much sought after, and
are very difficult to get. Julia is a patroness. Marian told her about
this child of Marmaduke's; and it happened that a vacancy had just
occurred at the Home in consequence of one of the girls dying of
melancholia and spinal affection. Julia, who has perhaps more piety than
tact, wrote to Marmaduke offering to present his daughter, and
expatiating on the advantages of the Home to the poor little lost one.
In her desire to reclaim Marmaduke also, she entrusted the letter to
George, who undertook to deliver it, and further Julia's project by
personal persuasion. George described the interview to me, and shewed
me, I am sorry to say, how much downright ferocity may exist beneath an
apparently frank, jovial, reckless exterior like Marmaduke's."

"Well, I hardly wonder at his refusing. Of course, he might have known
that the motive of the offer was a kind one."

"Refused! A gentleman can always refuse an offer with dignity. Marmaduke
was outrageous. George--a clergyman--owed his escape from actual
violence to the interference of the woman, and to a timely
representation that he had undertaken to bear the message in order to
soften any angry feelings that it might give rise to. Marmaduke
repeatedly applied foul language to his aunt and to her offer; and
George with great difficulty dissuaded him from writing a most offensive
letter to her. Julia was so hurt by this that she complained to
Dora--Marmaduke's mother--who had up to that time been kept in ignorance
of his doings; and now it is hard to say where the mischief will end.
Dora is overwhelmed by the revelation of the life her son is leading.
Marmaduke has consequently forfeited his father's countenance, which
had to be extended to him so far as to allow of his occasional
appearance at home, in order to keep Dora in the dark. Now that she is
enlightened, of course there is an end of all that, and he is forbidden
the house."

"What a lot of mischief! Dear me!"

"So I said to Marian. Had she refused to go up the river with Marmaduke,
as she should have done, all this would not have occurred. She will not
see it in that light, but lays all the blame on her aunt Julia, whose
offer fell somewhat short of her own notions of providing for the
child's future."

"How does Marmaduke stand with respect to money? I suppose his father
has stopped his allowance."

"No. He threatened to do it, and went so far as to make his solicitor
write to that effect to Marmaduke, who had the consummate impudence to
reply that he should in that case be compelled to provide for himself by
contracting a marriage of which he could not expect his family to
approve. Still, he added, if the family chose to sever their connexion
with him, they could not expect him to consult their feelings in his
future disposal of himself. In plain English, he threatened to marry
this woman if his income was cut off. He carried his point, too; for no
alteration has been made in his allowance. Indeed, as he has money of
his own, and as part of the property is entailed, it would be easier to
irritate him uselessly than to subject him to any material deprivation."

"The young scamp! I wonder he was clever enough to take advantage like
that."

"He has shewn no lack of acuteness of late. I suspect he is under shrewd
guidance."

"Have you ever seen the--the guidance?"

"Not in person. I seldom enter a theatre now. But I am of course
familiar with her appearance from the photographic portraits of her.
They are in all the shop windows."

"Yes. I think I have noticed them."

"And now, Mrs. Douglas, I fear I have paid you a very long visit."

"Why dont you come oftener?"

"I wish I could find time. I have not so much leisure for enjoyment as I
used."

"I am not so sure of that. But we are always glad to have a chat with
one another, I know. We are agreed about the dear children, I think?"

"Cordially. Cordially. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."




CHAPTER VIII


On the morning of the first Friday in May Marian received this letter:

                                  "Uxbridge Road, Holland Park, W.

  "DEAR MISS LIND: I must begin by explaining why I make this
  communication to you by letter instead of orally. It is because I
  am about to ask you to do me a favor. If you asked me to do
  anything for you, then, no matter how much my judgment might
  protest against my compliance, I could not without pain to myself
  refuse you face to face. I have no right to assume that your heart
  would plead on my behalf against your head in this fashion; but, on
  the other hand--the wish is father to the thought here--I have no
  right to assume that it would not. Therefore, to spare you all
  influences except the fair ones of your own interest and
  inclination, I make my proposal in writing. You will please put the
  usual construction on the word 'proposal.' What I desire is your
  consent to marry me. If your first impulse now is to refuse, I beg
  you to do so in plain terms at once, and destroy this letter
  without reading further. If you think, on the contrary, that we
  could achieve a future as pleasant as our past association has
  been--to me at least, here is what, as I think, you have to
  consider.

  "You are a lady, rich, well-born, beautiful, loved by many persons
  besides myself, too happily circumstanced to have any pressing
  inducement to change your condition, and too fortunately endowed in
  every way to have reason to anticipate the least difficulty in
  changing it to the greatest worldly advantage when you please.

  "What I am and have been, you know. I may estrange from you some of
  the society which you enjoy, and I can introduce you to none that
  would compensate you for the loss. I am what you call poor: my
  income at present does not amount to much more than fifteen
  hundred pounds; and I should not ask you to marry me if it were not
  that your own inheritance is sufficient, as I have ascertained, to
  provide for you in case of my early death. You know how my sister
  is situated; how your family are likely to feel toward me on her
  account and my own; and how impatient I am of devoting much time to
  what is fashionably supposed to be pleasure. On the other hand, as
  I am bidding for a consent and not for a refusal, I hope you will
  not take my disadvantages for more, or my advantages for less, than
  they are honestly worth. At Carbury Park you often said that you
  would never marry; and I have said the same myself. So, as we
  neither of us overrate the possibilities of happiness in marriage,
  perhaps we might, if you would be a little forbearing with me,
  succeed in proving that we have greatly underrated them. As for the
  prudence of the step, I have seen and practised too much prudence
  to believe that it is worth much as a rule of conduct in a world of
  accidents. If there were a science of life as there is one of
  mechanics, we could plan our lives scientifically and run no risks;
  but as it is, we must--together or apart--take our chance:
  cautiousness and recklessness divide the great stock of regrets
  pretty equally.

  "Perhaps you will wonder at my selfishness in wanting you, for my
  own good, to forfeit your present happy independence among your
  friends, and involve your fortunes with those of a man whom you
  have only seen on occasions when ceremony compelled him to observe
  his best behavior. I can only excuse myself by reminding you that
  no matter whom you marry, you must do so at the same disadvantages,
  except as to the approval of your friends, of which the value is
  for you to consider. That being so, why should I not profit by your
  hazard as well as another? Besides, there are many other feelings
  impelling me. I should like to describe them to you, and would if I
  understood them well enough to do it accurately.

  "However, nothing is further from my intention than to indite a
  love letter; so I will return to graver questions. One, in
  particular, must be clearly understood between us. You are too
  earnest to consider an allusion to religious matters out of place
  here. I do not know exactly what you believe; but I have gathered
  from stray remarks of yours that you belong to what is called the
  Broad Church. If so, we must to some extent agree to differ. I
  should never interfere in any way with your liberty as far as your
  actions concerned yourself only. But, frankly, I should not permit
  my wife to teach my children to know Christianity in any other way
  than that in which an educated Englishman knows Buddhism. I will
  not go through any ceremony whatever in a church, or enter one
  except to play the organ. I am prejudiced against religions of all
  sorts. The Church has made itself the natural enemy of the theatre;
  and I was brought up in the theatre until I became a poor workman
  earning wages, when I found the Church always taking part against
  me and my comrades with the rich who did no work. If the Church had
  never set itself against me, perhaps I should never have set myself
  against the Church; but what is done is done: you will find me
  irreligious, but not, I hope, unreasonable.

  "I will be at the Academy to-morrow at about four o'clock, as I do
  not care to remain longer in suspense than is absolutely necessary;
  but if you are not prepared to meet me then, I shall faithfully
  help you in any effort I may perceive you make to avoid me.

  "I am, dear Miss Lind,
             "Yours sincerely,
                  "EDWARD CONOLLY."

This letter conveyed to Marian hardly one of the considerations set
forth in it. She thought it a frank, strong, admirable letter, just what
she should have hoped from her highest estimate of him. In the quaint
earnestness about religion, and the exaggerated estimate (as she
thought) of the advantages which she might forfeit by marrying him,
there was just enough of the workman to make them characteristic. She
wished that she could make some real sacrifice for his sake. She was
afraid to realize her situation at first, and, to keep it off, occupied
herself during the forenoon with her household duties, with some
pianoforte practice, and such other triflings as she could persuade
herself were necessary. At last she quite suddenly became impatient of
further delay. She sat down in a nook behind the window curtain, and
re-read the letter resolutely. It disappointed her a little, so she read
it again. The third time she liked it better than the first; and she
would have gone through it yet again but for the arrival of Mrs. Leith
Fairfax, with whom they had arranged to go to Burlington House.

"It is really a tax on me, this first day at the Academy," said Mrs.
Fairfax, when they were at luncheon. "I have been there at the press
view, besides seeing all the pictures long ago in the studios. But, of
course, I am expected to be there."

"If I were in your place," said Elinor, "I----"

"Last night," continued Mrs. Fairfax, deliberately ignoring her, "I was
not in bed until half-past two o'clock. On the night before, I was up
until five. On Tuesday I did not go to bed at all."

"Why do you do such things?" said Marian.

"My dear, I _must_. John Metcalf, the publisher, came to me on Tuesday
at three o'clock, and said he must have an article on the mango
experiments at Kew ready for the printer before ten next morning. For
his paper, the _Fortnightly Naturalist_, you know. 'My dear John
Metcalf,' I said, 'I dont know what a mango is.' 'No more do I, Mrs.
Leith Fairfax,' said he: 'I think it's something that blooms only once
in a hundred years. No matter what it is, you must let me have the
article. Nobody else can do it.' I told him it was impossible. My London
letter for the _Hari Kari_ was not even begun; and the last post to
catch the mail to Japan was at a quarter-past six in the morning. I had
an article to write for your father, too. And, as the sun had been
shining all day, I was almost distracted with hay fever. 'If you were to
go down on your knees,' I said, 'I could not find time to read up the
_flora_ of the West Indies and finish an article before morning.' He
went down on his knees. 'Now Mrs. Leith Fairfax,' said he, 'I am going
to stay here until you promise.' What could I do but promise and get rid
of him? I did it, too: how, I dont know; but I did it. John Metcalf told
me yesterday that Sir James Hooker, the president of the Society for
Naturalizing the Bread Fruit Tree in Britain, and the greatest living
authority on the subject, has got the credit of having written my
article."

"How flattered he must feel!" said Elinor.

"What article had you to write for papa?" said Marian.

"On the electro-motor--the Conolly electro-motor. I went down to the
City on Wednesday, and saw it working. It is most wonderful, and very
interesting. Mr. Conolly explained it to me himself. I was able to
follow every step that his mind has made in inventing it. I remember him
as a common workman. He fitted the electric bell in my study four years
ago with his own hands. You may remember that we met him at a concert
once. He is a thorough man of business. The Company is making upward of
fifty pounds an hour by the motor at present; and they expect their
receipts to be a thousand a day next year. My article will be in the
_Dynamic Statistician_ next week. Have you seen Sholto Douglas since he
came back from the continent?"

"No."

"I want to see him. When you meet him next, tell him to call on me. Why
has he not been here? Surely you are not keeping up your old quarrel?"

"What old quarrel?"

"I always understood that he went abroad on your account."

"I never quarreled with him. Perhaps he did with me, as he has not come
to see us since his return. It used to be so easy to offend him that his
retirement in good temper after a visit was quite exceptional."

"Come, come, my dear child! that is all nonsense. You must be kind to
the poor fellow. Perhaps he will be at the Academy."

"I hope not," said Marian, quickly.

"Why?"

"I mean if he cherishes any grudge against me; for he will be very
disagreeable."

"A grudge against you! Ah, Marian, how little you understand him! What
perverse creatures all you young people are! I must bring about an
_Г©claircissement_."

"I advise you not to," said Elinor. "If you succeed, no one will admit
that you have done anything; and if you fail, everybody will blame you."

"But there is nothing to be _Г©clairci_," said Marian. We are talking
nonsense, which is silly----"

"And French, which is vulgar," interposed Miss McQuinch, delivering the
remark like a pistol shot at Mrs. Fairfax, who had been trying to convey
by facial expression that she pitied the folly of Elinor's advice, and
was scandalized by her presumption in offering it. "It is time to start
for the Academy."

When they arrived at Burlington House, Mrs. Fairfax put on her gold
rimmed spectacles, and led the way up the stairs like one having
important business in a place to which others came for pleasure. When
they had passed the turnstiles, Elinor halted, and said:

"There is no sort of reason for our pushing through this crowd in a gang
of three. Besides, I want to look at the pictures, and not after you to
see which way you go. I shall meet you here at six o'clock, sharp.
Good-bye."

"What an extraordinary girl!" said Mrs. Fairfax, as Elinor opened her
catalogue at the end, and suddenly disappeared to the right amongst the
crowd.

"She always does so," said Marian; "and I think she is quite right. Two
people cannot make their way about as easily as one; and they never want
to see the same pictures."

"But, my dear, consider the impropriety of a young girl walking about by
herself."

"Surely there is no impropriety in it. Lots of people--all sensible
women do it. Who can tell, in this crowd, whether you are by yourself or
not? And what does it matter if----"

Here Mrs. Fairfax's attention was diverted by the approach of one of her
numerous acquaintances. Marian, after a moment's indecision, slipped
away and began her tour of the rooms alone, passing quickly through the
first in order to escape pursuit. In the second she tried to look at the
pictures; but as she now for the first time realized that she might meet
Conolly at any moment, doubt as to what answer she should give him
seized her; and she felt a strong impulse to fly. The pictures were
unintelligible to her: she kept her face turned to the inharmonious shew
of paint and gilding only because she shrank from looking at the people
about. Whenever she stood still, and any man approached and remained
near her, she contemplated the wall fixedly, and did not dare to look
round or even to stir until he moved away, lest he should be Conolly.
When she passed from the second room to the large one, she felt as
though she were making a tremendous plunge; and indeed the catastrophe
occurred before she had accomplished the movement, for she came suddenly
face to face with him in the doorway. He did not flinch: he raised his
hat, and prepared to pass on. She involuntarily put out her hand in
remonstrance. He took it as a gift at once; and she, confused, said
anxiously: "We must not stand in the doorway. The people cannot pass
us," as if her action had meant nothing more than an attempt to draw him
out of the way. Then, perceiving the absurdity of this pretence, she was
quite lost for a moment. When she recovered her self-possession they
were standing together in the less thronged space near a bust of the
Queen; and Conolly was saying:

"I have been here half an hour; and I have not seen a single picture."

"Nor I," she said timidly, looking down at her catalogue. "Shall we try
to see some now?"

He opened his catalogue; and they turned together toward the pictures
and were soon discussing them sedulously, as if they wished to shut out
the subject of the very recent crisis in their affairs, which was
nevertheless constantly present in their minds. Marian was saluted by
many acquaintances. At each encounter she made an effort to appear
unconcerned, and suffered immediately afterward from a suspicion that
the effort had defeated its own object, as such efforts often do.
Conolly had something to say about most of the pictures: generally an
unanswerable objection to some historical or technical inaccuracy, which
sometimes convinced her, and always impressed her with a confiding sense
of ignorance in herself and infallible judgment in him.

"I think we have done enough for one day," she said at last. "The
watercolors and the sculpture must wait until next time."

"We had better watch for a vacant seat. You must be tired."

"I am, a little. I think I should like to sit in some other room. Mrs.
Leith Fairfax is over there with Mr. Douglas--a gentleman whom I know
and would rather not meet just now. You saw him at Wandsworth."

"Yes. That tall man? He has let his beard grow since."

"That is he. Let us go to the room where the drawings are: we shall have
a better chance of a seat there. I have not seen Sholto for two years;
and our last meeting was rather a stormy one."

"What happened?"

Marian was a little hurt by being questioned. She missed the reticence
of a gentleman. Then she reproached herself for not understanding that
his frank curiosity was a delicate appeal to her confidence in him, and
answered: "He proposed to me."

Conolly immediately dropped the subject, and went in search of a vacant
seat. They found one in the little room where the architects' drawings
languish. They were silent for some time.

Then he began, seriously: "Is it too soon to call you by your own name?
'Miss Lind' is distant; but 'Marian' might shock you if it came too
confidently without preparation."

"Whichever you please."

"Whichever I please!"

"That is the worst of being a woman. Little speeches that are sheer
coquetry when you analyze them, come to our lips and escape even when we
are most anxious to be straightforward."

"In the same way," said Conolly, "the most enlightened men often express
themselves in a purely conventional manner on subjects on which they
have the deepest convictions." This sententious utterance had the effect
of extinguishing the conversation for some moments, Marian being unable
to think of a worthy rejoinder. At last she said:

"What is your name?"

"Edward, or, familiarly, Ned. Commonly Ted. In America, Ed. With, of
course, the diminutives Neddy, Teddy, and Eddy."

"I think I should prefer Ned."

"I prefer Ned myself."

"Have you any other name?"

"Yes; but it is a secret. Why people should be plagued with two
Christian names, I do not know. No one would have believed in the motor
if they had known that my name was Sebastian."

"Sebastian!"

"Hush. I was actually christened Edoardo Sebastiano Conolly. My father
used to spell his name Conollj whilst he was out of Italy. I have
frustrated the bounty of my godfathers by suppressing all but the
sensible Edward Conolly."

There was a pause. Then Marian spoke.

"Do you intend to make our--our engagement known at once?"

"I have considered the point; and as you are the person likely to be
inconvenienced by its publication, I am bound to let you conceal it for
the present, if you wish to. It must transpire sometime: the sooner the
better. You will feel uncomfortably deceitful with such a secret; and as
for me, every time your father greets me cordially in the City I shall
feel mean. However, you can watch for your opportunity. Let me know at
once when the cat comes out of the bag."

"I will. I think, as you say, the right course is to tell at once."

"Undoubtedly. But from the moment you do so until we are married you
will be worried by remonstrances, entreaties, threats, and what not; so
that we cannot possibly make that interval too short."

"We must take Nelly into our confidence. You will not object to that?"

"Certainly not. I like Miss McQuinch."

"You really do! Oh, I am so glad. Well, we are accustomed to go about
together, especially to picture galleries. We can come to the Academy as
often as we like; and you can come as often as you like, can you not?"

"Opening day, for instance."

"Yes, if you wish."

"Let us say between half-past four and five, then. I would willingly be
here when the doors open in the morning; but my business will not do
itself while I am philandering and making you tired of me before your
time. The consciousness of having done a day's work is necessary to my
complete happiness."

"I, too, have my day's work to do, silly as it is. I have to housekeep,
to receive visitors, to write notes about nothing, and to think of the
future. We can say half-past four or any later hour that may suit you."

"Agreed. And now, Marian----"

"Dont let me disturb you," said Miss McQuinch, at his elbow, to Marian;
"but Mrs. Leith Fairfax will be here with Sholto Douglas presently; and
I thought you might like to have an opportunity of avoiding him. How do
you do, Mr. Conolly?"

"I must see him sooner or later," said Marian, rising. "Better face him
at once and get it over. I will go back by myself and meet them." Then,
with a smile at Conolly, she went out through the door leading to the
water-color gallery.

"Marian does not stand on much ceremony with you, Mr. Conolly," said
Miss McQuinch, glancing at him.

"No," said Conolly. "Do you think you could face the Academy again on
Monday at half-past four?"

"Why?"

"Miss Lind is coming to meet me here at that hour."

"Marian!"

"Precisely. Marian. She has promised to marry me. At present it is a
secret. But it was to be mentioned to you."

"It will not be a secret very long if you allow people to overhear you
calling her by her Christian name in the middle of the Academy, as you
did me just now," said Elinor, privately much taken aback, but resolute
not to appear so.

"Did you overhear us? I should have been more careful. You do not seem
surprised."

"Just a little, at your audacity. Not in the least at Marian's
consenting."

"Thank you."

"I did not mean it in that way at all," said Elinor resentfully. "I
think you have been very fortunate, as I suppose you would have married
somebody in any case. I believe you are able to appreciate her. That's a
compliment."

"Yes. I hope I deserve it. Do you think you will ever forgive me for
supplanting the hero Marian deserves?"

"If you had let your chance of her slip, I should have despised you, I
think: at least, I should if you had missed it with your eyes open. I am
so far prejudiced in your favor that I think Marian would not like you
unless you were good. I have known her to pity people who deserved to be
strangled; but I never knew her to be attracted by any unworthy person
except myself; and even I have my good points. You need not trouble
yourself to agree with me: you could not do less, in common politeness.
As I am rather tired, I shall go and sit in the vestibule until the
others are ready to go home. In the meantime you can tell me all the
particulars you care to trust me with. Marian will tell me the rest when
we go home."