"You have come to buy me out, in fact: is that it? What a clever old man
your father must be! Knows the world thoroughly, eh?"

"I hope I have not offended you?"

"Bless you, Doctor! nobody could be offended with you. Suppose I agree
to oblige you (you have a very seductive High Church way about you) who
is to make Marmaduke amends for such portion of _my_ income as our
separation will deprive _him_ of? Eh? I see that that staggers you a
little. If you will just tot up the rent of this house since we have had
it; the price of the furniture; our expenses, including my carriage and
Marmaduke's horse and the boat; six hundred pounds of debt that he ran
up before he settled down with me; and other little things; and then
find out from his father how much money he has drawn within the last two
years, I think you will find it rather hard to make the two balance.
Your uncle is far too good a man to give Marmaduke money to spend on me;
but he was not too good to keep me playing in the provinces all through
last autumn just to make both ends meet, when I ought to have been
taking my holiday. I wish you would tell his mother, your blessed pious
Aunt Dora, to send Bob the set of diamonds his grandmother left him,
instead of sermons which he never reads."

"I thought Marmaduke had nearly a thousand a year, independently of his
father."

"A thousand a year! What is that? And your uncle would stop even that,
if he could, to keep it out of my hands. You may tell him that if it
didnt come into my hands it would hardly last a week. Only for the
child, and the garden, and the sort of quiet life he leads here, he
would spend a thousand a month. And look at _my_ expenses! Look at my
dresses! I suppose you think that people wear cotton velvet and glazed
calico on the stage, as Mrs. Siddons did in the old days when they acted
by candlelight. Why, between dress and jewellery, I have about two
hundred pounds on my back at the present moment; and you neednt think
that any manager alive will find dresses to that tune. At the theatre
they think me overpaid at fifty pounds a week, although they might shut
up the house to-morrow if my name was taken out of the bills. Tell your
father that so far from my living on Bob, it is as much as I can do to
keep this place going by my work--not to mention the worry of it, which
always falls on the woman."

"I certainly had no idea of the case being as you describe," said the
clergyman, losing his former assurance. "But would it not then be better
for you to separate?"

"Certainly not. I want my house and home. So does he. If an income is
rather tight, halving it is a very good way to make it tighter. No: if I
left Bob, he would go to the devil; and very likely I should go to the
devil, too, and disgrace you in earnest."

"But, my dear madam, consider the disgrace at present!"

"What disgrace? When your sister becomes Mrs. Ned, what will be the
difference between her position and mine? Dont look aghast. What will be
the difference?"

"Surely you do not suppose that she will dispense with the sacrament of
marriage before casting in her lot with your brother!"

"I bet you my next week's salary that you dont get Ned to enter a
church. He will be tied up by a registrar. Of course, your sister will
have the law of him somehow: she cant help herself. She is not
independent; and so she must be guaranteed against his leaving her
without bread and butter. _I_ can support myself, and may shew Bob a
clean pair of heels to-morrow, if I choose. Even if she has money of her
own, she darent stick to her freedom for fear of society. _I_ snap my
fingers at society, and care as little about it as it cares about me;
and I have no doubt she would be glad to do the same if she had the
pluck. I confess I shouldnt like to make a regular legal bargain of
going to live with a man. I dont care to make love a matter of money; it
gives it a taste of the harem, or even worse. Poor Bob, meaning to be
honorable, offered to buy me in the regular way at St. George's, Hanover
Square, before we came to live here; but, of course, I refused, as any
decent woman in my circumstances would. Understand me now, Doctor: I
dont want to give myself any virtuous airs, or to boast of behaving
better than your sister. I know the world; and I know that she will
marry Ned just as much because she thinks it right as because she cant
help herself. But dont you try to make me swallow any gammon about my
disgracing you and so forth. I intend to stay as I am. I can respect
myself; and I dont care whether you or your family respect me or not. If
you dont approve of me, why! nobody asks you to associate with me. If
you want society, you have your own lot to mix with. If I want it, I can
fill this house to-morrow. Not with stupid fine ladies, but with really
clever people, who are not at all shy of me. Look at me at the present
moment! I am receiving a morning visit from the best born and most
popular parson in Belgravia. I wonder, Doctor, what your parishioners
would think if they could see you now."

"I must confess that I do not understand you at all. You seem to see
everything reversed--upside down. You--I--you bewilder me, Miss Conol--"

"Sh! Mademoiselle Lalage Virtue, if you please. Or you may call me
Susanna, if you like, since we are as good as related."

"I fear," said the clergyman, blushing, "that we have no common ground
on which to argue. I am sorry I have no power to influence you."

"Oh, dont say that. I really like you, Doctor, and would do more for you
than most people. If your father had had the cheek to come himself to
offer me money, and so forth, I would have put him out of the house
double quick; whereas I have listened to you like a lamb. Never mind
your hat yet. Have a bottle of champagne with me?"

"Thank you, no."

"Dont you drink at all?"

"No."

"You should. It would give a fillip to your sermons. Let me send you a
case of champagne. Promise to drink a bottle every Sunday in the vestry
before you come out to preach, and I will take a pew for the season in
your church. Thats good of me, isnt it?"

"I must go," said the Rev. George, rising, after hastily pretending to
look at his watch. "Will you excuse me?"

"Nonsense," she said, rising also, and slipping her hand through his arm
to detain him. "Wait and have some luncheon. Why, Doctor, I really think
youre afraid of me. _Do_ stay."

"Impossible. I have much business which I am bound----Pray, let me go,"
pleaded the clergyman, piteously, ineffectually struggling with Susanna,
who had now got his arm against her breast. "You must be mad!" he cried,
drops of sweat breaking out on his brow as he felt himself being pulled
helplessly toward the ottoman. She got her knee on it at last; and he
made a desperate effort to free himself.

"Oh, how rough you are!" she exclaimed in her softest voice, adroitly
tumbling into the seat as if he had thrown her down, and clinging to his
arms; so that it was as much as he could do to keep his feet as he
stooped over her, striving to get upright. At which supreme moment the
door was opened by Marmaduke, who halted on the threshold to survey the
two reproachfully for a moment. Then he said:

"George: I'm astonished at you. I have not much opinion of parsons as a
rule; but I really did think that _you_ were to be depended on."

"Marmaduke," said the clergyman, colouring furiously, and almost beside
himself with shame and anger: "you know perfectly well that I am
actuated in coming here by no motive unworthy of my profession. You
misunderstand what you have seen. I will not hear my calling made a jest
of."

"Quite right, Doctor," said Susanna, giving him a gentle pat of
encouragement on the shoulder. "Defend the cloth, always. I was only
asking him to stay to lunch, Bob. Cant you persuade him?"

"Do, old fellow," said Marmaduke. "Come! you must: I havnt had a chat
with you for ever so long. I'm really awfully sorry I interrupted you.
What on earth did you make Susanna rig herself out like that for?"

"Hold your tongue, Bob. Mr. George has nothing to do with my being in
character. This is what came last night in the box: I could not resist
trying it on this morning. I am Zobeida, the light of the harem, if you
please. I must have your opinion of the rouge song, Doctor. Observe.
This is a powder puff: I suppose you never saw such a thing before. I am
making up my face for a visit of the Sultan; and I am apologizing to the
audience for using cosmetics. The original French is improper; so I will
give you the English version, by the celebrated Robinson, the cleverest
adapter of the day:

  'Poor odalisques in captive thrall
  Must never let their charms pall:
    If they get the sack
    They ne'er come back;
  For the Bosphorus is the boss for all
  In this harem, harem, harem, harem, harum scarum place.'

Intellectual, isnt it?"

Susanna, whilst singing, executed a fantastic slow dance, stopping at
certain points to clink a pair of little cymbals attached to her ankles,
and to look for a moment archly at the clergyman.

"No," he said, hurt and offended into a sincerity of manner which
compelled them to respect him for the first time, "I will not stay; and
I am very sorry I came." And he left the room, his cheeks tingling.
Marmaduke followed him to the gate. "Come and look us up soon again, old
fellow," he said.

"Marmaduke," said the clergyman: "you are travelling as fast as you can
along the road to Hell."

As he hurried away, Marmaduke leaned against the gate and made the
villas opposite echo his laughter.

"On my soul, it's a shame," said he, when he returned to the house.
"Poor old George!"

"He found no worse than he had made up his mind to find," said Susanna.
"What right has he to come into my house and take it for granted, to my
face, that I am a disgrace to his sister? One would think I was a common
woman from the streets."

"Pshaw! What does he know? He is only a molly-coddling parson, poor
fellow. He will give them a rare account of you when he goes back."

"Let him," said Susanna. "He can tell them how little I care for their
opinion, anyhow."

The Rev. George took the next train to the City, and went to the offices
of the Electro-Motor Company, where he found his father. They retired
together to the board-room, which was unoccupied just then.

"I have been to that woman," said the clergyman.

"Well, what does she say?"

"She is an entirely abandoned person. She glories in her shame. I have
never before met with such an example of complete and unconscious
depravity. Yet she is not unattractive. There is a wonderfully clever
refinement even in her coarseness which goes far to account for her
influence over Marmaduke."

"No doubt; but apart from her personal charms, about which I am not
curious, is she willing to assist us?"

"No. I could make no impression on her at all."

"Well, it cannot be helped. Did you say anything about Conolly's selling
his interest here and leaving the country?"

"No," said the clergyman, struck with a sense of remissness. "I forgot
that. The fact is, I hardly had the oppor----"

"Never mind. It is just as well that you did not: it might have made
mischief."

"I do not think it is of the least use to pursue her with any further
overtures. Besides, I really could not undertake to conduct them."

"May I ask," said Mr. Lind, turning on him suddenly, "what objection you
have to Marian's wishes being consulted in this matter?"

The Rev. George recoiled, speechless.

"I certainly think," said Mr. Lind, more smoothly, "that Marian might
have trusted to my indulgence instead of hurrying away to a lodging and
writing the news in all directions. But I must say I have received some
very nice letters about it. Jasper is quite congratulatory. The _Court
Journal_ has a paragraph this week alluding to it with quite good taste.
Conolly is a very remarkable man; and, as the _Court Journal_ truly
enough remarks, he has won a high place in the republic of art and
science. As a Liberal, I cannot say that I disapprove of Marian's
choice; and I really think that it will be looked on in society as an
interesting one."

Mr. Lind's son eyed him dubiously for quite a long time. Then he said,
slowly, "Am I to understand that I may now speak of the marriage as a
recognized thing?"

"Why not, pray?"

"Of course, since you wish it, and it cannot be helped--" The clergyman
again looked at his father, still more dubiously. He saw in his eye that
there would be a quarrel if the interview lasted much longer. So he said
"I must go home now. I have to write my sermon for next Sunday."

"Very good. Do not let me detain you. Good-bye."

The Rev. George returned to his rooms quite dazed by the novelty of his
sensations. He had always respected his father beyond other men; and now
he knew that his father did not deserve his respect in the least. That
was one conviction uprooted. And Susanna had done something to him--he
did not exactly know what; but he felt altogether a different man from
the clergyman of the day before. He had come face to face with what he
called Vice for the first time, and found it not at all what he had
supposed it to be. He had believed that he knew it to be most
dangerously attractive to the physical, but utterly repugnant to the
moral sense; and such fascination he was prepared to resist to the
utmost. But he was attacked in just the opposite way, and thereby so
thrown off his guard that he did not know he was attacked at all; so
that he told himself vaingloriously that the shafts of the enemy had
fallen harmlessly from his breastplate of faith. For he was not in the
least charmed by Susanna's person. He had detected the paint on her
cheeks, and had noted with aversion a certain unhealthy bloat in her
face, and an alcoholic taint in her breath. He exulted in the
consciousness that he had been genuinely disgusted, not as a matter of
duty, but unaffectedly, as a matter of simple nature. What interested
him in her was her novel and bold moral attitude, her self-respect in
the midst of her sin, her striking arguments in favor of an apparently
indefensible course of life. Hers was no common case of loose living, he
felt: there was a soul to be saved there, if only Heaven would raise her
up a friend in some man absolutely proof against the vulgar fascination
of her prettiness. He began to imagine a certain greatness of character
about her, a capacity for heroic repentance as well as for heroic sin.
Before long he was amusing himself by thinking how it might have gone
with her if she had him for her counsellor instead of a gross and
thoughtless rake like Marmaduke.

It is not necessary to follow the wild goose chase which the Rev.
George's imagination ran from this starting-point to the moment when he
was suddenly awakened, by an unmistakable symptom, to the fact that he
was being outwitted and beglamoured, like the utter novice he was, by a
power which he believed to be the devil. He rushed to the little oratory
he had arranged with a screen in the corner of his sitting-room, and
prayed aloud, long and earnestly. But the hypnotizing process did not
tranquilize him as usual. It excited him, and led him finally to a
passionate appeal for pardon and intercession to a statuet of the Virgin
Mother, of whom he was a very devout adorer. He had always regarded
himself as her especial champion in the Church of England; and now he
had been faithless to her, and indelicate into the bargain. And yet, in
spite of his contrition, he felt that he was having a tremendous
spiritual experience, which he would not for worlds have missed. The
climax of it was the composition of his Sunday sermon, the labor of
which secured him a sound sleep that night. It was duly delivered on the
following Sunday morning in this form:

"Dearly beloved Brethren: In the twenty-third verse of the third chapter
of St. Mark's gospel, we find this question: '_How can Satan cast out
Satan_?' How can Satan cast out Satan? If you will read what follows,
you will perceive that that question was not answered. My brethren, it
is unanswerable: it never has been, and it never can be answered.

"In these latter days, when the power of Satan has become so vast, when
his empire and throne tower in our midst so that the faithful are cast
down by the exceeding great shadow thereof, and when temples innumerable
are open for his worship, it is no strange thing that many faint-hearted
ones should give half their hearts to Beelzebub, and should hope by the
prince of devils to cast out devils. Yes, this is what is taking place
daily around us. Oh, you, who seek to excuse this book to infidel
philosophers by shewing with how much facility a glib tongue may
reconcile it with their so-called science, I tell you that it is science
and not the Bible that shall need that apology in the great day of
wrath. And, therefore, I would have you, my brethren, earnestly
discountenance all endeavors to justify the Word of God by explaining it
in conformity with the imaginations of the men of science. How can Satan
cast out Satan? He cannot; but he can lead you into the sin of adding to
and of taking from the words of this book. He can add plagues unto you,
and take away your part out of the holy city.

"In this great London which we inhabit we are come upon evil day's. The
rage of the blasphemer, the laugh at the scoffer, the heartless
lip-service of the worldling, and the light dalliance of the daughters
of music, are offered every hour upon a thousand Baal-altars within this
very parish. I would ask some of you who spend your evenings in the
playhouses which multiply around us like weeds sown in the rank soil of
human frailty, what justification you make to yourselves when you are
alone in the watches of the night, and your conscience saith, '_What
went ye out for to see_?' You will then complain of the bitterness of
life, and prate of the refining influences of music; of the help to
spiritual-mindedness given by the exhibition on the public stage of
mockeries of God's world, wherein some pitiful temporal triumph of
simulated virtue in the last act is the apology for the vicious trifling
that has gone before. And in whom do you there see typified that virtue
which you should shield in your hearts from the contamination of the
theatre? Is it not in some woman whose private life is the scandalous
matter of your whispered conversations, and whose shameless face smirks
at you from the windows of those picture-shops which are a disgrace to
our national morality? Is it from such as she that you will learn to be
spiritual-minded? Does she appear before your carnal crowds repentant,
her forehead covered with ashes, her limbs covered with sackcloth? No!
Her brow is glowing with unquenchable fire to kindle the fuel that the
devil has hidden in your hearts. Her raiment is cloth of gold; and she
is not covered with it. Naked and unashamed, she smiles and weeps in
mockery of the virtue which you would persuade yourselves that she
represents to you. Will you learn spiritual-mindedness from the sight of
her eyes, from the sound of her mouth, from the measure of her steps, or
from the music and the dancing that cease not within the doors of her
temple? How can Satan cast out Satan? Whom think ye to deceive by
whitening the sepulchre? Is it yourselves? The devil has blinded you
already. Is it God? Who shall hide anything from Him? I tell you that he
who makes the pursuit of virtue a luxury, and takes refuge from sin, not
before the altar, but in the playhouse, is casting out devils by
Beelzebub, the prince of the devils.

"As I look about me in this church; I see many things intended to give
pleasure to the carnal eye. Were the cost of all these dainty robes,
this delicate headgear, these clouds of silk, of satin, of lace, and of
sparkling jewels, were the price of these things brought into the
Church's treasury, how loudly might the Gospel resound in lands between
whose torrid shores and the tropical sun the holy shade of Calvary has
not yet fallen! But, you will say, it is a good thing to be comely in
the house of the Lord. The sight of what is beautiful elevates the mind.
Uncleanness is a vice. This, then, is how you will war with uncleanness.
Not by prayer and holy living. Not by pouring of your superfluity into
the lap of the poor, and entering by the strait gate upon the narrow
path in a garment without seam. No. By the dead and damning gold; by
the purple and by the scarlet; by the brightness of the eyes that is
born of new wine; by the mincing gait and the gloved fingers; and by the
musk and civet instead of the myrrh and frankincense: by these things
are you fain to purge your uncleanness. And will they suffice? Can Satan
cast out Satan? Beware! '_For though thou wash thee with nitre and take
thee much soap, yet thine iniquity is marked before me, saith the Lord
God_.' There shall come a day when your lace and feathers shall hang on
you as heavy as your chains of gold, to drag you down to him in whose
name you have thought to cast out devils. Do not think that these things
are harmless vanities. Nothing can fill the human heart and be harmless.
If your thoughts be not of God, they will keep your minds distraught
from His grace as effectually as the blackest broodings of crime. '_Can
a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire? Yet my people have
forgotten me days without number, saith the Lord God_.' Yes, your minds
are too puny to entertain the full worship of God: do you think they are
spacious enough to harbor the worship of Baal side by side with it? Much
less dare you pretend that the Baal altar is erected for the honor of
God, that you may come into His presence comely and clean. It is but a
few days since I stood in the presence of a woman who boasted to me that
she bore upon her the value of two hundred pounds of our money. I cared
little for the value of money that was upon her. But what shall be said
of the weight of sin her attire represented? For, those costly garments
were the wages of sin--of hardened, shameless, damnable sin. Yet there
is not before me a finer dress or a fairer face. Will you, my sisters,
trust to the comeliness of visage and splendor of raiment in which such
a woman as this can outshine you? Will you continue to cast out your
devils by Beelzebub, the prince of devils? Be advised whilst there is
yet time. Ask yourself again and again, how can Satan cast out Satan?

"When sin is committed in a great city for wages, is there no fault on
the side of those who pay the wages? There is more than fault: there is
crime. I trust there are few among you who have done such crime. But I
know full well that it may be said of London to-day '_Thou art full of
stirs, a joyous city: thy slain men are not slain with the sword, nor
dead in battle_.' No. Our young men are slain by the poison of
Beelzebub, the prince of the devils. Nor is the crafty old subterfuge
lacking here. There are lost ones in this town who say, 'It is by our
means that virtue is preserved to the rich: it is we who appease the
wicked rage which would otherwise wreck society.' There are men who
boast that they have brought their sins only to the houses of shame, and
that they have respected purity in the midst of their foulness. 'Such
things must be,' they say: 'let us alone, lest a worse thing ensue.'
When they are filled full with sin, they cry 'Lo! our appetite has gone
from us and we are clean.' They are willing to slake lust with satiety,
but not to combat it with prayer. They tread one woman into the mire,
and excuse themselves because the garment of her sister is spotless. How
vain is this lying homage to virtue! How can Satan cast out Satan?

"Oh, my brethren, this hypocrisy is the curse and danger of our age. The
Atheist, no longer an execration, an astonishment, a curse, and a
reproach, poses now as the friend of man and the champion of right.
Those who incur the last and most terrible curse in this book, do so in
the name of that truth for which they profess to be seeking. Art,
profanely veiling its voluptuous nakedness with the attributes of
religion, disguises folly so subtly that it seems like virtue in the
slothful eyes of those who neglect continually to watch and pray. The
vain woman puts on her ornaments to do honor to her Creator's handiwork:
the lustful man casts away his soul that society may be kept clean:
there is not left in these latter days a sin that does not pretend to
work the world's salvation, nor a man who flatters not himself that the
sin of one may be the purging of many. To such I say, Look to your own
soul: of no other shall any account be demanded of you. A day shall come
in which a fire shall be kindled among your gods. The Lord shall array
Himself with this land as a shepherd putteth on his garment. Be sure
that then if ye shall say 'I am a devil; but I have cast out many
devils,' He will reply unto you, How can Satan cast out Satan? Who shall
prompt you to an answer to that question? Nay, though in His boundless
mercy He give you a thousand years to search, and spread before you all
the books of science and sociology in which you were wont to find
excuses for sin, what will it avail you? Will a scoff, or a quibble over
a doubtful passage, serve your turn? No. You cannot scoff whilst your
tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth for fear, and there will be no
passage doubtful in all the Scriptures on that day; for the light of the
Lord's countenance will be over all things."




BOOK III




CHAPTER XII


One Sunday afternoon, as the sun was making rainbows in the cloud of
spray thrown from the fountain in Kew Gardens, Sholto Douglas appeared
there amongst the promenaders on the banks of the pond. He halted on the
steps leading down to the basin, gazing idly at the waterfowl paddling
at his feet. A lady in a becoming grey dress came to the top of the
steps, and looked curiously at him. Somehow aware of this, he turned
indifferently, as if to leave, and found that the lady was Marian. Her
ripened beauty, her perfect self-possession, a gain in her as of added
strength and wisdom, and a loss in her as of gentleness outgrown and
timidity overcome, dazzled him for a moment--caused a revulsion in him
which he half recognized as the beginning of a dangerous passion. His
former love for her suddenly appeared boyish and unreal to him; and this
ruin of a once cherished illusion cost him a pang. Meanwhile, there she
was, holding out her hand and smiling with a cool confidence in the
success of her advance that would have been impossible to Marian Lind.

"How do you do?" she said.

"Thank you: I am fairly well. You are quite well, I hope?"

"I am in rude health. I hardly knew you at first."

"Am I altered?"

"You are growing stout."

"Indeed? Time has not been so bounteous to me as to you."

"You mean that I am stouter than you?" She laughed; and the sound
startled him. He got from it an odd impression that her soul was gone.
But he hastened to protest.

"No, no. You know I do not. I meant that you have achieved the
impossible--altered for the better."

"I am glad you think so. I cling to my good looks desperately now that I
am growing matronly. How is Mrs. Douglas?"

"She is quite well, thank you. Mr. Conolly is, I trust--"

"He is suffering from Eucalyptus on the brain at present. Do not trouble
yourself to maintain that admirable expression of shocked sadness.
Eucalyptus means gum-tree; and Ned is at present studying the species
somewhere in the neighborhood. He came here with that object: he never
goes anywhere without an object. He wants to plant Eucalyptuses round
some new works where the people suffer from ague."

"Oh! You mean that he is here in the gardens."

"Yes. I left him among the trees, as I prefer the flowers. I want to see
the lilies. There used to be some in a hot-house, or rather a hot bath,
near this."

"That is it on our right. May I go through it with you?"

"Just as you please."

"Thank you. It is a long time since we last met, is it not?"

"More than a year. Fifteen months. I have not seen you since I was
married."

Douglas looked rather foolish at this. He was fatter, lazier,
altogether less tenacious of his dignity than of old; and his
embarrassment brought out the change strikingly. Marian liked him all
the better for it; he was less imposing; but he was more a man and less
a mere mask. At last, reddening a little, he said, "I remember our last
meeting very well. We were very angry then: I was infuriated. In fact,
when I recognized you a minute ago, I was not quite sure that you would
renew our acquaintance."

"I had exactly the same doubt about you."

"A very unnecessary doubt. Not a sincere one, I am afraid. You know too
well that your least beck will bring me to you at any time."

"Dont you think we had better not begin that. I generally repeat my
conversations to Ned. Not that he will mind, if you dont."

Douglas now felt at his ease and in his clement. He was clearly welcome
to philander. Recovering his poise at once, he began, in his finest
voice, "You need not chide me. There can be no mistake on my part now.
You can entangle me without fear; and I can love without hope. Ned is an
unrepealed statute of Forbiddance. Go on, Mrs. Conolly. Play with me: it
will amuse you. And--spiritless wretch that I am!--it will help me to
live until you throw me away, crushed again."

"You seem to have been quite comfortable without me: at least you look
extremely well. I suspect you are becoming a little lazy and attached to
your dinner. Your old haughtiness seems to have faded into a mere habit.
It used to be the most active principle in you. Are you quite sure that
nobody else has been helping you to live, as you call it?"

"Helping me to forget, you mean. No, not one. Time has taught me the
way to vegetate; and so I no longer need to live. As you have remarked,
I have habits, not active principles. But one at least of these
principles is blossoming again even as I speak. If I could only live as
that lily lives now!"

"In a warm bath?"

"No. Floating on the surface of a quiet pool, looking up into your eyes,
with no memory for the past, no anticipation of the future."

"Delightful! especially for me. I think we had better go and look for
Ned."

"Were I in his place I would not be absent from your side now--or ever."

"That is to say, if you were in his place, you wouldnt be in his
place--among the gum trees. Perhaps you would be right."

"He is the only man I have ever stooped to envy."

"You have reason to," said Marian, suddenly grave.

"I envy him sometimes myself. What would you give to be never without a
purpose, never with a regret, to regard life as a succession of objects
each to be accomplished by so many days' work; to take your pleasure in
trifling lazily with the consciousness of possessing a strong brain; to
study love, family affection, and friendship as a doctor studies
breathing or digestion; to look on disinterestedness as either weakness
or hypocrisy, and on death as a mere transfer of your social function to
some member of the next generation?"

"I could achieve all that, if I would, at the cost of my soul. I would
not for worlds be such a man, save on one condition."

"To wit?"

"That only as such could I win the woman I loved."

"Oh, you would not think so much of an insignificant factor like love if
you were Ned."

"May I ask, do you, too, think of love as 'an insignificant factor'?"

"I? Oh, I am not a sociologist. Besides, I have never been in love."

"What! You have never been in love?"

"Not the real, romantic, burning, suicidal love your sonnets used to
breathe."

"Then you do not know what love is."

"Do you?"

"You should know whether I do or not."

"Should I? Then I conclude that you do not. You are growing stout. Your
dress is not in the least neglected. I am certain you enjoy life
thoroughly. No, you have never known love in all its novelistic-poetic
outrageousness. That respectable old passion is a myth."

"You look for signs that only children shew. When an oak dies, it does
not wither and fall at once as a sapling does. Perhaps you will one day
know what it is to love."

"Perhaps so."

"In any case, you will be able to boast of having inspired the passion."

"I hope so--at least, I mean that it is all nonsense. Do look at that
vegetable lobster of a thing, that cactus."

"In order to set off its ugliness properly, you should see yourself
against the background of palms, with that great fan-like leaf for a
halo, and----"

"Thank you. I see it all in my mind's eye by your eloquent description.
You are quite right in supposing that I like compliments; but I am
particular about their quality; and I dont need to be told I am pretty
in comparison with a hideous cactus. You would not have condescended to
make such a speech long ago. You are changed."

"Not toward you, on my honor."

"I did not mean that: I meant toward yourself."

"I am glad you have taken even that slender note of me. I find you
somewhat changed, too."

"I did not know that I shewed it; but it is true. I feel as if Marian
Lind was a person whom I knew once, but whom I should hardly know
again."

"The change in me has not produced that effect. I feel as though Marian
Lind were the history of my life."

"You have become quite a master of the art of saying pretty things. You
are nearly as glib at it as Ned."

"We have the same incentive to admiration."

"The same! You do not suppose that Ned pays _me_ compliments. He never
did such a thing in his life. No: I first discovered his talent in that
direction at Palermo, where I surprised him in an animated discourse
with the dark-eyed daughter of an innkeeper there. That was the first
conversation in Italian I succeeded in following. A week later I could
understand the language almost as well as he. However, dont let us waste
the whole afternoon talking stuff. I want to ask you about your mother.
I should greatly like to call upon her; but she has never made me any
sign since my marriage; and Mrs. Leith Fairfax tells me that she never
allows my name to be mentioned to her. I thought she was fond of me."

"So she was. But she has never forgiven you for making me suffer as you
did. You see she has more spirit than I. She would be angered if she saw
me now tamely following the triumphal chariot of my fair tyrant."

"Seriously, do you think, if I made a raid on Manchester Square some
morning, I could coax back her old feeling for me?"

"I think you will be quite safe in calling, at all events. Tell me what
day you intend to venture. I know my mother will not oppose me if I shew
that I wish you to be kindly received."

"Most disinterested of you. Thank you: I will fail or succeed on my own
merits, not on your recommendation. You must not say a word to her about
me or my project."

"If you command me not to----"

"I do command you."

"I must obey. But I fear that the more submissive I am, the more
imperious you will become."

"Very likely. And now look along that avenue to the left. Do you see a
man in a brown suit, with straw hat to match, walking towards us at a
regular pace, and keeping in a perfectly straight course? He looks at
everybody he passes as if he were counting them."

"He is looking back at somebody now, as if he had missed the number."

"Just so; but that somebody is a woman; doubtless a pretty one, probably
dark. You recognize him, I see. There is a frost come over you which
convinces me that you are preparing to receive him in your old
ungracious way. I warn you that I am accustomed to see Ned made much of.
He has caught sight of us."

"And has just remarked that there is a man talking to his wife."

"Quite right. See his speculative air! Now he no longer attends to us.
He is looking at the passers-by as before. That means that he has
recognized you, and has stowed the observation compactly away in his
brain, to be referred to when he comes up to us."

"So much method must economize his intellect very profitably. How do you
do, Mr. Conolly? It is some time since we have had the pleasure of
meeting."

"Glad to see you, Mr. Douglas. We have been away all the winter. Are you
staying in London?"

"Yes."

"I hope you will spend an occasional hour with us at Holland Park."

"You are very kind. Thank you: yes, if Mrs. Conolly will permit me."

"I should make you come home with us now," said Marian, "but for this
Sunday being a special occasion. Nelly McQuinch is to spend the evening
with us; and as I have not seen her since we came back, I must have her
all to myself. Come next Sunday, if you care to."

"Do," said Conolly. "Half past three is our Sunday hour. If you cannot
face that, we are usually at home afterwards the entire evening. Marian:
we have exactly fifteen minutes to catch our train."

"Oh! let us fly. If we miss it, Nelly will be kept waiting half an
hour."

Then they parted, Douglas promising to come to them on that day week.

"Dont you think he is growing very fat?" said she, as they walked away.

"Yes. He is beginning to take the world easily. He does not seem to be
making much of his life."

"What matter, so long as he enjoys it?"

"Pooh! He doesnt know what enjoyment means."

They said nothing further until they were in the train, where Marian
sat looking listlessly through the window, whilst Conolly, opposite,
reclining against the cushions, looked thoughtfully at her.

"Ned," said she, suddenly.

"My dear."

"Do you know that Sholto is more infatuated about me than ever?"

"Naturally. You are lovelier than when he last saw you."

"You are nearly as complimentary as he," said Marian, blushing with a
gratification which she was very unwilling to betray. "He noticed it
sooner than you. I discovered it myself in the glass before either of
you."

"No doubt you did. What station is this?"

"I dont know." Then, raising her voice so as to be overheard, she
exclaimed "Here is a stupid man coming into our carriage."

A young man entered the compartment, and, after one glance at Marian,
who turned her back on him impatiently, spent the remainder of the
journey making furtive attempts to catch a second glimpse of her face.
Conolly looked a shade graver at his wife's failure in perfect
self-control; but he by no means shared her feelings toward the
intrusive passenger. Marian and he were in different humors; and he did
not wish to be left alone with her.

As they walked from Addison Road railway station to their house, Conolly
mused in silence with his eyes on the gardens by the way. Marian, who
wished to talk, followed his measured steps with impatience.

"Let me take your arm, Ned: I cannot keep up with you."

"Certainly."

"I hope I am not inconveniencing you," she said, after a further
interval of silence.

"Hm--no."

"I am afraid I am. It does not matter. I can get on by myself."

"Arm in arm is such an inconvenient and ridiculous mode of
locomotion--you need not struggle in the public street: now that you
have got my arm you shall keep it--I say it is such an inconvenient and
ridiculous mode of locomotion that if you were any one else I should
prefer to wheel you home in a barrow. Our present mode of proceeding
would be inexcusable if I were a traction-engine, and you my tender."

"Then let me go. What will the people think if they see a great engineer
violating the laws of mechanics by dragging his wife by the arm?"

"They will appreciate my motives; and, in fact, if you watch them, you
will detect a thinly-disguised envy in their countenances. I violate the
laws of mechanics--to use your own sarcastic phrase--for many reasons. I
like to be envied when there are solid reasons for it. It gratifies my
vanity to be seen in this artistic quarter with a pretty woman on my
arm. Again, the sense of possessing you is no longer an abstraction when
I hold you bodily, and feel the impossibility of keeping step with you.
Besides, Man, who was a savage only yesterday, has his infirmities, and
finds a poetic pleasure in the touch of the woman he loves. And I may
add that you have been in such a bad temper all the afternoon that I
suspect you of an itching to box my ears, and therefore feel safer with
your arm in my custody."

"Oh! _Indeed_ I have not been in a bad temper. I have been most anxious
to spend a happy day."

"And I have been placidly reflective, and not anxious at all. Is that
what has provoked you?"

"I am not provoked. But you might tell me what your reflections are
about."

"They would fill volumes, if I could recollect them."

"You must recollect some of them. From the time we left the station
until a moment ago, when we began to talk, you were pondering something
with the deepest seriousness. What was it?"

"I forget."

"Of course you forget--just because I want to know. What a crowded road
this is!" She disengaged herself from his arm; and this time he did not
resist her.

"That reminds me of it. The crowd consists partly of people going to the
pro-Cathedral. The pro-Cathedral contains an altar. An altar suggests
kneeling on hard stone; and that brings me to the disease called
'housemaids' knee,' which was the subject of my reflections."

"A pleasant subject for a fine Sunday! Thank you. I dont want to hear
any more."

"But you will hear more of it; for I am going to have the steps of our
house taken away and replaced by marble, or slate, or something that can
be cleaned with a mop and a pail of water in five minutes."

"Why?"

"My chain of thought began at the door steps we have passed, all
whitened beautifully so as to display every footprint, and all
representing an expenditure of useless, injurious labor in
hearthstoning, that ought to madden an intelligent housemaid. I dont
think our Armande is particularly intelligent; but I am resolved to
spare her knees and her temper in future by banishing hearthstone from
our establishment forever. I shudder to think that I have been walking
upon those white steps and flag ways of ours every day without awakening
to a sense of their immorality."

"I cannot understand why you are always disparaging Armande. And I hate
an ill-kept house front. None of our housemaids ever objected to
hearthstoning, or were any the worse for it."

"No. They would not have gained anything by objecting: they would only
have lost their situations. You need not fear for your house front. I
will order a porch with porphyry steps and alabaster pillars to replace
your beloved hearthstone."

"Yes. That will be clever. Do you know how easy it is to stain marble?
Armande will be on her knees all day with a bottle of turpentine and a
bit of flannel."

"You are thinking of inkstains, Marian. You forget that it does not rain
ink, and that Nelly will hardly select the porch to write her novels
in."

"Lots of people bring ink on a doorstep. Tax collectors and gasmen carry
bottles in their pockets."

"Ask them into the drawing-room when they call, my dear; or, better
still, dont pay them, so that they will have no need to write a receipt.
Let me remind you that ink shews as much on white hearthstone as it can
possibly do on marble. Yet extensive disfigurements of steps from the
visits of tax collectors are not common."

"Now, Ned, you know that you are talking utter nonsense."

"Yes, my dear. I think I perceive Nelly looking out of the window for
us. Here she is at the door."

Marian hastened forward and embraced her cousin. Miss McQuinch looked
older; and her complexion was drier than before. But she had apparently
begun to study her appearance; for her hat and shoes were neat and even
elegant, which they had never been within Marian's previous experience
of her.

"_You_ are not changed in the least," she said, as she gave Conolly her
hand. "I have just been wondering at the alteration in Marian. She has
grown lovely."

"I have been telling her so all day, in the vain hope of getting her
into a better temper. Come into the drawing-room. Have you been waiting
for us long?"

"About fifteen minutes. I have been admiring your organ. I should have
tried the piano; but I did not know whether that was allowable on
Sunday."

"Oh! Why did you not pound it to your heart's content? Ned scandalizes
the neighbors every Sunday by continually playing. Armande: dinner as
soon as possible, please."

"I like this house. It is exactly my idea of a comfortable modern home."

"You must stay long enough to find out its defects," said Conolly. "We
read your novel at Verona; but we could not agree as to which characters
you meant to be taken as the good ones."

"That was only Ned's nonsense," said Marian. "Most novels are such
rubbish! I am sure you will be able to live by writing just as well as
Mrs. Fairfax can." Conolly shewed Miss McQuinch his opinion of this
unhappy remark by a whimsical glance, which she repudiated by turning
sharply away from him, and speaking as affectionately as she could to
Marian.

After dinner they returned to the drawing-room, which ran from the
front to the back of the house. Marian opened a large window which gave
access to the garden, and sat down with Elinor on a little terrace
outside. Conolly went to the organ.

"May I play a voluntary while you talk?" he asked. "I shall not
scandalize any one: the neighbors think all music sacred when it is
played on the organ."

"We have a nice view of the sunset from here," said Marian, in a low
voice, turning her forehead to the cool evening breeze.

"Stuff!" said Elinor. "We didnt come here to talk about the sunset, and
what a pretty house you have, and so forth. I want to know--good
heavens! what a thundering sound that organ makes!"

"Please dont say anything about it to him: he likes it," said Marian.
"When he wishes to exalt himself, he goes to it and makes it roar until
the whole house shakes. Whenever he feels an emotional impulse, he vents
it at the organ or the piano, or by singing. When he stops, he is
satisfied; his mind is cleared; and he is in a good-humored, playful
frame of mind, such as _I_ can gratify."

"But you were always very fond of music. Dont you ever play together, as
we used to do; or sing to one another's accompaniments?"

"I cannot. I hardly ever touch the piano when he is in the house."

"Why? Are you afraid of preventing him from having his turn?"

"No: it is not so much that. But--it sounds very silly--if I attempt to
play or sing in his presence, I become so frightfully nervous that I
hardly know what I am doing. I know he does not like my singing."

"Are you sure that is not merely your fancy? It sounds very like it."

"No. At first I used to play a good deal for him, knowing that he was
fond of music, and fancying--poor fool that I was! [here Marian spoke so
bitterly that Nelly turned and looked hard at her] that it was part of a
married woman's duty in a house to supply music after dinner. At that
time he was working hard at his business; and he spent so much time in
the city that he had to give up playing himself. Besides, we were flying
all about England opening those branch offices, and what not. He always
took me with him; and I really enjoyed it, and took quite an interest in
the Company. When we were in London, although I was so much alone in the
daytime, I was happy in anticipating our deferred honeymoon. Then the
time for that paradise came. Ned said that the Company was able to walk
by itself at last, and that he was going to have a long holiday after
his dry-nursing of it. We went first to Paris, where we heard all the
classical concerts that were given while we were there. I found that he
never tired of listening to orchestral music; and yet he never ceased
grumbling at it. He thought nothing of the great artists in Paris. Then
we went for a tour through Brittany; and there, in spite of his
classical tastes, he used to listen to the peasants' songs and write
them down. He seemed to like folk songs of all kinds, Irish, Scotch,
Russian, German, Italian, no matter where from. So one evening, at a
lodging where there was a piano, I played for him that old arrangement
of Irish melodies--you know--'Irish Diamonds,' it is called."

"Oh Lord! Yes, I remember. 'Believe me if all,' with variations."

"Yes. He thought I meant it in jest: he laughed at it, and played a lot
of ridiculous variations to burlesque it. I didnt tell him that I had
been in earnest: perhaps you can imagine how I felt about it. Then,
after that, in Italy, he got permission--or rather bought it--to try the
organ in a church. It was growing dusk; I was tired with walking; and
somehow between the sense of repose, and the mysterious twilight in the
old church, I was greatly affected by his playing. I thought it must be
part of some great mass or symphony; and I felt how little I knew about
music, and how trivial my wretched attempts must appear to him when he
had such grand harmonies at his fingers' ends. But he soon stopped; and
when I was about to tell him how I appreciated his performance, he said,
'What an abominable instrument a bad organ is!' I had thought it
beautiful, of course. I asked him what he had been playing. I said was
it not by Mozart; and then I saw his eyebrows go up; so I added, as a
saving clause, that perhaps it was something of his own. 'My dear girl,'
said he, 'it was only an _entr'acte_ from an opera of Donizetti's.' He
was carrying my shawl at the time; and he wrapped it about my shoulders
in the tenderest manner as he said this, and made love to me all the
evening to console me. In his opinion, the greatest misfortune that can
happen anyone is to make a fool of oneself; and whenever I do it, he
pets me in the most delicate manner, as if I were a child who had just
got a tumble. When we settled down here and got the organ, he began to
play constantly, and I used to practise the piano in the daytime so as
to have duets with him. But though he was always ready to play whenever
I proposed it, he was quite different then from what he was when he
played by himself. He was all eyes and ears, and the moment I played a
wrong note he would name the right one. Then I generally got worse and
stopped. He never lost his patience or complained; but I used to feel
that he was urging me on, or pulling me back, or striving to get me to
do something which I could not grasp. Then he would give me up in
despair, and play on mechanically from the notes before him, thinking of
something else all the time. I practised harder, and tried again. I
thought at first I had succeeded; because our duets went so smoothly and
we were always so perfectly together. But I discovered--by instinct I
believe--that instead of having a musical treat, he was only trying to
please me. He thought I liked playing duets with him; and accordingly he
used to sit down beside me and accompany me faithfully, no matter how I
chose to play."