"Dear me! Why doesnt he get Rubinstein to play with him, since he is so
remarkably fastidious?"

"It is not so much mechanical skill that I lack; but there is
something--I cannot tell what it is. I found it out one night when we
were at Mrs. Saunders's. She is an incurable flirt; and she was quite
sure that she had captivated Ned, who is always ready to make love to
anyone that will listen to him."

"A nice sort of man to be married to!"

"He only does it to amuse himself. He does not really care for them: I
almost wish he did, sometimes; but it is often none the less provoking.
What is worse, no amount of flirtation on my part would make _him_
angry. What happened at Mrs. Saunders's was this. The Scotts, of Putney,
were there; and the first remark Ned made to me was, 'Who is the woman
that knows how to walk?' It was Mrs. Scott: you know you used to say
she moved like a panther. Afterward Mrs. Scott sang 'Caller Herrin' in
that vulgar Scotch accent that leaks out occasionally in her speech,
with Ned at the piano. Everybody came crowding in to listen; and there
was great applause. I cannot understand it: she is as hard and
matter-of-fact as a woman can be: I dont believe the expression in her
singing comes one bit from true feeling. I heard Ned say to her, 'Thank
you, Mrs. Scott: no Englishwoman has the secret of singing a ballad as
you have it.' I knew very well what that meant. _I_ have not the secret.
Well, Mrs. Scott came over to me and said 'Mr. Conolly is a very
_pair_tinaceous man. He persuaded me into shewing him the way the little
song is sung in Scotland; and I stood up without thinking. And see now,
I have been _rag_uilarly singing a song in company for the first time in
my life.' Of course, it was a ridiculous piece of affectation. Ned
talked about Mrs. Scott all the way home, and played 'Caller Herrin'
four times next day. That finished my domestic musical career. I have
never sung for him since, except once or twice when he has asked me to
try the effect of some passage in one of his music-books."

"And do you never sing when you go out, as you used to?"

"Only when he is not with me, or when people force me to. If he is in
the room, I am so nervous that I can hardly get through the easiest
song. He never offers to accompany me now, and generally leaves the room
when I am asked to sing."

"Perhaps he sees the effect his presence has on you."

"Even so, he ought to stay. He used to like _me_ to listen to _him_, at
first."

Miss McQuinch looked at the sunset with exceeding glumness. There was
an ominous pause. Then she said, abruptly, "You remember how we used to
debate whether marriage was a mistake or not. Have you found out?"

"I dont know."

"That sounds rather as if you did know. Are you quite sure you are not
in low spirits this evening? He was bantering you about being out of
temper when you came in. Perhaps you quarrelled at Kew."

"Quarrel! He quarrel! I cannot explain to you how we are situated,
Nelly. You would not understand me."

"Suppose you try. For instance, is he as fond of you as he was before
you married him?"

"I dont know."

Miss McQuinch shrugged herself impatiently.

"Really I do not, Nelly. He has changed in a way--I do not quite know
how or why. At first he was not very ceremonious. He used to make
remarks about people, and discuss everything that came into his head
quite freely before me. He was always kind, and never grumbled about his
dinner, or lost his temper, or anything of that kind; but--it was not
that he was coarse exactly: he was not that in the least; but he was
very open and unreserved and plain in his language; and somehow I did
not quite like it. He must have found this out: he sees and feels
everything by instinct; for he slipped back into his old manner, and
became more considerate and attentive than he had ever been before. I
was made very happy at first by the change; but I do not think he quite
understood what I wanted. I did not at all object to going down to the
country with him on his business trips; but he always goes alone now;
and he never mentions his work to me. And he is too careful as to what
he says to me. Of course, I know that he is right not to speak ill of
anybody; but still a man need not be so particular before his wife as
before strangers. He has given up talking to me altogether: that is the
plain truth, whatever he may pretend. When we do converse, his manner is
something like what it was in the laboratory at the Towers. Of course,
he sometimes becomes more familiar; only then he never seems in earnest,
but makes love to me in a bantering, half playful, half sarcastic way."

"You are rather hard to please, perhaps. I remember you used to say that
a husband should be just as tender and respectful after marriage as
before it. You seem to have broken poor Ned into this; and now you are
not satisfied."

"Nelly, if there is one subject on which girls are more idiotically
ignorant than on any other, it is happiness in marriage. A courtier, a
lover, a man who will not let the winds of heaven visit your face too
harshly, is very nice, no doubt; but he is not a husband. I want to be a
wife and not a fragile ornament kept in a glass case. He would as soon
think of submitting any project of his to the judgment of a doll as to
mine. If he has to explain or discuss any serious matter of business
with me, he does so apologetically, as if he were treating me roughly."

"Well, my dear, you see, when he tried the other plan, you did not like
that either. What is the unfortunate man to do?"

"I dont know. I suppose I was wrong in shrinking from his confidence. I
am always wrong. It seems to me that the more I try to do right, the
more mischief I contrive to make."

"This is all pretty dismal, Marian. What sort of conduct on his part
would make you happy?"

"Oh, there are so many little things. He makes me jealous of everything
and everybody. I am jealous of the men in the city--I was jealous of the
sanitary inspector the other day--because he talks with interest to
them. I know he stays in the city later than he need. It is a relief to
me to go out in the evening, or to have a few people here once or twice
a week; but I am angry because I know it is a relief to him too. I am
jealous even of that organ. How I hale those Bach fugues! Listen to the
maddening thing twisting and rolling and racing and then mixing itself
up into one great boom. He can get on with Bach: he can't get on with
me. I have even condescended to be jealous of other women--of such women
as Mrs. Saunders. He despises her: he plays with her as dexterously as
she thinks she plays with him; but he likes to chat with her; and they
rattle away for a whole evening without the least constraint. She has no
conscience: she talks absolute nonsense about art and literature: she
flirts even more disgustingly than she used to when she was Belle
Woodward; but she is quickwitted, like most Irish people; and she enjoys
a broad style of jesting which Ned is a great deal too tolerant of,
though he would as soon die as indulge in it before me. Then there is
Mrs. Scott, who is just as shrewd as Belle, and much cleverer. I have
heard him ask her opinion as to whether he had acted well or not in some
stroke of business--something that I had never heard of, of course. I
wish I were half as hard and strong and self-reliant as she is. _Her_
husband would be nothing without her."

"I am afraid I was right all along, Marian. Marriage _is_ a mistake.
There is something radically wrong in the institution. If you and Ned
cannot be happy, no pair in the world can."

"We might be very happy if----" Marian stopped to repress a sob.

"Anybody might be very happy If. There is not much consolation in Ifs.
You could not be better off than you are unless you could be Marian Lind
again. Think of all the women who would give their souls to have a
husband who would neither drink, nor swear at them, nor kick them, nor
sulk whenever he was kept waiting half a minute for anything. You have
no little pests of children----"

"I wish I had. That would give us some interest in common. We sometimes
have Lucy, Marmaduke's little girl, up here; and Ned seems to me to be
fond of her. She is a very bold little thing."

"I saw Marmaduke last week. He is not half so jolly as he was."

"He lives in chambers in Westminster now, and only comes out in this
direction occasionally to see Lucy. I am afraid _she_ has taken to
drinking. I believe she is going to America. I hope she is; for she
makes me uncomfortable when I think of her."

"Does your--your Ned ever speak of her?"

"No. He used to, before he changed as I described. Now, he never
mentions her. Hush! Here he is."

The sound of the organ had ceased; and Conolly came out and stood
between them.

"How do you like my consoler, as Marian calls it?" said he.

"Do you mean the organ?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't listening to you."

"You should have: I played the great fugue in A minor expressly for your
entertainment: you used to work at Liszt's transcription of it. The
organ is only occasionally my consoler. For the most part I am driven to
it by habit and a certain itching in my fingers. Marian is my real
consoler."

"So she has just been telling me," said Elinor. Conolly's surprise
escaped him for just a moment in a quick glance at Marian. She colored,
and looked reproachfully at her cousin, who added, "I am sure you must
be a nuisance to the neighbors."

"Probably," said Conolly.

"I do not think you should play so much on Sunday," said Marian.

"I know. [Marian winced.] Well, if the neighbors will either melt down
the church bells they jangle so horribly within fifteen yards or so of
my unfortunate ears, or else hang them up two hundred feet high in a
beautiful tower where they would sound angelic, as they do at Utrecht,
then perhaps I will stop the organ to listen to them. Until then, I will
take the liberty of celebrating the day of rest with such devices as the
religious folk cannot forbid me."

"Pray do not begin to talk about religion, Ned."

"My way of thinking is too robust for Marian, Miss McQuinch. I admit
that it does not, at first sight, seem pretty or sentimental. But I do
not know how even Marian can prefer the church bells to Bach."

"What do you mean by '_even_ Marian'?" said Elinor, sharply.

"I should have said, 'Marian, who is tolerant and kind to everybody and
everything.' I hope you have forgiven me for carrying her off from you,
Miss McQuinch. You are adopting an ominous tone toward me. I fear she
has been telling you of our quarrels, and my many domestic
shortcomings."

"No," said Elinor. "As far as I can judge from her account, you are a
monotonously amiable husband."

"Indeed! Hm! Would you like your coffee out here?"

"Yes."

"Do not stir, Marian: I will ring for it."

When he was gone, Marian said "Nelly: for Heaven's sake say nothing that
could make the slightest coldness between Ned and me. I am clinging to
him with all my heart and soul; and you must help me. Those sharp things
that you say to him stab me cruelly; and he is clever enough to guess
everything I have said to you from them."

"If I cannot keep myself from making mischief, I shall go away," said
Elinor. "Dont suppose I am in a huff: I am quite serious. I have an
unlucky tongue; and my disposition is such that when I see that a jug is
cracked, I feel more inclined to smash and have done with it than to
mend it and handle it tenderly ever after. However, I hope your marriage
is not a cracked jug yet."




CHAPTER XIII


On the following Wednesday Douglas called on his mother at Manchester
Square in the afternoon. As if to emphasize the purely filial motive of
his visit, he saluted his mother so affectionately that she was
emboldened to be more demonstrative with him than she usually ventured
to be.

"My darling boy," she said, holding him fondly for a moment, "this is
the second visit you have paid your poor old mother this week. I want to
speak to you about something, too. Marian has been with me this
morning."

"What! Has she gone?" said Douglas.

"Why?" said Mrs. Douglas. "Did you know she was coming?"

"She mentioned to me that she intended to come," he replied, carelessly;
"but she bade me not to tell you."

"That accounts for your two visits. Well, Sholto, I do not blame you for
spending your time in gayer places than this."

"You must not reproach me for neglecting you, mother. You know my
disposition. I am seldom good company for any one; and I do not care to
come only to cast a damp on you and your friends when I am morose. I
hope you received Marian kindly."

"I did not expect to see her; and I told her so."

"Mother!"

"But it made no difference. There is no holding her in check now,
Sholto; she cares no more for what I say than if I was her father or
you. What could I do but kiss and forgive her? She got the better of
me."

"Yes," said Douglas, gloomily. "She has a wonderful face."

"The less you see of her face, the better, Sholto. I hope you will not
go to her house too often."

"Do you doubt my discretion, mother?"

"No, no, Sholto. But I am afraid of any unpleasantness arising between
you and that man. These working men are so savage to their wives, and so
jealous of gentlemen. I hardly like your going into his house at all."

"Absurd, mother! You must not think that he is a navvy in fustian and
corduroys. He seems a sensible man: his address is really remarkably
good, considering what he is. As to his being savage, he is quite the
reverse. His head is full of figures and machinery; and I am told that
he does nothing at home but play the piano. He must bore Marian
terribly. I do not want to go to his house particularly; but Marian and
he are, of course, very sensitive to anything that can be construed as a
slight; and I shall visit them once or twice to prevent them from
thinking that I wish to snub Conolly. He will be glad enough to have me
at his dinner-table. I am afraid I must hurry away now: I have an
appointment at the club. Can I do anything for you in town?"

"No, thank you, Sholto. I thought you would have stayed with me for a
cup of tea."

"Thank you, dear mother, no: not to-day. I promised to be at the club."

"If you promised, of course, you must go. Good-bye. You will come again
soon, will you not?"

"Some day next week, if not sooner. Good-bye, mother."

Douglas left Manchester Square, not to go to his club, where he had no
real appointment, but to avoid spending the afternoon with his mother,
who, though a little hurt at his leaving her, was also somewhat relieved
by being rid of him. They maintained toward one another an attitude
which their friends found beautiful and edifying; but, like artists'
models, they found the attitude fatiguing, in spite of their practice
and its dignity.

At Hyde Park Corner, Douglas heard his name unceremoniously shouted.
Turning, he saw Marmaduke Lind, carelessly dressed, walking a little
behind him.

"Where are you going to?" said Marmaduke, abruptly.

"Why do you ask?" said Douglas, never disposed to admit the right of
another to question him.

"I want to have a talk with you. Come and lunch somewhere, will you?"

"Yes, if you wish."

"Let's go to the South Kensington Museum."

"The South----! My dear fellow, why not suggest Putney, or the Star and
Garter? Why do you wish to go westward from Hyde Park in search of
luncheon?"

"I have a particular reason. I am to meet someone at the Museum this
afternoon; and I want to ask your advice first. You might as well come;
it's only a matter of a few minutes if we drive."

"Well, as you please. I have not been to the Museum for years."

"All right. Come al----oh, damn! There's Lady Carbury and Constance
coming out of the Park. Dont look at them. Come on."

But Constance, sitting a little more uprightly than her mother, who was
supine upon the carriage cushions, had seen the two gentlemen as they
stood talking.

"Mamma," she said, "there's Marmaduke and Sholto Douglas."

"Where???" said the Countess, lifting her head quickly. "Josephs, drive
slowly. Where are they, Constance?"

"They are going away. I believe Marmaduke saw us. There he is, passing
the hospital."

"We must go and speak to them. Look pleasant, child; and dont make a
fool of yourself."

"Surely youll not speak to him, mamma! You dont expect me----"

"Nonsense. I heard a great deal about him the other day. He has moved
from where he was living, and is quite reformed. His father is very ill.
Do as I tell you. Josephs, stop half way to the hotel."

"I say," said Marmaduke, finding himself out-manoeuvred: "come back.
There they are right ahead, confound them. What are they up to?"

"It cannot be helped," said Douglas. "There is no escape. You must not
cross: it would be pointedly rude."

Marmaduke went on grumbling. When he attempted to pass, the Countess
called his name, and greeted him with smiles.

"We want to know how your father is," she said. "We have had such
alarming accounts of him. I hope he is better."

"They havnt told me much about him," said Marmaduke. "There was deuced
little the matter with the governor when I saw him last."

"Wicked prodigal! What shall we do to reform him, Mr. Douglas? He has
not been to see us for three years past, and during that time we have
had the worst reports of him."

"You never asked me to go and see you."

"Silly fellow! Did you expect me to send you invitations and leave cards
on you, who are one of ourselves? Come to-morrow to dinner. Your uncle
the Bishop will be there; and you will see nearly all the family
besides. You cannot plead that you have not been invited now. Will you
come?"

"No. I cant stand the Bishop. Besides, I have taken to dining in the
middle of the day."

"Come after dinner, then?"

"Mamma," said Constance, peevishly, "can't you see that he does not want
to come at all? What is the use of persecuting him?"

"No, I assure you," said Marmaduke. "It's only the Bishop I object to.
I'll come after dinner, if I can."

"And pray what is likely to prevent you?" said the Countess.

"Devilment of some sort, perhaps," he replied. "Since you have all given
me a bad name, I dont see why I should make any secret of earning it."

The Countess smiled slyly at him, implying that she was amused, but must
not laugh at such a sentiment in Constance's presence. Then, turning so
as to give the rest of the conversation an air of privacy, she
whispered, "I must tell you that you no longer have a bad name. It is
said that your wild oats are all sown, and I will answer for it that
even the Bishop will receive you with open arms."

"And dry my repentant tears on his apron, the old hypocrite," said
Marmaduke, speaking rather more loudly than before. "Well, we must be
trotting. We are going to the South Kensington Museum--to improve our
minds."

"Why, that is where we are going; at least, Constance is. She is going
to work at her painting while I pay a round of visits. Wont you come
with us?"

"Thank you: I'd rather walk. A man should have gloves and a proper hat
for your sort of travelling."

"Nonsense! you look very nice. Besides, it is only down the Brompton
Road."

"The worst neighborhood in London to be seen in with me. I know all
sorts of queer people down Brompton way. I should have to bow to them if
we met; and that wouldnt do before _her_,"--indicating Constance, who
was conversing with Douglas.

"You are incorrigible: I give you up. Good-bye, and dont forget
to-morrow evening."

"I wonder," said Marmaduke, as the carriage drove off, "what she's
saying about me to Constance now."

"That you are the rudest man in London, perhaps."

"Serve her right! I hate her. I have got so now that I can't stand that
sort of woman. You see her game, dont you; she can't get Constance off
her hands; and she thinks there's a chance of me still. How well she
knows about the governor's state of health! And Conny, too, grinning at
me as if we were the best friends in the world. If that girl had an
ounce of spirit she would not look on the same side of the street with
me."

Douglas, without replying, called a cab. Marmaduke's loud conversation
was irksome in the street, and it was now clear that he was unusually
excited. At the museum they alighted, and passed through the courts into
the grill-room, where they sat down together at a vacant table, and
ordered luncheon.

"You were good enough to ask my advice about something," said Douglas.
"What is the matter?"

"Well," said Marmaduke, "I am in a fix. Affairs have become so
uncomfortable at home that I have had to take up my quarters elsewhere."

"I did not know that you had been living at home. I thought your father
and you were on the usual terms."

"My father! Look here: I mean home--_my_ home. My place at Hammersmith,
not down at the governor's."

"Oh! I beg your pardon."

"Of course, you know all about my establishment there with Lalage
Virtue? her real name is Susanna Conolly."

"Is it true, then, that she is a cousin of Marian's husband?"

"Cousin! She's his sister, and Marian's sister-in-law."

"I never believed it."

"It's true enough. But thats not the mischief. Douglas: I tell you she's
the cleverest woman in London. She can do anything she likes. She can
manage a conversation with any foreigner in his own language, whether
she knows it or not. She gabbles Italian like a native. She can learn
off her part in a new piece, music and all, between breakfast and
luncheon, any day. She can cook: she can make a new bonnet out of the
lining of an old coat: she can drive a bargain with a Jew. She says she
never learns a thing at all unless she can learn it in ten minutes. She
can fence, and shoot. She can dance anything in the world. I never knew
such a mimic as she is. If you saw her take off the Bones at the Christy
Minstrels, you'd say she was the lowest of the low. Next minute she will
give herself the airs of a duchess, or do the ingenuous in a style that
would make Conny burst with envy. To see her preaching like George would
make you laugh for a week. There's nothing she couldnt do if she chose.
And now, what do you think she has taken to? Liquor. Champagne by the
gallon. She used to drink it by the bottle: now she drinks it by the
dozen--by the case. She wanted it to keep up her spirits. That was the
way it began. If she felt down, a glass of champagne would set her up.
Then she was always feeling down, and always setting herself up. At last
feeling down came to mean the same thing as being sober. You dont know
what a drunken woman is, Douglas, unless youve lived in the same house
with one." Douglas recoiled, and looked very sternly at Marmaduke, who
proceeded more vehemently. "She's nothing but a downright beast. She's
either screaming at you in a fit of rage, or clawing at you in a fit of
fondness that makes you sick. When she falls asleep, there she is, a
besotted heap tumbled anyhow into bed, snoring and grunting like a pig.
When she wakes, she begins planning how to get more liquor. Think of
what you or I would feel if we saw our mothers tipsy. By God, that child
of mine wouldnt believe its eyes if it saw its mother sober. Only for
Lucy, I'd have pitched her over long ago. I did all I could when I first
saw that she was overdoing the champagne. I swore I'd break the neck of
any man I caught bringing wine into the house. I sacked the whole staff
of servants twice because I found a lot of fresh corks swept into the
dustpan. I stopped drinking at home myself: I got in doctors to frighten
her: I tried bribing, coaxing, threatening: I knocked her down once when
I caught her with a bottle in her hand; and she fell with her head
against the fender, and frightened me a good deal more than she hurt
herself. It was no use. Sometimes she used to defy me, and say she
_would_ drink, she didnt care whether she was killing herself or not.
Other times she cried; implored me to save her from destroying herself;
asked me why I didnt thrash the life out of her whenever I caught her
drunk; promised on her oath never to touch another drop. The same
evening she would be drunk again, and, when I taxed her with it, say
that she wasn't drunk, that she was sick, and that she prayed the
Almighty on her knees to strike her dead if she had a bottle in the
house. Aye, and the very stool she knelt on would be a wine case with a
red cloth stuck to it with a few gilt-headed nails to make it look like
a piece of furniture. Next day she would laugh at me for believing her,
and ask me what use I supposed there was in talking to her. How she
managed to hold on at the theatre, I dont know. She wouldnt learn new
parts, and stuck to old ones that she could do in her sleep, she knew
them so well. She would go on the stage and get through a long part when
she couldnt walk straight from the wing to her dressing-room. Of course,
her voice went to the dogs long ago; but by dint of screeching and
croaking she pulls through. She says she darent go on sober now; that
she knows she should break down. The theatre has fallen off, too. The
actors got out of the place one by one--they didnt like playing with
her--and were replaced by a third-rate lot. The audiences used to be
very decent: now they are all cads and fast women. The game is up for
her in London. She has been offered an engagement in America on the
strength of her old reputation; but what is the use of it if she
continues drinking."

"That is very sad," said Douglas, with cold disgust, perfunctorily
veiled by a conventional air of sympathy. "But if she is irreclaimable,
why not leave her?"

"So I would, only for the child. I _have_ left her--at least, I've taken
lodgings in town; but I am always running out to Laurel Grove. I darent
trust Lucy to her; and she knows it; for she wouldnt let me take the
poor little creature away, although she doesnt care two straws for it.
She knows that it gives her a grip over me. Well, I have not seen her
for a week past. I have tried the trick of only going out in the evening
when she has to be at the theatre. And now she has sent me a long
letter; and I dont exactly know what to do about it. She swears she has
given up drinking--not touched a spoonful since I saw her last. She's as
superstitious as an old woman; and yet she will swear to that lie with
oaths that make _me_ uncomfortable, although I am pretty thick-skinned
in religious matters. Then she goes drivelling on about me having
encouraged her to drink at first, and then turned upon her and deserted
her when I found out the mischief I had done. I used to stand plenty of
champagne, but I am sure I never thought what would come of it. Then she
says she gave up every friend in the world for me: broke with her
brother, and lost her place in society. _Her_ place in society, mind
you, Douglas! Thats not bad, is it? Then, of course, I am leaving her to
die alone with her helpless child: I might have borne with her a little
longer: she will not trouble me nor anyone else much more; and so on.
The upshot is that she wants me to come back. She says I ought to be
there to save the child from her, if I dont care to save her from
herself; that I was the last restraint on her; and that if I dont come
she will make an end of the business by changing her tipple to prussic
acid. The whole thing is a string of maudlin rot from beginning to end;
and I believe she primed herself with about four bottles of champagne to
write it. Still, I dont want to leave her in the lurch. You are a man
who stand pretty closely on your honor. Do you think I ought to go back?
I may tell you that as regards money she is under no compliment to me.
Her earnings were a good half of our income; and she saved nothing out
of them. In fact, I owe her some money for two or three old debts she
paid for me. We always shared like husband and wife."

"I hardly understand your hesitation, Lind. You can take the little girl
out of her hands; allow her something; and be quit of her."

"Thats very easy to say; but I cant drag her child away from her if she
insists on keeping it."

"Well, so much the better for you. It would be a burden to you. Pay her
for its maintenance: that is probably what she wants."

"No, no," said Marmaduke, impatiently. "You dont understand. Youre
talking as if I were a rake living with a loose woman."

Douglas looked at him doubtfully. "I confess I do not understand," he
said. "Perhaps you will be good enough to explain."

"It's very simple. I went to live with her because I fell in love with
her, and she wouldnt marry me. She had a horror of marriage; and I was
naturally not very eager for it myself. Matters must be settled between
us as if we were husband and wife. Paying her off is all nonsense. She
doesnt want money; and I want the child; so she has the advantage of me.
Only for the drink I would go back to her to-morrow; but I cant stand
her when she is not sober. I bore with it long enough; and now all I
want is to get Lucy out of her hands and be quit of her, as you
say--although it seems mean to leave her."

"She must certainly be a very extraordinary woman if she refused to
marry you. Are you sure she is not married already?"

"Bosh! Not she. She likes to be independent; and she has a sort of
self-respect--not like Constance and the old Countess, who hunted me
long enough in the hope of running me down at last in a church."

"If you offered her marriage, that certainly frees you from the least
obligation to stay with her. She reserved liberty to leave you; and, of
course, the same privilege was implied on your part. If you have no
sentimental wish to return to her, you are most decidedly not bound in
honor to."

"I'm fond enough of her when she is sober; but I loathe her when she is
fuddled. If she would only give up drinking, we might make a fresh
start. But she wont."

"You must not think of doing that. Get rid of her, my dear fellow. This
marriage of Marian's has put the affair on a new footing altogether. I
tell you candidly, I think that under the circumstances your connexion
with Conolly's sister is a disgraceful one."

"Hang Conolly! Everybody thinks of Marian, and nobody of Susanna. I
have heard enough of that side of the question. Marian married him with
her eyes open."

"Do you mean to say that she knew?"

"Of course she did. Conolly told her, fairly enough. He's an
extraordinary card, that fellow."

"Reginald Lind told my mother that the discovery was made by accident
after the marriage, and that they were all shocked by it. It was he who
said that it was Conolly's _cousin_ that you were with."

"Uncle Rej. is an old liar. So are most of the family: I never believe a
word they say."

"Marian must have been infatuated. I advise you to break the connexion.
She will be glad to give you the child if she sees that you are resolved
to leave her. She only holds on because she hopes to make it the means
of bringing you back."

"I expect youre about right. She wants me to meet her here to-day at
half past three. Thats the reason I came."

"Do you know that it now wants twenty minutes of four?"

"Whew! So it does. I had better go and look for her. I'm very much
obliged to you, old fellow, for talking it over with me. I suppose you
dont want to meet her."

"I should be in the way at present."

"Then good-bye."

Marmaduke, leaving Douglas in the grill-room, went upstairs to the
picture galleries, where several students were more or less busy at
their easels. Lady Constance was in the Sheepshanks gallery, copying
"Sterne's Maria," by Charles Landseer, as best she could. She had been
annoyed some minutes before by the behavior of a stout woman in a rich
costume of black silk, who had stopped for a moment to inspect her
drawing. Lady Constance, by a look, had made her aware that she was
considered intrusive, whereupon she had first stared Lady Constance out
of countenance, and then deliberately scanned her work with an
expression which conveyed a low opinion of its merit. Having thus
revenged herself, she stood looking uneasily at the door for a minute,
and at last wandered away into the adjoining gallery. A few minutes
later Marmaduke entered, looking round as if in search of someone.

"Here I am," said Constance to him, playfully.

"So I see," said Marmaduke, recognizing her with rueful astonishment.
"You knew I was looking for you, did you?"

"Of course I did, sir."

"Youre clever, so you are. What are you doing here?"

"Dont you see? I am copying a picture."

"Oh! it's very pretty. Which one are you copying?"

"What an impertinent question! You can tell my poor copy well enough,
only you pretend not to."

"Yes, now that I look closely at it, I fancy it's a little like Mary the
maid of the inn there."

"It's not Mary: it's Maria--Sterne's Maria."

"Indeed! Do you read Sterne?"

"Certainly not," said Constance, looking very serious.

"Then what do you paint his Maria for? How do you know whether she is a
fit subject for you?"

"Hush, sir! You must not interrupt my work."

"I suppose you have lots of fun here over your art studies, eh?"

"Who?"

"You, and all the other girls here."

"Oh, I am sure I dont know any of them."

"Quite right, too, your ladyship. Dont make yourself cheap. I hope none
of the low beggars ever have the audacity to speak to you."

"I dont know anything about them," said Lady Constance, pettishly. "All
I mean is that they are strangers to me."

"Most likely theyll remain so. You all seem to stick to the little
pictures tremendously. Why dont you go in for high art? There's a big
picture of Adam and Eve! Why dont you paint that?"

"Will you soon be leaving town?" she replied, looking steadily at her
work, and declining to discuss Adam and Eve, who were depicted naked.
Receiving no reply, she looked round, and saw Marmaduke leaving the room
with the woman in the black silk dress.

"Who is that girl?" said Susanna, as they went out.

"That's Lady Constance, whom I was to have married."

"I guessed as much when I saw you talking to her. She is a true English
lady, heaven bless her! I took the liberty of looking at her painting;
and she stared at me as if I had bitten her."

"She is a little fool."

"She will not be such a little fool as to try to snub me again, I think.
Bob: did you get my letter?"

"Of course I got it, or I shouldnt be here."

"Well?"

"Well, I dont believe a word of it."

"That's plain speaking."

"There is no use mincing matters. You are just as likely to stop
drinking as you are to stop breathing."

"Perhaps I shall stop breathing before long."

"Very likely, at your present rate."

"That will be a relief to you."

"It will be a relief to everybody, and a release for yourself. You have
made me miserable for a year past; and now you expect me to be
frightened at the prospect of being rid of you."

"I dont expect you to be frightened. I expect you to do what all men do:
throw me aside as soon as I have served your turn."

"Yes. Of course, _you_ are the aggrieved party. Where's Lucy?"

"I dont know, and I dont care."

"Well, I want to know; and I do care. Is she at home?"

"How do I know whether she is at home or not. I left her there. Very
likely she is with her Aunt Marian, telling stories about her mother."

"She is better there than with you. What harm has she done you that you
should talk about her in that way?"

"No harm. I dont object to her being there. She has very pleasant
conversations with Mrs. Ned, which she retails to me at home. 'Aunty
Marian: why do you never drink champagne? Mamma is always drinking it.'
And then, 'Mamma: why do you drink so much wine? Aunty Marian never
drinks any.' Good heavens! the little devil told me this morning by way
of consolation that she always takes care not to tell her Aunty that I
get drunk."

"What did you do to her for saying it?"

"Dont lose your temper. I didnt strangle her, nor even box her ears.
Why should I? She only repeats what you teach her."

"She repeats what her eyes and ears teach her. If she learned the word
from me, she learned the meaning from you. A nice lesson for a child
hardly three years old."

Susanna sat down on a bench, and looked down at her feet. After a few
moments, she tightened her lips; rose; and walked away.

"Hallo! Where are you going to?" said Marmaduke, following her.

"I'm going to get some drink. I have been sober and miserable ever since
I wrote to you. I have not got much thanks for it, except to be made
more miserable. So I'll get drunk, and be happy."

"No, you shant," said Marmaduke, seizing her arm, and forcibly stopping
her.

"What does it matter to you whether I do or not? You say you won't come
back. Then leave me to go my own way."

"Here! you sit down," he said, pushing her into a chair. "I know your
game well enough. You think you have me safe as long as you have the
child."

"Oh, thats it, is it? Why dont you go out; take a cab; and go to Laurel
Grove for her? There is nothing to prevent you taking her away."

"I have a good mind to do it."

"Well, _do_ it. I wont stop you. Why didnt you do it long ago? Her home
is no place for her. I'm not fit to have charge of her. I have no fancy
for having her talking about me, and most likely mimicking me to other
people."

"Thats exactly what I want to arrange with you to do, if you will only
be reasonable. Listen. Let us part friends, Susanna, since there is no
use in our going on together. You must give me the child. It would only
be a burden to you; and I can have it well taken care of. You can keep
the house just as it is: I will pay the rent of it."

"What good is the house to me?"

"Can't you hear me out? It will be good to you to live in, I suppose; or
you can set it on fire, and wipe it off the face of the earth, for what
I care. I can give you five hundred pounds down----"

"Five hundred pounds! And what will you live on until your October
dividends come in? On credit, I suppose. Do you think you can impose on
me by flourishing money before me? I will never take a halfpenny from
you; no, not if I starve for it."

"Thats all nonsense, Susanna. You must."

"Must I? Do you think you can make me take your money as you made me sit
down here? by force!"

"I only offer you what I owe you. Those debts----"

"I dont want what you owe me. If you think it mean to leave me, you
shant plaster up your conscience with bank notes. You would like to be
able to say in your club that you treated me handsomely."

"I dont think it mean to leave you, not a bit of it. Any other man would
have left you months ago. If I had married that little fool inside
there, and she had taken to drink, I wouldnt have stood it a week. I
have stood it from you nearly a year. Can you expect me to stay under
the same roof with you, with the very thought of you making me sick and
angry? I was looking at some of your old likenesses the other day; and
I declare that it is enough to make a man cry to look at your face now
and listen to your voice. When you used to lecture me for losing a
twenty pound note at billiards, and coming home half screwed--no man
shall ever see me drunk again--I little thought which of us would be the
first to go to the dogs."

"I shall not trouble you long."

"What is the use of harping on that? I have seen you drunk so often that
I should almost be glad to see you dead."

"Stop!" said Susanna, rising. "All right: you need say no more. Talking
will not remedy matters; and it makes me feel pretty much as if you were
throwing big stones at my heart. Youre in the right, I suppose: I've
chosen to make a beast of myself, and I must take the consequences. You
can have the child. I will send for my things: you wont see me at Laurel
Grove again. Good-bye."

"But----"

"Dont say another word, Bob. Good-bye." He took her hand irresolutely.
She drew it quickly away; nodded to him; and went out, whilst he stood
wondering whether it would be safe--seeing that he did not desire a
reconciliation--to kiss her good-bye.




CHAPTER XIV


On Sunday afternoon Douglas walked, facing a glorious sunset, along
Uxbridge Road to Holland Park, where he found Mrs. Conolly, Miss
McQuinch, and Marmaduke. A little girl was playing in the garden. They
were all so unconstrained, and so like their old selves, that Douglas at
once felt that Conolly was absent.

"I am to make Ned's excuses," said Marian. "He has some pressing family
affairs to arrange." She seemed about to explain further; but Marmaduke
looked so uneasily at her that she stopped. Then, resuming gaily, she
added, "I told Ned that he need not stand on ceremony with you. Fancy my
saying that of you, the most punctilious of men!"

"Quite right. I am glad that Mr. Conolly has not suffered me to
interfere with his movements," he replied, with a smile, which he
suppressed as he turned and greeted Miss McQuinch with his usual cold
composure. But to Marmaduke, who seemed much cast down, he gave an
encouraging squeeze of the hand. Not that he was moved by the
misfortunes of Marmaduke; but he was thawed by the beauty of Marian.

"We shall have a pleasant evening," continued Marian. "Let us fancy
ourselves back at Westbourne Terrace again. Reminiscences make one feel
so deliciously aged and sad. Let us think that it is one of our old
Sunday afternoons. Sholto had better go upstairs and shave, to heighten
the illusion."

"Not for me, since I cannot see myself, particularly if I have to call
you Mrs. Conolly. If I may call you Marian, as I used to do, I think
that our conversation will contain fewer reminders of the lapse of
time."

"Of course," said Marian, disregarding an anxious glance from Elinor.
"What else should you call me? We were talking about Nelly's fame when
you came in. The colonial edition of her book has just appeared. Behold
the advertisement!"

There was a newspaper open on the table; and Marian pointed to one of
its columns as she spoke. Douglas took it up and read the following:

  Now Ready, a New and Cheaper Edition, crown 8vo, 5s.

  THE WATERS OF MARAH,

  BY ELINOR MCQUINCH.

  "Superior to many of the numerous tales which find a ready sale at
  the railway bookstall." _Athenaeum_.

  "There is nothing to fatigue, and something to gratify, the idle
  reader." _Examiner_.

  "There is a ring of solid metal in 'The Waters of Marah.'" _Daily
  Telegraph_.

  "Miss McQuinch has fairly established her claim to be considered
  the greatest novelist of the age." _Middlingtown Mercury._

  "Replete with thrilling and dramatic incident..... Instinct with
  passion and pathos." _Ladies' Gazette_.

  TABUTEAU & SON, COVENT GARDEN.

"That is very flattering," said Douglas, as he replaced the paper on the
table.

"Highly so," said Elinor. "Coriolanus displaying his wounds in the
Forum is nothing to it." And she abruptly took the paper, and threw it
disgustedly behind the sofa. Just then a message from the kitchen
engaged Marian's attention, and Douglas, to relieve her from her guests
for the moment, strolled out upon the little terrace, whither Marmaduke
had moodily preceded him.

"Still in your difficulties, Lind?" he said, with his perfunctory air of
concern, looking at the garden with some interest.

"I'm out of my difficulties clean enough," said Marmaduke. "There's the
child among the currant bushes; and I am rid of her mother: for good, I
suppose."

"So much the better! I hope it has not cost you too much."

"Not a rap. I met her in the museum after our confab on Wednesday, and
told her what you recommended: that I must have the child, and that she
must go. She said all right, and shook hands. I havnt seen her since."

"I congratulate you."

"I dont feel comfortable about her."

"Absurd, man! What better could you have done?"

"Thats just what I say. It was her own fault; I did all in my power. I
offered her five hundred pounds down. She wouldnt have it, of course;
but could I help that? Next day, when she sent her maid for her things,
I felt so uneasy that I came to Conolly, and told him the whole affair.
He behaved very decently about it, and said that I might as well have
left her six months ago for all the good my staying had done or was
likely to do. He has gone off to see her to-day--she is in lodgings
somewhere near the theatre; and he will let me know in case any money
is required. I should like to know what they are saying to one another
about me. They're a rum pair."

"Well, let us eat and drink; for to-morrow we die," said Douglas, with
an unnatural attempt at humor. "Marian seems happy. We must not spoil
her evening."

"Yes: she is always in good spirits when he is away."

"Indeed?"

"It seems to me that they dont pull together. I think she is afraid of
him."

"You dont mean to say that he ill-treats her?" said Douglas, fiercely.

"No: I dont mean that he thrashes her, or anything of that sort. And yet
he is just that sort of chap that I shouldnt be surprised at anything he
might do. As far as ordinary matters go, he seems to treat her
particularly well. But Ive noticed that she shuts up and gets anxious
when he comes into the room; and he has his own way in everything."

"Is that all? He embarrasses her by his behavior, I suppose. Perhaps she
is afraid of his allowing his breeding to peep out."

"Not she. His manners are all right enough. Besides, as he is a genius
and a celebrity and all that, people dont expect him to be conventional.
He might stand on his head, if he chose."

"Sholto," said Marian, joining them: "have you spoken to little Lucy?"

"No."

"Then you are unacquainted with the most absolute imp on the face of the
earth," said Elinor. "You neednt frown, Marmaduke: it is you who have
made her so."

"Leave her alone," said Marmaduke to Marian, who was about to call the
child. "Petting babies is not in Douglas's line: she will only bore
him."

"Not at all," said Douglas.

"It does not matter whether she bores him or not," said Marian. "He must
learn to take a proper interest in children. Lucy: come here."

Lucy stopped playing, and said, "What for?"

"Because I ask you to, dear," said Marian, gently.

The child considered for a while, and then resumed her play. Miss
McQuinch laughed. Marmaduke muttered impatiently, and went down the
garden. Lucy did not perceive him until he was within a few steps of
her, when she gave a shrill cry of surprise, and ran to the other side
of a flower-bed too wide for him to spring across. He gave chase; but
she, with screams of laughter, avoided him by running to and fro so as
to keep on the opposite side to him. Feeling that it was undignified to
dodge his child thus, he stopped and bade her come to him; but she only
laughed the more. He called her in tones of command, entreaty,
expostulation, and impatience. At last he shouted to her menacingly. She
placed her thumbnail against the tip of her nose; spread her fingers;
and made him a curtsy. He uttered an imprecation, and returned angrily
to the house, saying, between his teeth:

"Let her stay out, since she chooses to be obstinate."

"She is really too bad to-day," said Marian. "I am quite shocked at
her."

"She is quite right not to come in and be handed round for inspection
like a doll," said Elinor.

"She is very bold not to come when she is told," said Marian.

"Yes, from your point of view," said Elinor. "I like bold children."

Marmaduke was sulky and Marian serious for some time after this
incident. They recovered their spirits at dinner, when Marian related to
Douglas how she had become reconciled to his mother. Afterward,
Marmaduke suggested a game at whist.

"Oh no, not on Sunday," said Marian. "Whist is too wicked."

"Then what the dickens _may_ we do?" said Marmaduke. "May Nelly play
_Г©cartГ©_ with me?"

"Well, please dont play for money. And dont sit close to the front
window."

"Come along, then, Nell. You two may sing hymns, if you like."

"I wish you could sing, Sholto," said Marian. "It is an age since we
last had a game of chess together. Do you still play?"

"Yes," said Douglas; "I shall be delighted. But I fear you will beat me
now, as I suppose you have been practising with Mr. Conolly."

"Playing with Ned! No: he hates chess. He says it is a foolish expedient
for making idle people believe they are doing something very clever when
they are only wasting their time. He actually grumbled about the price
of the table and the pieces; but I insisted on having them, I suppose in
remembrance of you."

"It is kind of you to say that, Marian. Will you have black or white?"

"White, please, unless you wish me to be always making moves with your
men."

"Now. Will you move?"

"I think I had rather you began. Remember our old conditions. You are
not to checkmate me in three moves; and you are not to take my queen."

"Very well. You may rely upon it I shall think more of my adversary than
of my game. Check."

"Oh! You have done it in three moves. That is not fair. I won't play any
more unless you take back that."

"No, I assure you it is not checkmate. My bishop should be at the other
side for that. There! of course, that will do."

"What a noise Marmaduke makes over his cards! I hope the people next
door will not hear him swearing."

"Impossible. You must not move that knight: it exposes your king. Do you
know, I think there is a great charm about this house."

"Indeed? Yes, it is a pretty house."

"And this sunset hour makes it additionally so; Besides, it is
inexpressibly sad to see you here, a perfectly happy and perfectly
beautiful mistress of this romantic foreign home."

"What do you mean, Sholto?"

"I call it a foreign home because, though it is yours, I have no part
nor lot in it. Remember, we are only playing at old times to-night.
Everything around, from the organ to the ring on your finger, reminds me
that I am a stranger here. It seems almost unkind of you to regret
nothing whilst I am full of regrets."

"Check," said Marian. "Mind your game, sir."

"Flippant!" exclaimed Douglas, impatiently moving his king. "I verily
believe that if your husband were at the bottom of the Thames at this
moment, you would fly off unconcernedly to some other nest, and break
hearts with as much indifference as ever."