One Saturday afternoon in December Marian and Elinor sat drinking tea in
the drawing-room at Holland Park. Elinor was present as an afternoon
caller: she no longer resided with the Conollys. Marian had been lamely
excusing herself for not having read Elinor's last book.
"Pray dont apologize," said Elinor. "I remember the time when you would have forced yourself to read it from a sense of duty; and I am too delighted to find that nonsense washing out of you at last to feel the wound to my vanity. Oh, say no more, my dear you can read it still whenever you please. Brother George read it, and was shocked because the heroine loves the villain and tells him so without waiting to be asked. It is odd that long ago, when I believed so devoutly in the tender passion, I never could write a really flaming love story."
"Dont begin to talk like that," said Marian, crossly. "People do fall in love, fortunately for them. It may be injudicious; and it may turn out badly; but it fills up life in a way that all the barren philosophy and cynicism on earth cannot. Do you think I would not rather have to regret a lost love than to repine because I had been too cautious to love at all? The disappointments of love warm the heart more than the triumphs of insensibility."
"Thats rather a good sentence," said Elinor. "Your talk is more classical than my writing. But what would the departed Marian Lind have said?"
"The departed Marian Lind was so desperately wise that she neglected that excellent precept, 'Be not righteous over much, neither make thyself over wise; why shouldest thou destroy thyself?' I took up the Bible last night for the first time since my marriage; and I thought what fools we two used to be when we made up our minds to avoid all the mistakes and follies and feelings of other people, and to be quite superior and rational. 'He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap.' It is all so true, in spite of what Ned says. We were very clever at observing the wind and regarding the clouds; and what are we the better for it? How much irreparable mischief, I wonder, did we do ourselves by letting our little wisdoms stifle all our big instincts! Look at those very other people whom we despised; how happy they are, in spite of their having always done exactly what their hearts told them!"
"I think we are pretty well off as people go. I know I am. Certainly it was part of our wisdom that marriage was a bad thing; and I grant that though you married in obedience to your instincts you are as well off as I. But I dont see that we are the worse for having thought a little."
"I did not marry in obedience to my instincts, Nelly; and you know it. I made a disinterested marriage with a man whom I felt I could respect as my superior. I was convinced then that a grand passion was a folly."
"And what do you think now?"
"I think that I did not know what I was talking about."
"I believe you were in love with Ned when you married him, and long enough before that, too."
"Of course I loved him. I love him still."
"Do you, really? To hear you, one would think that you only respected him as a superior."
"You have no right to say that. You dont understand."
"Perhaps not. Would you mind explaining?"
"I do not mean anything particular; but there are two kinds of love. There is a love which one's good sense suggests—a sort of moral approval—"
Elinor laughed. "Go on," she said. "What is the other sort?"
"The other sort has nothing to do with good sense. It is an overpowering impulse—a craving—a faith that defies logic—something to look forward to feeling in your youth, and look back to with a kindling heart in your age."
"Indeed! Isnt the difference between the two sorts much the same as the difference between the old love and the new?"
"What do you mean?"
"I think I will take another cup of tea. You neednt stop flying out at me, though: I dont mind it."
"Excuse me. I did not mean to fly out at you."
"It's rather odd that we so seldom meet now without getting on this subject and having a row. Has that struck you at all?"
Marian turned to the fire, and remained silent.
"Listen to me, Marian. You are in the blues. Why dont you go to Ned, and tell him that he is a cast-iron walking machine, and that you are unhappy, and want the society of a flesh-and-blood man? Have a furious scene with him, and all will come right."
"It is very easy to talk. I could not go to him and make myself ridiculous like that: the words would choke me. Besides, I am not unhappy."
"What a lie! You wicked woman! A moment ago you were contemning all prudence; and now you will not speak your mind because you are afraid of being ridiculous. What is that but observing the wind and regarding the clouds, I should like to know?"
"I wish you would not speak harshly to me, even in jest. It hurts me."
"Serve you right! I am not a bit remorseful. No matter: let us talk of something else. Where did those flowers come from?"
"Douglas sent them. I am going to the theatre to-night; and I wanted a bouquet."
"Very kind of him. I wonder he did not bring it himself. He rarely misses an excuse for coming."
"Why do you say that, Nelly? He comes here very seldom, except on Sunday; and that is a regular thing, just as your coming is."
"He was here on Tuesday; you saw him at Mrs. Saunders's on Wednesday; he was at your at-home on Thursday; and he sends a bouquet on Saturday."
"I cannot help meeting him out; and not to invite him to my at-home would be to cut him. Pray are you growing spiteful, like Mrs. Leith Fairfax?"
"Marian: you got out of bed at the wrong side this morning; and you have made that mistake oftener since your return from Sark than in all your life before. Douglas has become a lazy good-for-nothing; and he comes here a great deal too often. Instead of encouraging him to dangle after you as he does, and to teach you all those finely turned sentiments about love which you were airing a minute ago, you ought to make him get called to the bar, or sent into Parliament, or put to work in some fashion."
"Nelly!"
"Bother Nelly! It is true; and you know it as well as I do."
"If he fancies himself in love with me, I cannot help it."
"You can help his following you about."
"I cannot. He does not follow me about. Why does not Ned object? He knows that Sholto is in love with me; and he does not care."
"Oh, if it is only to make Ned jealous, then I have nothing more to say: you may flirt away as hard as you please. There's a knock at the door, just in time to prevent us from quarrelling. I know whose knock it is, too."
Marian had flushed slightly at the sound; and Elinor, with her feet stretched out before her, lapped the carpet restlessly with her heels, and watched her cousin sourly as Douglas entered. He was in evening dress.
"Good-evening," said Elinor. "So you are going to the theatre, too?"
"Why?" said Douglas. "Is any one coming with us? Shall we have the pleasure of your company?"
"No," replied Elinor, drily. "I thought Mr. Conolly was perhaps going with you."
"I shall be very glad, I am sure, if he will," said Douglas.
"He will not," said Marian. "I doubt if he will come home before we start."
"You got my flowers safely, I see."
"Yes, thank you. They are beautiful."
"They need be, if you are to wear them."
"I think I will go," said Elinor, "if you can spare me. Marian has been far from amiable; and if you are going to pay her compliments, I shall very soon be as bad as she. Good-bye." Douglas gratefully went with her to the door. She looked very hard at him, and almost made a grimace as they parted; but she said nothing.
"I am very glad she went," said Marian, when Douglas returned. "She annoys me. Everything annoys me."
"You are leading an impossible life here, Marian," he said, putting his hand on her chair and bending over her. "Whilst it lasts, everything will annoy you; and I, who would give the last drop of my blood to spare you a moment's pain, shall never experience the delight of seeing you happy."
"What other life can I lead?"
Douglas made an impulsive movement, as though to reply; but he hesitated, and did not speak. Marian was not looking at him. She was gazing into the fire.
"Sholto," she said, after an interval of silence, "you must not come here any more."
"What!"
"You are too idle. You come here too often. Why do you not become a barrister, or go into Parliament, or at least write books? If Nelly can succeed as an author, surely you can."
"I have left all that behind me. I am a failure: you know why. Let us talk no more of it."
"Do not go on like that," said Marian, pettishly. "I dont like it."
"I am afraid to say or do anything, you are so easily distressed."
"Yes, I know I am very cross. Elinor remarked it too. I think you might bear with me, Sholto." Here, most unexpectedly, she rose and burst into tears. "When my whole life is one dreary record of misery, I cannot always be patient. I have been forbearing toward you many times."
Douglas was at first frightened; for he had never seen her cry before. Then, as she sat down again, and covered her face with her handkerchief, he advanced, intending to kneel and put his arm about her; but his courage failed: he only drew a chair to the fire, and bent over, as he sat beside her, till his face was close to hers, saying, "It is all the fault of your mad marriage. You were happy until then. I have been silent hitherto; but now that I see your tears, I can no longer master myself. Listen to me, Marian. You asked me a moment since what other life was open to you. There is a better life. Leave England with me; and—and—" Marian had raised her head; and as she looked steadily at him, he stopped, and his lips became white.
"Go on," she said. "I am not angry. What else?"
"Nothing else except happiness." His voice died away: there was a pause. Then, recovering himself, he went on with something of his characteristic stateliness. "There is no use in prolonging your present life; it is a failure, like mine. Why should you hesitate? You know how seldom the mere letter of duty leads to either happiness or justice. You can rescue me from a wasted existence. You can preserve your own heart from a horrible slow domestic decay. He will not care: he cares for nothing: he is morally murdering you. You have no children to think of. I love you; and I offer you your choice of the fairest spots in the wide world to pass our future in, with my protection to ensure your safety and comfort there, wherever it may be. You know what a hollow thing conventional virtue is. Who are the virtuous people about you? Mrs. Leith Fairfax, and her like. If you love me, you must know that you are committing a crime against nature in living as you are with a man who is as far removed from you in every human emotion as his workshop is from heaven. You have striven to do your duty by him in vain. He is none the happier: we are unutterably the more miserable. Let us try a new life. I have lived in society here all my days, and have found its atmosphere most worthless, most selfish, most impure. I want to be free—to shake the dust of London off my feet, and enter on a life made holy by love. You can respond to such an aspiration: you, too, must yearn for a pure and free life. It is within our reach: you have but to stretch out your hand. Say something to me. Are you listening?"
"It seems strange that I should be listening to you quite calmly, as I am; although you are proposing what the world thinks a disgraceful thing."
"Does it matter what the world thinks? I would not, even to save myself from a wasted career, ask you to take a step that would really disgrace you. But I cannot bear to think of you looking back some day over a barren past, and knowing that you sacrificed your happiness to Fashion—an idol. Do you remember last Sunday when we discussed that bitter saying that women who have sacrificed their feelings to the laws of society secretly know that they have been fools for their pains? He did not deny it. You could give no good reason for disbelieving it. You know it to be true; and I am only striving to save you from that vain regret. You have shewn that you can obey the world with grace and dignity when the world is right. Shew now that you can defy it fearlessly when it is tyrannical. Trust your heart, Marian—my darling Marian: trust your heart—and mine."
"For what hour have you ordered the carriage?"
"The carriage! Is that what you say to me at such a moment? Are you still flippant as ever?"
"I am quite serious. Say no more now. If I go, I will go deliberately, and not on the spur of your persuasion. I must have time to think. What hour did you say?"
"Seven."
"Then it is time for me to dress. You will not mind waiting here alone?"
"If you would only give me one hopeful word, I think I could wait happily forever."
"What can I say?"
"Say that you love me."
"I am striving to discover whether I have always loved you or not. Surely, if there be such a thing as love, we should be lovers."
He was chilled by her solemn tone; but he made a movement as if to embrace her.
"No," she said, stopping him. "I am his wife still. I have not yet pronounced my own divorce."
She left the room; and he walked uneasily to and fro Until she returned, dressed in white. He gazed at her with quickened breath as she confronted him. Neither heeded the click of her husband's latchkey in the door without.
"When I was a little boy, Marian," he said, gazing at her, "I used to think that Paul Delaroche's Christian martyr was the most exquisite vision of beauty in the world. I have the same feeling as I look at you now."
"Marian reminds me of that picture too," said Conolly. "I remember wondering," he continued, smiling, as they started and turned toward him, "why the young lady—she was such a perfect lady—was martyred in a ball dress, as I took her costume to be. Marian's wreath adds to the force of the reminiscence."
"If I recollect aright," said Marian, taking up his bantering tone with a sharper irony, "Delaroche's martyr shewed a fine sense of the necessity of having her wrists gracefully tied. I am about to follow her example by wearing these bracelets, which I can never fasten. Be good enough to assist me, both of you."
She extended a hand to each; and Conolly, after looking at the catch for a moment, closed it dexterously at the first snap. "By the bye," he said, whilst Douglas fumbled at the other bracelet, "I have to run away to Glasgow to-night by the ten train. We shall not see one another again until Monday evening."
Douglas's hand began to shake so that the gold band chafed Marian's arm. "There, there," she said, drawing it away from him, "you do it for me, Ned. Sholto has no mechanical genius." Her hand was quite steady as Conolly shut the clasp. "Why must you go to Glasgow?"
"They have got into a mess at the works there; and the engineer has telegraphed for me to go down and see what is the matter. I shall certainly be back on Monday. Have something for me to eat at half past seven. I am sorry to be away from our Sunday dinner, Douglas; but you know the popular prejudice. If you want a thing done, see to it yourself."
"Sholto has been very eloquent this evening on the subject of popular prejudices," said Marian. "He says that to defy the world is a proof of honesty."
"So it is," said Conolly. "I get on in the world by defying its old notions, and taking nobody's advice but my own. Follow Douglas's precepts by all means. Do you know that it is nearly a quarter to eight?"
"Oh! Let us go. We shall be late."
"I shall not see you to-morrow, Douglas. Good-night."
"Good-night," said Douglas, keeping at some distance; for he did not care to offer Conolly his hand before Marian now. "Pleasant journey."
"Thank you. Hallo! [Marian had impatiently turned back.] What have you forgotten?"
"My opera-glass," said Marian. "No, thanks: you would not know where to look for it: I will go myself."
She went upstairs; and Conolly, after a pause, followed, and found her in their bedroom, closing the drawer from which she had just taken the opera-glass.
"Marian," he said: "you have been crying to-day. Is anything wrong? or is it only nervousness?"
"Only nervousness," said Marian. "How did you find out that I had been crying? it was only for an instant, because Nelly annoyed me. Does my face shew it?"
"It does to me, not to anyone else. Are you more cheerful now?"
"Yes, I am all right. I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like."
Conolly recoiled, disconcerted. "Why?" he said. "Do you wish—?" He recovered himself, and added, "It is too cold, my dear; and I must travel very fast. I shall be busy all the time. Besides, you are forgetting the theatre and Douglas, who, by the bye, is catching cold on the steps."
"Well, I had better go with Douglas, since it will make you happier."
"Go with Douglas, my dear one, if it will make you happier," said he, kissing her. To his surprise, she threw her arm round him, held him fast by the shoulder, and looked at him with extraordinary earnestness. He gave a little laugh, and disengaged himself gently, saying, "Dont you think your nervousness is taking a turn rather inconvenient for Douglas?" She let her hands fall; closed her lips; and passed quietly out. He went to the window and watched her as she entered the carriage. Douglas held the door open for her; and Conolly, looking at him with a sort of pity, noted that he was, in his way, a handsome man and that his habit of taking himself very seriously gave him a certain, dignity. The brougham rolled away into the fog. Conolly pulled down the blind, and began to pack his portmanteau to a vigorously whistled accompaniment.