The Irrational Knot: Chapter 16

Chapter 16

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.

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