The Irrational Knot: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

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

                                  "Uxbridge Road, Holland Park, W.
  "DEAR MISS LIND: I must begin by explaining why I make this
  communication to you by letter instead of orally. It is because I
  am about to ask you to do me a favor. If you asked me to do
  anything for you, then, no matter how much my judgment might
  protest against my compliance, I could not without pain to myself
  refuse you face to face. I have no right to assume that your heart
  would plead on my behalf against your head in this fashion; but, on
  the other hand--the wish is father to the thought here--I have no
  right to assume that it would not. Therefore, to spare you all
  influences except the fair ones of your own interest and
  inclination, I make my proposal in writing. You will please put the
  usual construction on the word 'proposal.' What I desire is your
  consent to marry me. If your first impulse now is to refuse, I beg
  you to do so in plain terms at once, and destroy this letter
  without reading further. If you think, on the contrary, that we
  could achieve a future as pleasant as our past association has
  been--to me at least, here is what, as I think, you have to
  consider.
  "You are a lady, rich, well-born, beautiful, loved by many persons
  besides myself, too happily circumstanced to have any pressing
  inducement to change your condition, and too fortunately endowed in
  every way to have reason to anticipate the least difficulty in
  changing it to the greatest worldly advantage when you please.
  "What I am and have been, you know. I may estrange from you some of
  the society which you enjoy, and I can introduce you to none that
  would compensate you for the loss. I am what you call poor: my
  income at present does not amount to much more than fifteen
  hundred pounds; and I should not ask you to marry me if it were not
  that your own inheritance is sufficient, as I have ascertained, to
  provide for you in case of my early death. You know how my sister
  is situated; how your family are likely to feel toward me on her
  account and my own; and how impatient I am of devoting much time to
  what is fashionably supposed to be pleasure. On the other hand, as
  I am bidding for a consent and not for a refusal, I hope you will
  not take my disadvantages for more, or my advantages for less, than
  they are honestly worth. At Carbury Park you often said that you
  would never marry; and I have said the same myself. So, as we
  neither of us overrate the possibilities of happiness in marriage,
  perhaps we might, if you would be a little forbearing with me,
  succeed in proving that we have greatly underrated them. As for the
  prudence of the step, I have seen and practised too much prudence
  to believe that it is worth much as a rule of conduct in a world of
  accidents. If there were a science of life as there is one of
  mechanics, we could plan our lives scientifically and run no risks;
  but as it is, we must--together or apart--take our chance:
  cautiousness and recklessness divide the great stock of regrets
  pretty equally.
  "Perhaps you will wonder at my selfishness in wanting you, for my
  own good, to forfeit your present happy independence among your
  friends, and involve your fortunes with those of a man whom you
  have only seen on occasions when ceremony compelled him to observe
  his best behavior. I can only excuse myself by reminding you that
  no matter whom you marry, you must do so at the same disadvantages,
  except as to the approval of your friends, of which the value is
  for you to consider. That being so, why should I not profit by your
  hazard as well as another? Besides, there are many other feelings
  impelling me. I should like to describe them to you, and would if I
  understood them well enough to do it accurately.
  "However, nothing is further from my intention than to indite a
  love letter; so I will return to graver questions. One, in
  particular, must be clearly understood between us. You are too
  earnest to consider an allusion to religious matters out of place
  here. I do not know exactly what you believe; but I have gathered
  from stray remarks of yours that you belong to what is called the
  Broad Church. If so, we must to some extent agree to differ. I
  should never interfere in any way with your liberty as far as your
  actions concerned yourself only. But, frankly, I should not permit
  my wife to teach my children to know Christianity in any other way
  than that in which an educated Englishman knows Buddhism. I will
  not go through any ceremony whatever in a church, or enter one
  except to play the organ. I am prejudiced against religions of all
  sorts. The Church has made itself the natural enemy of the theatre;
  and I was brought up in the theatre until I became a poor workman
  earning wages, when I found the Church always taking part against
  me and my comrades with the rich who did no work. If the Church had
  never set itself against me, perhaps I should never have set myself
  against the Church; but what is done is done: you will find me
  irreligious, but not, I hope, unreasonable.
  "I will be at the Academy to-morrow at about four o'clock, as I do
  not care to remain longer in suspense than is absolutely necessary;
  but if you are not prepared to meet me then, I shall faithfully
  help you in any effort I may perceive you make to avoid me.
  "I am, dear Miss Lind,
             "Yours sincerely,
                  "EDWARD CONOLLY."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How flattered he must feel!" said Elinor.

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

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

"No."

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

"What old quarrel?"

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

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

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

"I hope not," said Marian, quickly.

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened?"

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

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

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

"Whichever you please."

"Whichever I please!"

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

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

"What is your name?"

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

"I think I should prefer Ned."

"I prefer Ned myself."

"Have you any other name?"

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

"Sebastian!"

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

There was a pause. Then Marian spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly not. I like Miss McQuinch."

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

"Opening day, for instance."

"Yes, if you wish."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

"Marian!"

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

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

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

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

"Thank you."

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

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

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

"That is an undeserved stab," said Conolly.

"Never mind: I am always stabbing people. I suppose I like it," she
added, as they went together to the vestibule.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Leith Fairfax had not been wasting her time. She had
come upon Douglas in the large room, and had recognized him by his
stature and proud bearing, in spite of the handsome Assyrian beard he
had allowed to grow during his stay abroad.

"I have been very anxious to see you," said she, forcing a conversation
upon him, though he had saluted her formally, and had evidently intended
to pass on without speaking. "If your time were not too valuable to be
devoted to a poor hard-working woman, I should have asked you to call on
me. Dont deprecate my forbearance. You are Somebody in the literary
world now."

"Indeed? I was not aware that I had done anything to raise me from
obscurity."

"I assure you you are very much mistaken, or else very modest. Has no
one told you about the effect your book produced here?"

"I know nothing of it, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I never enquire after the
effect of my work. I have lived in comparative seclusion; and I scarcely
know what collection of fugitive notes of mine you honor by describing
as a book."

"I mean your 'Note on three pictures in last year's _Salon_,' with the
sonnets, and the fragment from your unfinished drama. Is it finished,
may I ask?"

"It is not finished. I shall never finish it now."

"I will tell you--between ourselves--that I heard one of the foremost
critics of the age say, in the presence of a great poet (whom we both
know), that it was such another fragment as the Venus of Milo, 'whose
lost arms,' said he, 'we should fear to see, lest they should be
unworthy of her.' 'You are right,' said the poet: 'I, for one, should
shudder to see the fragment completed.' That is a positive fact. But
look at some of the sonnets! Burgraves says that his collection of
English sonnets is incomplete because it does not contain your
'Clytemnestra,' which he had not seen when his book went to press. You
stand in the very forefront of literature--far higher than I, who
am--dont tell anybody--five years older than you."

"You are very good. I do not value any distinction of the sort. I write
sometimes because, I suppose, the things that are in me must come out,
whether I will or not. Let us talk of something else. You are quite well
I hope?"

"Very far from it. I am never well; but since I never have a moment's
rest from work, I must bear with it. People expect me to think, when I
have hardly time to eat."

"If you have no time to think, I envy you. But I am truly sorry that
your health remains so bad."

"Thank you. But what is the cause of all this gloomy cynicism, Mr.
Douglas? Why should you, who are young, distinguished, gifted, and
already famous, envy me for having no leisure to think?"

"You exaggerate the sadness of my unfortunate insensibility to the
admiration of the crowd," said Douglas, coldly. "I am, nevertheless,
flattered by the interest you take in my affairs."

"You need not be, Mr. Douglas," said Mrs. Fairfax, earnestly, fearing
that he would presently succeed in rebuffing her. "I think you are much
better off than you deserve. You may despise your reputation as much as
you like: that only affects yourself. But when a beautiful girl pays you
the compliment of almost dying of love for you, I think you ought to buy
a wedding-ring and jump for joy, instead of sulking in remote corners of
the continent."

"And pray, Mrs. Leith Fairfax, what lady has so honored me?"

"You must know, unless you are blind."

"Pardon me. I do not habitually imply what is not the case. I beg you to
believe that I do _not_ know."

"Not know! What moles men are! Poor Marian!"

"Oblige me by taking this seat," said Douglas, sternly, pointing to one
just vacated. "I shall not detain you many minutes," he added, sitting
down beside her. "May I understand that Miss Lind is the lady of whom
you spoke just now?"

"Yes. Remember that I am speaking to you as a friend, and that I trust
to you not to mention the effort I am making to clear up the
misunderstanding which causes her so much unhappiness."

"Are you then in Miss Lind's confidence? Did she ask you to tell me
this?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Douglas?"

"I am quite innocent of any desire to shock or offend you, Mrs. Leith
Fairfax. Does your question imply a negative?"

"Most certainly. Marian ask me to tell! you must be dreaming. Do you
think, even if Marian were capable of making an advance, that _I_ would
consent to act as a go-between? Really, Mr. Douglas!"

"I confess I do not understand these matters; and you must bear with my
ineptitude. If Miss Lind entertains any sentiment for me but one of
mistrust and aversion, her behavior is singularly misleading."

"Mistrust! Aversion! I tell you she is in love with you."

"But you have not, you admit, her authority for saying so, whereas I
_have_ her authority for the contrary."

"You do not understand girls. You are mistaken."

"Possibly; but you must pardon me if I hesitate to set aside my own
judgment in deference to your low estimate of it."

"Very well," said Mrs. Fairfax, her patience yielding a little to his
persistent stiffness: "be it so. Many men would be glad to beg what you
will not be bribed to accept."

"No doubt. I trust that when they so humble themselves they may not
encounter a flippant repulse."

"If they do, it will spring from her unmerited regard for you."

He bowed slightly, and turned away, arranging his gloves as if about to
rise.

"Pray what is that large picture which is skied over there to the
right?" said Mrs. Fairfax, after a pause, during which she had feigned
to examine her catalogue. "I cannot see the number at this distance."

"Do you defend her conduct on the ground of that senseless and cruel
caprice which your sex seem to consider becoming to them; or has she
changed her mind in my absence?"

"Oh! you are talking of Marian. I do not know what you have to complain
of in her conduct. Mind, she has never breathed a word to me on the
subject. I am quite ignorant of the details of your difference with her.
But she has confessed to me that she is very sorry for what passed--I am
abusing her confidence by telling you so--and I am a woman, with eyes
and brains, and know what the poor girl feels well enough. I will tell
you nothing more: I have no right to; and Marian would be indignant if
she knew how much I have said already. But I know what I should do were
I in your place."

"Expose myself to another refusal, perhaps?"

Mrs. Fairfax, learning now for the first time that he had actually
proposed to Marian, looked at him for some moments in silence with a
smile which was assumed to cover her surprise. He thought it expressed
incredulity at the idea of his being refused again.

"Are you sure?" he began, speaking courteously to her for the first
time. "May I rely upon the accuracy of your impressions on this subject?
I know you are incapable of trifling in a matter which might expose me
to humiliation; but can you give me any guarantee--any--"

"Certainly not, Mr. Douglas. I am really sorry that I cannot give you a
written undertaking that your suit shall succeed: perhaps that might
encourage you to brave the scorn of a poor child who adores you. But if
you need so much encouragement, I fear you do not greatly relish the
prospect of success. Doubtless it has already struck her that since you
found absence from her very bearable for two years, and have avoided
meeting her on your return, her society cannot be very important to your
happiness."

"But it was her own fault. If she accuses me of having gone away to
enjoy myself, her thoughts are a bitter sarcasm on the truth."

"Granted that it was her own fault, if you please. But surely you have
punished her enough by your long seclusion, and can afford to shew a
tardy magnanimity by this time. There she is, I think, just come in at
the door on the left. My sight is so wretched. Is it not she?"

"Yes."

"Then let us get up and speak to her. Come."

"You must excuse me, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I have distinctly given her my
word that I will not intrude upon her again."

"Dont be so foolish."

Douglas's face clouded. "You are privileged to say so," he said.

"Not at all," said Mrs. Fairfax, frightened. "But when I think of
Marian, I feel like an old woman, and venture to remonstrate with all
the presumption of age. I beg your pardon."

He bowed. Then Marian joined them, and Mrs. Fairfax again gave tongue.

"Where have you been?" she cried. "You vanished from my side like a
sprite. I have been searching for you ever since."

"I have been looking at the pictures, of course. I am so glad you have
come back, Sholto. I think you might have made time to pay us a visit
before this. You look so strong and well! Your beard is a great
improvement. Have you met Nelly?"

"I think we saw her at some distance," said Douglas. "I have not been
speaking to her."

"How did you enjoy yourself while you were away?"

"As best I could."

"You look as if you had succeeded very fairly. What o'clock is it?
Remember that we have to meet Nelly at the turnstiles at six."

"It is five minutes to six now, Miss Lind."

"Thank you, Mr. Douglas. We had better go, I think."

As they left the room, Mrs. Fairfax purposely lingered behind them.

"Am I right in concluding that you are as frivolous as ever, Marian?"
he said.

"Quite," she replied. "To-day especially so. I am very happy to-day."

"May I ask why?"

"Something has happened. I will tell you what it is some day perhaps,
but not now. Something that realizes a romantic dream of mine. The dream
has been hovering vaguely about me for nearly two years; but I never
ventured to teach myself exactly what it was until to-day."

"Realized here? in the Academy?"

"It was foreshadowed--promised, at home this morning; but it was
realized here."

"Did you know beforehand that I was coming?"

"Not until to-day. Mrs. Leith Fairfax said that you would most likely be
here."

"And you are happy?"

"So much so that I cannot help talking about my happiness to you, who
are the very last person--as you will admit when everything is
explained--to whom I should unlock my lips on the subject."

"And why? Am I not interested in your happiness?"

"I suppose so. I hope so. But when you learn the truth, you will be more
astonished than gratified."

"I dare swear that you are mistaken. Is this dream of yours an affair of
the heart?"

"Now you are beginning to ask questions."

"Well, I will ask no more at present. But if you fear that my long
absence has rendered me indifferent in the least degree to your
happiness, you do me a great injustice."

"Well, you were not in a very good humor with me when you went away."

"I will forget that if you wish me to."

"I do wish you to forget it. And you forgive me?"

"Most assuredly."

"Then we are the best friends in the world again. This is a great deal
better than meeting and pretending to ignore the very thing of which our
minds are full. You will not delay visiting us any longer now, I hope."

"I will call on your father to-morrow morning. May I?"

"He is out of town until Monday. He will be delighted to see you then.
He has been talking to me about you a great deal of late. But if you
want to see him in the morning you had better go to the club. I will
write to him to-night if you like; so that he can write to you and make
an appointment."

"Do. Ah, Marian, instinct is better and truer than intellect. I have
been for two years trying to believe all kinds of evil of you; and yet I
knew all the time that you were an angel."

Marian laughed. "I suppose that under our good understanding I must let
you say pretty things to me. You must write me a sonnet before your
enthusiasm evaporates. I am sure I deserve it as well as Clytemnestra."

"I will. But I fear I shall tear it up for its unworthiness afterward."

"Dont: I am not a critic. Talking of critics, where has Mrs. Leith
Fairfax gone to? Oh, there she is!"

Mrs. Fairfax came up when she saw Marian look round for her. "My dear,"
she said: "it is past six. We must go. Elinor may be waiting for us."

They found Elinor seated in the vestibule with Conolly, at whom Mrs.
Fairfax plunged, full of words. Conolly and Douglas, introduced to one
another by Marian, gravely raised their hats. When they had descended
the stairs, they stood in a group near one of the doors whilst Conolly
went aside to get their umbrellas. Just then Marmaduke Lind entered the
building, and halted in surprise at finding himself among so many
acquaintances.

"Hallo!" he cried, seizing Douglas's hand, and attracting the attention
of the bystanders by his boisterous tone. "Here you are again, old man!
Delighted to see you. Didnt spot you at first, in the beard. George told
me you were back. I met your mother in Knightsbridge last Thursday; but
she pretended not to see me. How have you enjoyed yourself abroad, eh?
Very much in the old style, I suppose?"

"Thank you," said Douglas. "I trust your people are quite well."

"Hang me if I know!" said Marmaduke. "I have not troubled them much of
late. How d'ye do, Mrs. Leith Fairfax? How are all the celebrities?"
Mrs. Fairfax bowed coldly.

"Dont roar so, Marmaduke," said Marian. "Everybody is looking at you."

"Everybody is welcome," said Marmaduke, loudly. "Douglas: you must come
and see me. By Jove, now that I think of it, come and see me, all of
you. I am by myself on week-nights from six to twelve; and I should
enjoy a housewarming. If Mrs. Leith Fairfax comes, it will be all proper
and right. Let us have a regular party."

Mrs. Fairfax looked indignantly at him. Elinor looked round anxiously
for Conolly. Marian, struck with the same fear, moved toward the door.

"Here, Marmaduke," she said, offering him her hand. "Good-bye. You are
in one of your outrageous humors this afternoon."

"What am I doing?" he replied. "I am behaving myself perfectly. Let us
settle about the party before we go."

"Good evening, Mr. Lind," said Conolly, coming up to them with the
umbrellas. "This is yours, I think, Mrs. Leith Fairfax."

"Good evening," said Marmaduke, subsiding. "I----Well, you are all off,
are you?"

"Quite time for us, I think," said Elinor. "Good-bye."

Mrs. Fairfax, with a second and more distant bow, passed out with
Conolly and Douglas. Elinor waited a moment to whisper to Marmaduke.

"First rate," said Marmaduke, in reply to the whisper; "and beginning to
talk like one o'clock. Oh yes, I tell you!" He shook Elinor's hand at
such length in his gratitude for the inquiry that she was much relieved
when a servant in livery interrupted him.

"Missus wants to speak to you, sir, afore she goes," said the man.

Elinor shook her head at Marmaduke, and hurried away to rejoin the rest
outside. As they went through the courtyard, they passed an open
carriage, in which reclined a pretty woman with dark eyes and delicate
artificial complexion. Her beauty and the elegance of her dress
attracted their attention. Suddenly Marian became aware that Conolly was
watching her as she looked at the woman in the carriage. She was about
to say something, when, to her bewilderment, Elinor nudged her. Then she
understood too, and looked solemnly at Susanna. Susanna, observing her,
stared insolently in return, and Marian averted her head like a guilty
person and hurried on. Conolly saw it all, and did not speak until they
rejoined Mrs. Fairfax and Douglas in Piccadilly.

"How do you propose to go home?" said Douglas.

"Walk to St. James's Street, where the carriage is waiting at the club;
take Uncle Reginald with us; and drive home through the park," said
Elinor.

"I will come with you as far as the club, if you will allow me," said
Douglas.

Conolly then took leave of them, and stood still until they disappeared,
when he returned to the courtyard, and went up to his sister's carriage.

"Well, Susanna," said he. "How are you?"

"Oh, there's nothing the matter with me," she replied carelessly, her
eyes filling with tears, nevertheless.

"I hear that I have been an uncle for some time past."

"Yes, on the wrong side of the blanket."

"What is its name?" he said more gravely.

"Lucy."

"Is it quite well?"

"I suppose not. According to Nurse, it is always ill."

Conolly shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into the cynical manner in
which he had used to talk with his sister. "Tired of it already?" he
said. "Poor little wretch!"

"It is very well off," she retorted, angrily: "a precious deal better
than I was at its age. It gets petting enough from its father, heaven
knows! He has nothing else to do. I have to work."

"You have it all your own way at the theatre now, I suppose. You are
quite famous."

"Yes," she said, bitterly. "We are both celebrities. Rather different
from old times."

"We certainly used to get more kicks than halfpence. However, let us
hope all that is over now."

"Who were those women who were with you a minute ago?"

"Cousins of Lind. Miss Marian Lind and Miss McQuinch."

"I remember. She is pretty. I suppose, as usual, she hasnt an idea to
bless herself with. The other looks more of a devil. Now that you are a
great man, why dont you marry a swell?"

"I intend to do so."

"The Lord help her then!"

"Amen. Good-bye."

"Oh, good-bye. Go on to Soho," she added, to the coachman, settling
herself fretfully on the cushions.

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