"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 pa.s.s 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 a.s.sist 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 n.o.body"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-gla.s.s," 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-gla.s.s.
"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 pa.s.sed 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.
CHAPTER XVII
Conolly returned from Glasgow a little before eight on Monday evening.
There was no light in the window when he entered the garden. Miss McQuinch opened the door before he reached it.
"What!" he said. "Going the moment I come in!" Then, seeing her face by the hall lamp, he put down his bag quickly, and asked what the matter was.
"I dont know whether anything is the matter. I am very glad you have returned. Come into the drawing-room: I dont want the servants to hear us talking."
"There is no light here," he said, following her in. "Is it possible you have been waiting in the dark?"