The Irrational Knot Part 52

"I also think that a few words might do so. But they would not be judicious words."

"Why not? Can it be injudicious to restore harmony in a household?"

"No; but that would not be the effect of an explanation, because the truth is not likely to reconcile us. If I were to explain the difficulty to a man, he would argue. But Marian would just infer that I despised her, and nothing else."

"Oh no! Oh dear no! A few kind words; an appeal to her good sense; a little concession on both sides----"

"All excellent for a pair estranged by a flash of temper, or a mother-in-law, or a trifle of jealousy, or too many evenings spent at the club on the man's part, or too many dances with a gallant on the woman's; but no good for us. We have never exchanged unkind words: there are no concessions to be made: her good sense is not at fault. Besides, these few kind words that are supposed to be such a sovereign remedy for all sorts of domestic understandings are generally a few kind fibs. If I told them, Marian wouldnt believe them. Fibs dont make lasting truces either. No: the situation is graver than you think. Just suppose, for instance, that you undertake to restore harmony, as you call it! what will you say to her?"

"Well, it would depend on circ.u.mstances."

"But you know the circ.u.mstances on which it depends. How would you begin?"

"There are little ways of approaching delicate subjects with women. For instance, I might say, casually, that it was a pity that a pair so happily situated as you two should not agree perfectly."

"You would get no further; for Marian would never admit that we do not agree. She does not know what her complaint is, and therefore feels bound in honor to maintain that she has nothing to complain of. She is not the woman to cast reproach on me for a discontent she cannot explain. Or, if she could explain it, how much wiser should you be? _I_ have explained; and you confess you cannot understand me. The difference between us is neither her fault nor mine; and all the explanations in the world will not remove it."

"If you would allow me to appeal to her religious duty----"

"Religion! She doesnt believe in it."

"What!" exclaimed the clergyman, unaffectedly shocked. "Surely, surely----"

"Listen. To me, believing in a doctrine doesnt mean holding up your hand and saying, 'Credo.' It means habitually acting on the a.s.sumption that the doctrine is true. Marian thinks it wrong not to go to church; and she will hold up her hand and cry 'Credo' to the immortality of her soul, or to any verse in the New Testament. The shareholders of our concern in the city will do the same. But do they or she ever act on the a.s.sumption that they are immortal, or that riches are dross, or that cla.s.s prejudice is d.a.m.nable? Never. They dont believe it. You will find that Marian has been thoroughly trained to separate her practice from her religious professions; and if you allude to the inconsistency she will instinctively feel that you are offending against good taste. In short, her 'Credo' doesnt mean faith: it means church-going, which is practised because it is respectable, and is respectable because it is a habit of the upper caste. But church-going is church-going; and business is business, as Marian will soon let you know if you meddle with _her_ business. However, we need not argue about that: we know one another's views and can agree to differ."

"I should be false to my duty as a Christian priest if I made any such agreement."

"Perhaps so; but, at any rate, we cant spend all our lives over the same argument. No, as I was saying, take my advice, and let Marian alone."

"But what do you intend to do, then?"

"What _can_ I do but wait? Experience must wear out some of her illusions. She will at least find out that she is no worse off than other women, and better off than some of them. Since the job cannot be undone, we must try how making the best of it will work. I am pretty hopeful myself. How are affairs getting on at your chapel? I am told that the sermons of your _loc.u.m tenens_ send the congregation asleep."

"He is not at his best in the pulpit. A good fellow! a most loving man but not able to grapple with a large congregation. After all, I am obliged to confess that very few of our cloth are. The power of preaching is quite an exceptional one; and it is a gift as well as a trust. I humbly believe that the power of the tongue comes of a higher ordination than the bishop's."

Nothing further was said about Marian. The clergyman's object in visiting Conolly was, it presently appeared, to borrow a portmanteau.

When he was gone, Conolly returned to the laboratory, and wrote the following letter:

"My dear Marian

"I have just had two unexpected visits, one from Mrs. Fairfax, and one from George. Mrs. L.F. said you asked her to call and give me the news. When I told her, without blus.h.i.+ng, that you had written to prepare me for her visit, she was rather put out, justly thinking me to mean that I did not believe her. As this is fully the thirty-sixth falsehood in which you have detected good Mrs. F., I fear you will be compelled, in spite of your principle of believing the best of everybody, to regard her in future as a not invariably accurate woman. She came with the object of making me go down to Sark. You were so young and so much admired: Mr. Douglas was so attentive: you should not be left entirely alone, and so forth. You will be angry with her; but she thinks Douglas so irresistible that she is genuinely anxious about you: I believe she really meant well this time. As to our reverend brother, his portmanteau burst in the train coming from Edinburgh; so he came to borrow mine, having apparently resolved to wear out those of all his friends before buying a new one. Unfortunately, he met Mrs. F.

down the road; and she urged him to go down to Sark just as she had urged me. Now as George is incapable of holding his tongue when he ought, I feel sure that unless I tell you what Mrs. F. said, he will antic.i.p.ate me. Otherwise I should not have mentioned it until your return, for fear of annoying you and spoiling your visit. So if his reverence hints or lectures, you will know what he means and not heed him. Mrs. F's confidences have probably not been confined to me; but were I in your place, I should not make the slightest change in my conduct in consequence. At all events, if you feel constrained to display any sudden accession of reserve toward Douglas, tell him the reason; because if you dont, he will ascribe the change to coquetry.

"I have turned the spare room on the first floor into a laboratory, and am sitting in it now. I'm thinking of fitting it up like a studio, and having private views of my inventions, as Scott has of his pictures. Parson's man came with some flowers the other day, and informed me that three b.a.l.l.s, to the first of which he was invited, took place in the house while I was away. One or two trifling dilapidations, and the fact that somebody has been tampering with the locks of the organ and piano, dispose me to believe this tale. Parson's man declares that he was too virtuous to come to the two last entertainments after finding out that the first was a clandestine one; but I believe he made himself disagreeable, and was not invited. Probably he quarrelled with some military follower of Armande's; for he was particularly bitter on the subject of a common soldier making free in a gentleman's house.

I have not said anything to the two culprits; but I have contrived to make them suspect that I know all; and they now do their duty with trembling diligence. Some man sat on the little walnut table and broke it; but no other damage worth mentioning has been done.

The table was absurdly repaired with a piece of twine, and pushed into the recess between the organ and the front window, whence I sometimes amuse myself by the experiment of pulling it into broad daylight. It is always pushed back again before I return in the evening.

"How are you off for money? I have plenty of loose cash just now.

Madame called last Monday, and asked Matilda, who opened the door, when you would be back. Thereupon I interviewed her. I must say she is loyal to her clients; for I had great difficulty in extracting her bill, which was, of course, what she called about. She evidently recognizes the necessity of keeping husbands in the dark in such matters. One of the items was for the lace on your maccaroni-colored body, which, as I chanced to remember, you supplied yourself. After a brief struggle she deducted it; so I paid her the balance: only 35 13s. 9d.

"When are you coming back to me? After Sark I fear you will find home a little dull. Nevertheless, I should like to see you again. Come back before Christmas, at any rate.

"Yours, dear Marian, in solitude, "NED."

The answer came two days later than return of post, and ran thus:

"Melbourne House, Sark, "Sunday.

"My dear Ned

"How very provoking about the servants! I do not mind Matilda so much; but I do think it hard that we could not depend on Armande, considering all the kindness we have shewn her. I can scarcely believe that she would have acted so badly unless she were led away by Matilda, whom I will pack off the moment I return. As to Armande, I will give her another chance; but she shall have a sharp talking to. I am quite sure that a great deal more mischief has been done than you noticed. If the carpet was danced on for three nights by men in heavy boots, it must be in ribbons. It is really too bad. I do not want any money. Indeed the twenty pounds you sent me last was quite unnecessary, as I have nearly sixteen left. What a rogue Madame is to try and make you pay for my lace! I am sorry you paid the bill. She had no business to call for her money: she is _never_ paid so soon by _anybody_. We have had great fun down here. It has been one continual garden party all through; and the weather is still lovely. Mr. McQuinch is very colonial: but I think his ways make the house pleasanter than if he were still English.

Carbury is quite stupid in comparison to this place. I have danced more than I ever did in my life before; and now we are so tired of frivolity that if any one ventures to strum a waltz or propose a game, we all protest. We tried to get up some choral music; but it was a failure. On Friday, George, who is looked on as a great man here, was asked to give us a Shakespeare reading. He was only too glad to be asked; for he had heard Simonton, the actor, read at a bazaar in Scotland, and was full of Richard the Third in consequence. He was not very bad; but his imitation of Simonton was so obvious and so queerly mixed with his own churchy style that he seemed rather monotonous and affected. At least I thought so. I was dreadfully uncomfortable during the reading because of Marmaduke, who behaved scandalously. There were some schoolboys present; and he not only encouraged them to misbehave themselves, but was worse than any of them himself. At last he pretended to be overcome by the heat, and went out of the room, to my great relief; but when the pa.s.sage about the early village c.o.c.k came, he crew outside the door, where he had been waiting expressly to do it. n.o.body could help laughing; and the boys screamed so that Mr. McQuinch took two of them out by the collar. I believe he was glad of the excuse to go out and laugh himself. George was very angry, and no wonder! He will hardly speak to Marmaduke, who, of course, denies all knowledge of the interruption; but George knows better. All the Hardy McQuinches are down here. Uncle Hardy is rather stooped from rheumatism. Nelly is now the chief personage in the family: Lydia and Jane are nowhere beside her. They are good-humored, bouncing girls; but they are certainly not brilliant. I hope it is not Aunt Dora's walnut table that is broken. Was it not mean of Parson's man to tell on Armande? I think, since you have plenty of loose cash, we might venture on a set of those curtains we saw at Protheroe's, for the drawing-room. I can easily use the ones that are there now for _portieres_.

"You must not think that I have written this all at once. I shall be able to finish to-day, as it is Sunday, and I have made an excuse to stay away from church. George is to preach; and somehow I never feel toward the service as I ought when he officiates. I know you will laugh at this.

"The first part of your letter must have a paragraph all to itself. I hardly know what to say. I could not have believed that Mrs. Leith Fairfax would have behaved as she has done. I was so angry at first that for fully an hour I felt ill; and I spoke quite wickedly to George the day after he arrived, because he said that Sholto had better not take me down to dinner, although his doing so was quite accidental. I know you will believe me when I tell you that I was quite unconscious that he had been unusually attentive to me; and I was about to write you an indignant denial, only I shewed Nelly your letter, and she crushed me by telling me she had noticed it too. We nearly had a quarrel about it; but she counted up the number of times I had danced with him and sat beside him at dinner; and I suppose an evil-minded woman looking on might think what Mrs.

Leith Fairfax thought. But there is no excuse for her.

She knows that Sholto and I have been intimate since we were children; and there is something odious in her, of all people, pretending to misunderstand us. What is worse, she was particularly friendly and confidential with me while she was here; and although I tried to keep away from her at first, she persisted in conciliating me, and persuaded me that Douglas had entirely mistaken what she said that other time. Who could have expected her to turn round and calumniate me the moment my back was turned! How can people do such things! I hope we shall not meet her again; for I will never speak to her. I have not said anything to Douglas. How could I? It would only make mischief. I feel that the right course is to come home as soon as I can, and in the meantime to avoid him as much as possible. So you may expect me on Sat.u.r.day next. Mr. McQuinch is quite dismayed at my departure, which he says will be the signal for a general breaking up; but this I cannot help. I shall be glad to go home, of course. Still, I am sorry to leave this place, where we have all been so jolly. I will write and let you know what train I shall come by; but you need not trouble to meet me, unless you like: I can get home quite well by myself. After all, it is just as well that I am getting away. It _was_ pleasant enough; but now I feel utterly disgusted with everything and everybody. I find I must stop. They have just come in from church; and I must go down.

"Your affectionate "MARIAN."

CHAPTER XVI

One Sat.u.r.day 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 was.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sion, 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 cla.s.sical 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 pa.s.sion 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."