The Irrational Knot Part 24

"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. n.o.body 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 j.a.pan 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 _eclairciss.e.m.e.nt_."

"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 _eclairci_," 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 pa.s.sed 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, pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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."