The Irrational Knot Part 44

Marmaduke went on grumbling. When he attempted to pa.s.s, the Countess called his name, and greeted him with smiles.

"We want to know how your father is," she said. "We have had such alarming accounts of him. I hope he is better."

"They havnt told me much about him," said Marmaduke. "There was deuced little the matter with the governor when I saw him last."

"Wicked prodigal! What shall we do to reform him, Mr. Douglas? He has not been to see us for three years past, and during that time we have had the worst reports of him."

"You never asked me to go and see you."

"Silly fellow! Did you expect me to send you invitations and leave cards on you, who are one of ourselves? Come to-morrow to dinner. Your uncle the Bishop will be there; and you will see nearly all the family besides. You cannot plead that you have not been invited now. Will you come?"

"No. I cant stand the Bishop. Besides, I have taken to dining in the middle of the day."

"Come after dinner, then?"

"Mamma," said Constance, peevishly, "can't you see that he does not want to come at all? What is the use of persecuting him?"

"No, I a.s.sure you," said Marmaduke. "It's only the Bishop I object to.

I'll come after dinner, if I can."

"And pray what is likely to prevent you?" said the Countess.

"Devilment of some sort, perhaps," he replied. "Since you have all given me a bad name, I dont see why I should make any secret of earning it."

The Countess smiled slyly at him, implying that she was amused, but must not laugh at such a sentiment in Constance's presence. Then, turning so as to give the rest of the conversation an air of privacy, she whispered, "I must tell you that you no longer have a bad name. It is said that your wild oats are all sown, and I will answer for it that even the Bishop will receive you with open arms."

"And dry my repentant tears on his ap.r.o.n, the old hypocrite," said Marmaduke, speaking rather more loudly than before. "Well, we must be trotting. We are going to the South Kensington Museum--to improve our minds."

"Why, that is where we are going; at least, Constance is. She is going to work at her painting while I pay a round of visits. Wont you come with us?"

"Thank you: I'd rather walk. A man should have gloves and a proper hat for your sort of travelling."

"Nonsense! you look very nice. Besides, it is only down the Brompton Road."

"The worst neighborhood in London to be seen in with me. I know all sorts of queer people down Brompton way. I should have to bow to them if we met; and that wouldnt do before _her_,"--indicating Constance, who was conversing with Douglas.

"You are incorrigible: I give you up. Good-bye, and dont forget to-morrow evening."

"I wonder," said Marmaduke, as the carriage drove off, "what she's saying about me to Constance now."

"That you are the rudest man in London, perhaps."

"Serve her right! I hate her. I have got so now that I can't stand that sort of woman. You see her game, dont you; she can't get Constance off her hands; and she thinks there's a chance of me still. How well she knows about the governor's state of health! And Conny, too, grinning at me as if we were the best friends in the world. If that girl had an ounce of spirit she would not look on the same side of the street with me."

Douglas, without replying, called a cab. Marmaduke's loud conversation was irksome in the street, and it was now clear that he was unusually excited. At the museum they alighted, and pa.s.sed through the courts into the grill-room, where they sat down together at a vacant table, and ordered luncheon.

"You were good enough to ask my advice about something," said Douglas.

"What is the matter?"

"Well," said Marmaduke, "I am in a fix. Affairs have become so uncomfortable at home that I have had to take up my quarters elsewhere."

"I did not know that you had been living at home. I thought your father and you were on the usual terms."

"My father! Look here: I mean home--_my_ home. My place at Hammersmith, not down at the governor's."

"Oh! I beg your pardon."

"Of course, you know all about my establishment there with Lalage Virtue? her real name is Susanna Conolly."

"Is it true, then, that she is a cousin of Marian's husband?"

"Cousin! She's his sister, and Marian's sister-in-law."

"I never believed it."

"It's true enough. But thats not the mischief. Douglas: I tell you she's the cleverest woman in London. She can do anything she likes. She can manage a conversation with any foreigner in his own language, whether she knows it or not. She gabbles Italian like a native. She can learn off her part in a new piece, music and all, between breakfast and luncheon, any day. She can cook: she can make a new bonnet out of the lining of an old coat: she can drive a bargain with a Jew. She says she never learns a thing at all unless she can learn it in ten minutes. She can fence, and shoot. She can dance anything in the world. I never knew such a mimic as she is. If you saw her take off the Bones at the Christy Minstrels, you'd say she was the lowest of the low. Next minute she will give herself the airs of a d.u.c.h.ess, or do the ingenuous in a style that would make Conny burst with envy. To see her preaching like George would make you laugh for a week. There's nothing she couldnt do if she chose.

And now, what do you think she has taken to? Liquor. Champagne by the gallon. She used to drink it by the bottle: now she drinks it by the dozen--by the case. She wanted it to keep up her spirits. That was the way it began. If she felt down, a gla.s.s of champagne would set her up.

Then she was always feeling down, and always setting herself up. At last feeling down came to mean the same thing as being sober. You dont know what a drunken woman is, Douglas, unless youve lived in the same house with one." Douglas recoiled, and looked very sternly at Marmaduke, who proceeded more vehemently. "She's nothing but a downright beast. She's either screaming at you in a fit of rage, or clawing at you in a fit of fondness that makes you sick. When she falls asleep, there she is, a besotted heap tumbled anyhow into bed, snoring and grunting like a pig.

When she wakes, she begins planning how to get more liquor. Think of what you or I would feel if we saw our mothers tipsy. By G.o.d, that child of mine wouldnt believe its eyes if it saw its mother sober. Only for Lucy, I'd have pitched her over long ago. I did all I could when I first saw that she was overdoing the champagne. I swore I'd break the neck of any man I caught bringing wine into the house. I sacked the whole staff of servants twice because I found a lot of fresh corks swept into the dustpan. I stopped drinking at home myself: I got in doctors to frighten her: I tried bribing, coaxing, threatening: I knocked her down once when I caught her with a bottle in her hand; and she fell with her head against the fender, and frightened me a good deal more than she hurt herself. It was no use. Sometimes she used to defy me, and say she _would_ drink, she didnt care whether she was killing herself or not.

Other times she cried; implored me to save her from destroying herself; asked me why I didnt thrash the life out of her whenever I caught her drunk; promised on her oath never to touch another drop. The same evening she would be drunk again, and, when I taxed her with it, say that she wasn't drunk, that she was sick, and that she prayed the Almighty on her knees to strike her dead if she had a bottle in the house. Aye, and the very stool she knelt on would be a wine case with a red cloth stuck to it with a few gilt-headed nails to make it look like a piece of furniture. Next day she would laugh at me for believing her, and ask me what use I supposed there was in talking to her. How she managed to hold on at the theatre, I dont know. She wouldnt learn new parts, and stuck to old ones that she could do in her sleep, she knew them so well. She would go on the stage and get through a long part when she couldnt walk straight from the wing to her dressing-room. Of course, her voice went to the dogs long ago; but by dint of screeching and croaking she pulls through. She says she darent go on sober now; that she knows she should break down. The theatre has fallen off, too. The actors got out of the place one by one--they didnt like playing with her--and were replaced by a third-rate lot. The audiences used to be very decent: now they are all cads and fast women. The game is up for her in London. She has been offered an engagement in America on the strength of her old reputation; but what is the use of it if she continues drinking."

"That is very sad," said Douglas, with cold disgust, perfunctorily veiled by a conventional air of sympathy. "But if she is irreclaimable, why not leave her?"

"So I would, only for the child. I _have_ left her--at least, I've taken lodgings in town; but I am always running out to Laurel Grove. I darent trust Lucy to her; and she knows it; for she wouldnt let me take the poor little creature away, although she doesnt care two straws for it.

She knows that it gives her a grip over me. Well, I have not seen her for a week past. I have tried the trick of only going out in the evening when she has to be at the theatre. And now she has sent me a long letter; and I dont exactly know what to do about it. She swears she has given up drinking--not touched a spoonful since I saw her last. She's as superst.i.tious as an old woman; and yet she will swear to that lie with oaths that make _me_ uncomfortable, although I am pretty thick-skinned in religious matters. Then she goes drivelling on about me having encouraged her to drink at first, and then turned upon her and deserted her when I found out the mischief I had done. I used to stand plenty of champagne, but I am sure I never thought what would come of it. Then she says she gave up every friend in the world for me: broke with her brother, and lost her place in society. _Her_ place in society, mind you, Douglas! Thats not bad, is it? Then, of course, I am leaving her to die alone with her helpless child: I might have borne with her a little longer: she will not trouble me nor anyone else much more; and so on.

The upshot is that she wants me to come back. She says I ought to be there to save the child from her, if I dont care to save her from herself; that I was the last restraint on her; and that if I dont come she will make an end of the business by changing her tipple to prussic acid. The whole thing is a string of maudlin rot from beginning to end; and I believe she primed herself with about four bottles of champagne to write it. Still, I dont want to leave her in the lurch. You are a man who stand pretty closely on your honor. Do you think I ought to go back?

I may tell you that as regards money she is under no compliment to me.

Her earnings were a good half of our income; and she saved nothing out of them. In fact, I owe her some money for two or three old debts she paid for me. We always shared like husband and wife."

"I hardly understand your hesitation, Lind. You can take the little girl out of her hands; allow her something; and be quit of her."

"Thats very easy to say; but I cant drag her child away from her if she insists on keeping it."

"Well, so much the better for you. It would be a burden to you. Pay her for its maintenance: that is probably what she wants."

"No, no," said Marmaduke, impatiently. "You dont understand. Youre talking as if I were a rake living with a loose woman."

Douglas looked at him doubtfully. "I confess I do not understand," he said. "Perhaps you will be good enough to explain."

"It's very simple. I went to live with her because I fell in love with her, and she wouldnt marry me. She had a horror of marriage; and I was naturally not very eager for it myself. Matters must be settled between us as if we were husband and wife. Paying her off is all nonsense. She doesnt want money; and I want the child; so she has the advantage of me.

Only for the drink I would go back to her to-morrow; but I cant stand her when she is not sober. I bore with it long enough; and now all I want is to get Lucy out of her hands and be quit of her, as you say--although it seems mean to leave her."

"She must certainly be a very extraordinary woman if she refused to marry you. Are you sure she is not married already?"

"Bosh! Not she. She likes to be independent; and she has a sort of self-respect--not like Constance and the old Countess, who hunted me long enough in the hope of running me down at last in a church."

"If you offered her marriage, that certainly frees you from the least obligation to stay with her. She reserved liberty to leave you; and, of course, the same privilege was implied on your part. If you have no sentimental wish to return to her, you are most decidedly not bound in honor to."

"I'm fond enough of her when she is sober; but I loathe her when she is fuddled. If she would only give up drinking, we might make a fresh start. But she wont."