The Irrational Knot Part 55

He lit a candle, and was about to light a lamp when she exclaimed impatiently, "Oh, I did not notice it: what does it matter? Do let the lamp alone, and listen to me." He obeyed, much amused at her irritation.

"Where has Marian gone to?" she asked.

"Is she out?" he said, suddenly grave. "You forget that I have come straight from Glasgow."

"I have been here since three o'clock. Marian sent me a note not to come on Sunday--that she should be out and that you were away. But they tell me that she was at home all yesterday, except for two hours when she was out with Sholto. She packed her trunks in the evening, and went away with them. She told the cabman to drive to Euston. I dont know what it all means; and I have been half distracted waiting here for you. I thought you would never come. There is a note for you on your dressing-table."

He pursed his lips a little and looked attentively at her, but said nothing.

"Wont you go and open it?" she said anxiously. "It must contain some explanation."

"I am afraid the explanation is obvious."

"You have no right to say that. How do you know? If you are not going to read her letter, you had better say so at once. I dont want to pry into it: I only want to know what is become of Marian."

"You shall read it by all means. Will you excuse me whilst I fetch it?"

She stamped with impatience. He smiled and went for the letter, which, after a brief absence, he placed unopened on the table before her, saying:

"I suppose this is it. I laid my hand on it in the dark."

"Are you going to open it?" she said, hardly able to contain herself.

"No."

He had not raised his voice; but it struck her that he was in a rage.

His friendly look and quiet att.i.tude first rea.s.sured, then, on second thoughts, exasperated her.

"Why wont you?"

"I really dont know. Somehow, I am not curious. It interests you. Pray open it."

"I will die first. If it lie there until I open it, it will lie there forever."

He opened the envelope neatly with a paper cutter, and handed her the enclosure. She kept down her hands stubbornly. He smiled a little, still presenting it. At last she s.n.a.t.c.hed it, much as she would have liked to s.n.a.t.c.h a handful of his hair. Having read it, she turned pale, and looked as she had used to in her childhood, when in disgrace and resolute not to cry. "I had rather have had my two hands cut off," she said pa.s.sionately, after a pause.

"It is very sad for you," said Conolly, sympathetically. "He is an educated man; but I cannot think that he has much in him."

"He is a selfish, lying, conceited hound. Educated, indeed! And what are _you_ going to do, may I ask?"

"Eat my supper. I am as hungry as a bear."

"Yes, you had better, I think. Good-evening." He seemed to know that she would not leave; for he made no movement to open the door for her. On her way out, she turned, and so came at him with her fists clenched, that for a moment he was doubtful whether she would not bodily a.s.sault him.

"Are you a brute, or a fool, or both?" she said, letting her temper loose. "How long do you intend to stand there, doing nothing?"

"What _can_ I do, Miss McQuinch?" he said, gently.

"You can follow her and bring her back before she has made an utter idiot of herself with that miserable blackguard. Are you afraid of him?

If you are, I will go with you, and not let him touch you."

"Thank you," he said, good-humoredly. "But you see she does not wish to live with me."

"Good G.o.d, man, what woman do you think _could_ wish to live with you! I suppose Marian wanted a human being to live with, and not a calculating machine. You would drive any woman away. If you had feeling enough to have kicked him out of the house, and then beaten her black and blue for encouraging him, you would have been more of a man than you are: she would have loved you more. You are not a man: you are a stone full of brains--such as they are! Listen to me, Mr. Conolly. There is one chance left--if you will only make haste. Go after them; overtake them; thrash him within an inch of his life; and bring her back and punish her how you please so long as you shew her that you care. You can do it if you will only make up your mind: he is a coward; and he is afraid of you: I have seen it in his eye. You are worth fifty of him--if you would only not be so cold blooded--if you will only go--_dear_ Mr. Conolly--youre not really insensible--you will, wont you?"

This, the first tender tone he had ever heard in her voice, made him look at her curiously. "What does the letter say?" he asked, still quietly, but inexorably.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed it up again. "Here," she said. "'_Our marriage was a mistake. I am going away with Douglas to the other side of the world. It is all I can do to mend matters. Pray forget me_.' That is what her letter says, since you condescend to ask."

"It is too late, then. You felt that as you read it, I think?"

"Yes," she cried, sitting down in a paroxysm of grief, but unable to weep. "It is too late; and it is all your fault. What business had you to go away? You knew what was going to happen. You intended it to happen. You wanted it to happen. You are glad it has happened; and it serves you right. '_Pray forget her_.' Oh, yes, poor girl! she need not trouble about that. I declare there is nothing viler, meaner, cowardlier, selfisher on earth than a man. Oh, if we had only done what we always said we would do--kept free from you!"

"It was a good plan," said Conolly, submissively.

"Was it? How were we to know that you were not made of flesh and blood, pray? There, let me go. [The table was between them; but she rose and shook off an imaginary detaining hand.] I dont want to hear anything more about it. I suppose you are right not to care. Very likely she was right to go, too; so we are all right, and everything is for the best, no doubt. Marian is ruined, of course; but what does that matter to you?

She was only in your way. You can console yourself with your--" Here Armande came in; and Elinor turned quickly to the fireplace and stood there, so that the housemaid should not see her face.

"Your dinner, sir," said Armande, with a certain artificiality of manner that was, under the circ.u.mstances, significant. "There is a nice fire in the laboratory."

"Thank you," said Conolly. "Presently, Armande."

"The things will spoil if you wait too long, sir. The mistress was very particular with me and cook about it." And Armande, with an air of declining further responsibility, went out.

"What shall I do without Marian?" said Conolly. "Not one woman in a hundred is capable of being a mistress to her servants. She saved me all the friction of housekeeping."

"You are beginning to feel your loss," said Elinor, facing him again. "A pleasant thing for a woman of her talent to be thrown away to save you the friction of housekeeping. If you had paid half the attention to her happiness that she did to your dinners you would not be in your present predicament."

"Have you really calculated that it is twice as easy to make a woman happy as to feed a man?"

"Calc--! Yes, I have. I tell you that it is three times as easy--six times as easy: more fool the woman! You can make a woman happy for a week by a word or a kiss. How long do you think it takes to order a week's dinners? I suppose you consider a kiss a weakness?"

"I am afraid--judging by the result--that I am not naturally clever at kissing."

"No, I should think not, indeed. Then you had better go and do what you _are_ clever at--eat your dinner."

"Miss McQuinch: did you ever see an unfortunate little child get a severe fall, and then, instead of a little kindly petting, catch a sound whacking from its nurse for daring to startle her and spoil its clothes?"

"Well, what is the point of that?"

"You remind me a little of the nurse. I have had a sort of fall this evening."

"And now you are going to pretend to be hurt, I suppose; because you dont care to be told that it is your own fault. That is a common experience with children, too. I tell you plainly that I dont believe you are hurt at all; though you may not be exactly pleased--just for the moment. However, I did not mean to be uncivil. If you are really sorry, I am at least _as_ sorry. I have not said all I think."

"What more?"

"Nothing of any use to say. I see I am wasting my time here--and no doubt wasting yours too."