The Irrational Knot Part 69

They have proved unkind in the long run."

"You spoke plainly enough to her," said Marian, glancing at the bed, "but in the long run it did her no good."

"She would have laughed me to scorn if I had minced matters, for she never deceived herself. Society, by the power of the purse, set her to nautch-girl's work, and forbade her the higher work that was equally within her power. Being enslaved and debauched in this fashion, how could she be happy except when she was not sober? It was her own immediate interest to drink; it was her tradesman's interest that she should drink; it was her servants' interest that she should be pleased with them for getting drink for her. She was clever, good-natured, more constant to her home and her man than you, a living fountain of innocent pleasure as a dancer, singer, and actress; and here she lies, after mischievously spending her talent in a series of entertainments too dull for h.e.l.l and too debased for any better place, dead of a preventable disease, chiefly because most of the people she came in contact with had a direct pecuniary interest in depraving and poisoning her. Aye, look at her! with the cross on her breast, the virgin mother in plaster looking on from where she kept her mirror when she was alive, and the people outside complacently saying 'Serve her right!'"

Marian feared for a moment that he would demolish Eliza's altar by hurling the chair through it. "Dont, Ned," she said, timidly, putting her hand on his arm.

"Dont what?" he said, taken aback. She drew her hand away and retreated a step, coloring at the wifely liberty she had permitted herself to take. "I beg your pardon. I thought--I thought you were going to take the cross away. No," she added quickly, seeing him about to speak, and antic.i.p.ating a burst of scepticism: "it is not that; but the servant is an Irish girl--a Roman Catholic. She put it there; and she meant well, and will be hurt if it is thrown aside."

"And you think it better that she should remain in ignorance of what educated people think about her superst.i.tion than that she should suffer the mortification of learning that her opinions are not those of all the world! However, I had no such intention. Eliza's idol is a respectable one as idols go."

There was a pause. Then Marian said: "It must have been a great shock to you when you came and found what had happened. I am very sorry. But had we not better go downrs? It seems so unfeeling, somehow, to talk without minding her. I suppose you consider that foolish; but I think you are upset by it yourself."

"You see a change in me, then?"

"You are not quite yourself, I think."

"I tell you again that I _am_ myself at last. You do not seem to like the real man any better than the unreal: I am afraid you will not have me on any terms. Well, let us go downstairs, since you prefer it."

"Oh, not unless you wish it too," said Marian, a little bewildered.

He took her candle and led the way out without another word or a look at the bed. Marian, as he stood aside to let her go downstairs before him, was suddenly seized with a fantastic fear that he was going to kill her.

She did not condescend to hurry or look back; but she only felt safe when they were in her room, and he no longer behind her.

"Sit down," he said, placing the candle on the mantelpiece. She sat down at the table, and he stood on the hearthrug. "Now," said he, "about the future. Are you coming back? Will you give the life at Holland Park another trial?"

"I cannot," she said, bending her head almost on her hands. "I should disgrace you. And there is another reason."

"It is not in your power, nor in that of all London, to disgrace me if I do not feel disgraced. It is useless to say that you cannot. If you say 'I will not,' then that will settle it. What is the other reason?"

"It is not yet born. But it will be."

"That is no reason to me. Do you think I shall be a worse father to it than he would have been?"

"No, indeed. But it would be unfair to you." He made an impatient gesture. "I dont understand you, Ned. Would you not rather be free?"

"Freedom is a fool's dream. I am free. I can divorce you if I please: if I live with you again it will be by my own choice. You are free too: you have burnt your boats, and are rid of fashionable society, of your family, your position, your principles, and all the rest of your chains forever. You are decla.s.sed by your own act; and if you can frankly give a sigh of relief and respect yourself for breaking loose from what is called your duty, then you are the very woman I want for a wife. I may not be the very man you want for a husband; but at all events you are free to choose, free to change after you choose if you choose me, free anyhow; for I will divorce you if you refuse; and then you will be--independent--your own mistress--absolute proprietor of your own child--everything that married women and girls envy. You have a foretaste of that freedom now. What is it worth? One or two conditions more or less to comply with, that is all: nature and society still have you hard and fast; the main rules of the game are inviolable."

"I think it is a good thing to be free," said Marian, timidly.

"That means 'I will not.'"

"Not 'will not'; but I think I had better not."

"A characteristic distinction, Marian. I once thought, like you, that freedom was the one condition to be gained at all cost and hazard. My favorite psalm was that nonsense of John Hay's:

'For always in thine eyes, O Liberty, Shines that high light whereby the world is saved; And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee.'

And she does slay us. Now I am for the fullest attainable life. That involves the least endurable liberty. You dont see that yet. Very well: you have liberty--liberty to hurt as well as help yourself; and you are right to try whether it will not make you happier than wedlock has done."

"It was not your fault; and it is very good of you to offer to take me back, I know. Will my refusing disappoint you at all, Ned?"

"I am prepared for it. You may refuse or accept: I foresee how I shall adapt myself to either set of circ.u.mstances."

"Yes, I forgot. You foresee everything," said Marian, with some bitterness.

"No: I only face what I see. That is why you do not like living with me.

Good-bye. Do not look troubled: we shall meet again to-morrow and often afterward, I hope; but to-night makes an end of the irrational knot."

"Good-night," said Marian rather forlornly, after a pause, proffering her hand.

"One folly more," he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her. She made no resistance. "If such a moment could be eternal, we should never say good-bye," he added. "As it is, we are wise not to tempt Fortune by asking her for such another."

"You are too wise, Ned," she said, suffering him to replace her gently in the chair.

"It is impossible to be too wise, dearest," he said, and unhesitatingly turned and left her.