The Irrational Knot Part 35

"I have. It only remains for me to warn my sister that she is about to contract a close relations.h.i.+p with one who is--I must say it--living in sin with our cousin."

"What do you suppose will be the result of that?"

"I leave you to imagine," said the clergyman indignantly, rising.

"Stop a bit. You do not understand me yet, I see. You have said that my views are peculiar. What if I have taken the peculiar view that I was bound to tell Marian this before proposing to her, and have actually told her?"

"But surely--That is not very likely."

"The whole affair is not very likely. Our marriage is not likely; but it is going to happen, nevertheless. She knows this circ.u.mstance perfectly well. You told her yourself."

"I! When?"

"The year before last, at Carbury Towers. It is worth your consideration, too, that by mistrusting Marian at that time, and refusing to give her my sister's address, you forced her to appeal to me for help, and so advanced me from the position of consulting electrician to that of friend in need. She knew nothing about my relations.h.i.+p to the woman in a state of sin (as you call it), and actually deputed me to warn your cousin of the risk he was running by his intimacy with her.

Whilst I was away running this queer errand for her, she found out that the woman was my sister, and of course rushed to the conclusion that she had inflicted the deepest pain on me. Her penitence was the beginning of the sentimental side of our acquaintance. Had you recognized that she was a woman with as good a right as you to know the truth concerning all matters in this world which she has to make her way through, you would have answered her question, and then I suppose I should have gone away without having exchanged a word with her on any more personal matters than induction coils and ohms of resistance; and in all probability you would have been spared the necessity of having me for a brother-in-law."

"Well, sir," said the Rev. George dejectedly, "if what you say be true, I cannot understand Marian, I can only grieve for her. I shall not argue with you on the nature of the influence you have obtained over her. I shall speak to her myself; since you will not hear me."

"That is hardly fair. I have heard you, and am willing to hear more, if you have anything new to urge."

"You have certainly listened to my voice, Mr. Conolly. But I fear I have used it to very little purpose."

"You will fail equally with Marian, believe me. Even I, whose ability to exercise influence you admit, never obtained the least over my own sister. She knew me too well on my worst side and not at all on my best.

If, as I presume, your father has tried in vain, what hope is there for you?"

"Only my humble trust that a priest may be blessed in his appeal to duty even where a father's appeal to natural affection has been disregarded."

"Well, well," said Conolly, kindly, rising as his visitor disconsolately prepared to go, "you can try. _I_ got on by dint of dogged faith in myself."

"And I get on by lowly faith in my Master. I would I could imbue you with the same feeling!"

Conolly shook his head; and they went downstairs in silence. "Hallo!"

said he, as he opened the door, "it is raining. Let me lend you a coat."

"Thank you, no. Not at all. Good-night," said the clergyman, quickly, and hastened away through the rain from Conolly's civilities.

When he arrived at Westbourne Terrace, there was a cab waiting before the house. The door was opened to him by Marian's maid, who was dressed for walking.

"Master is in the drawing-room, sir, with Miss McQuinch," she said, meaning, evidently, "Look out for squalls."

He went upstairs, and found Elinor, with her hat on, standing by the pianoforte, with battle in her nostrils. Mr. Lind, looking perplexed and angry, was opposite to her.

"George," said Mr. Lind, "close the door. Do you know the latest news?"

"No."

"Marian has run away!"

"Run away!"

"Yes," said Miss McQuinch. "She has fled to Mrs. Toplis's, at St. Mary's Terrace, with--as Uncle Reginald was just saying--a most dangerous a.s.sociate."

"With--?"

"With _me_, in short."

"And you have counselled her to take this fatal step?"

"No. I advised her to stay. But she is not so well used to domestic discomfort as I am; so she insisted on going. We have got very nice rooms: you may come and see us, if you like."

"Is this a time to display your bitter and flippant humor?" said the Rev. George, indignantly. "I think the spectacle of a wrecked home--"

"Stuff!" interrupted Elinor, impatiently. "What else can I say? Uncle Reginald tells me I have corrupted Marian, and refuses to believe what I tell him. And now you attack me, as if it were my fault that you have driven her away. If you want to see her, she is within five minutes walk of you. It is you who have wrecked her home, not she who has wrecked yours."

"There is no use in speaking to Elinor, George," said Mr. Lind, with the air of a man who had tried it. "You had better go to Marian, and tell her what you mentioned this afternoon. What has been the result of your visit?"

"He maintains that she knows everything," said the Rev. George, with a dispirited glance at Elinor. "I fear my visit has been worse than useless."

"It is impossible that she should know. He lies," said Mr. Lind. "Go and tell her the truth, George; and say that I desire her--I order her--to come back at once. Say that I am waiting here for her."

"But, Uncle Reginald," began Elinor, in a softer tone than before, whilst the clergyman stood in doubt--

"I think," continued Mr. Lind, "that I must request you, Elinor, to occupy the rooms you have taken, until you return to your parents. I regret that you have forced me to take this step; but I cannot continue to offer you facilities for exercising your influence over my daughter.

I will charge myself with all your expenses until you go to Wilts.h.i.+re."

Elinor looked at him as if she despaired of his reason. Then, seeing her cousin slowly going to the door, she said:

"You dont really mean to go on such a fool's errand to Marian, George?"

"Elinor!" cried Mr. Lind.

"What else is it?" said Elinor. "You a.s.serted all your authority yourself this morning, and only made matters worse. Yet you expect her to obey you at second hand. Besides, she is bound in honor not to desert _me_ now; and I will tell her so, too, if I see any sign of her letting herself be bullied."

"I fear Marian will not pay much heed to what I say to her," said the clergyman.

"If you are coming," said Elinor, "you had better come in my cab.

Good-night, Uncle Reginald."

"Stay," said Mr. Lind, irresolutely. "Elinor, I--you--Will you exercise your influence to induce Marian to return? I think you owe me at least so much."

"I will if you will withdraw your opposition to her marriage and let her do as she likes. But if you can give her no better reason for returning than that she can be more conveniently persecuted here than at St.

Mary's Terrace, she will probably stay where she is, no matter how I may influence her."

"If she is resolved to quarrel with me, I cannot help it," said Mr.

Lind, pettishly.

"You know very well that she is the last person on earth to quarrel with anyone."

"She has been indulged in every way. This is the first time she has been asked to sacrifice her own wishes."