The Irrational Knot Part 46

"I dont expect you to be frightened. I expect you to do what all men do: throw me aside as soon as I have served your turn."

"Yes. Of course, _you_ are the aggrieved party. Where's Lucy?"

"I dont know, and I dont care."

"Well, I want to know; and I do care. Is she at home?"

"How do I know whether she is at home or not. I left her there. Very likely she is with her Aunt Marian, telling stories about her mother."

"She is better there than with you. What harm has she done you that you should talk about her in that way?"

"No harm. I dont object to her being there. She has very pleasant conversations with Mrs. Ned, which she retails to me at home. 'Aunty Marian: why do you never drink champagne? Mamma is always drinking it.'

And then, 'Mamma: why do you drink so much wine? Aunty Marian never drinks any.' Good heavens! the little devil told me this morning by way of consolation that she always takes care not to tell her Aunty that I get drunk."

"What did you do to her for saying it?"

"Dont lose your temper. I didnt strangle her, nor even box her ears.

Why should I? She only repeats what you teach her."

"She repeats what her eyes and ears teach her. If she learned the word from me, she learned the meaning from you. A nice lesson for a child hardly three years old."

Susanna sat down on a bench, and looked down at her feet. After a few moments, she tightened her lips; rose; and walked away.

"Hallo! Where are you going to?" said Marmaduke, following her.

"I'm going to get some drink. I have been sober and miserable ever since I wrote to you. I have not got much thanks for it, except to be made more miserable. So I'll get drunk, and be happy."

"No, you shant," said Marmaduke, seizing her arm, and forcibly stopping her.

"What does it matter to you whether I do or not? You say you won't come back. Then leave me to go my own way."

"Here! you sit down," he said, pus.h.i.+ng her into a chair. "I know your game well enough. You think you have me safe as long as you have the child."

"Oh, thats it, is it? Why dont you go out; take a cab; and go to Laurel Grove for her? There is nothing to prevent you taking her away."

"I have a good mind to do it."

"Well, _do_ it. I wont stop you. Why didnt you do it long ago? Her home is no place for her. I'm not fit to have charge of her. I have no fancy for having her talking about me, and most likely mimicking me to other people."

"Thats exactly what I want to arrange with you to do, if you will only be reasonable. Listen. Let us part friends, Susanna, since there is no use in our going on together. You must give me the child. It would only be a burden to you; and I can have it well taken care of. You can keep the house just as it is: I will pay the rent of it."

"What good is the house to me?"

"Can't you hear me out? It will be good to you to live in, I suppose; or you can set it on fire, and wipe it off the face of the earth, for what I care. I can give you five hundred pounds down----"

"Five hundred pounds! And what will you live on until your October dividends come in? On credit, I suppose. Do you think you can impose on me by flouris.h.i.+ng money before me? I will never take a halfpenny from you; no, not if I starve for it."

"Thats all nonsense, Susanna. You must."

"Must I? Do you think you can make me take your money as you made me sit down here? by force!"

"I only offer you what I owe you. Those debts----"

"I dont want what you owe me. If you think it mean to leave me, you shant plaster up your conscience with bank notes. You would like to be able to say in your club that you treated me handsomely."

"I dont think it mean to leave you, not a bit of it. Any other man would have left you months ago. If I had married that little fool inside there, and she had taken to drink, I wouldnt have stood it a week. I have stood it from you nearly a year. Can you expect me to stay under the same roof with you, with the very thought of you making me sick and angry? I was looking at some of your old likenesses the other day; and I declare that it is enough to make a man cry to look at your face now and listen to your voice. When you used to lecture me for losing a twenty pound note at billiards, and coming home half screwed--no man shall ever see me drunk again--I little thought which of us would be the first to go to the dogs."

"I shall not trouble you long."

"What is the use of harping on that? I have seen you drunk so often that I should almost be glad to see you dead."

"Stop!" said Susanna, rising. "All right: you need say no more. Talking will not remedy matters; and it makes me feel pretty much as if you were throwing big stones at my heart. Youre in the right, I suppose: I've chosen to make a beast of myself, and I must take the consequences. You can have the child. I will send for my things: you wont see me at Laurel Grove again. Good-bye."

"But----"

"Dont say another word, Bob. Good-bye." He took her hand irresolutely.

She drew it quickly away; nodded to him; and went out, whilst he stood wondering whether it would be safe--seeing that he did not desire a reconciliation--to kiss her good-bye.

CHAPTER XIV

On Sunday afternoon Douglas walked, facing a glorious sunset, along Uxbridge Road to Holland Park, where he found Mrs. Conolly, Miss McQuinch, and Marmaduke. A little girl was playing in the garden. They were all so unconstrained, and so like their old selves, that Douglas at once felt that Conolly was absent.

"I am to make Ned's excuses," said Marian. "He has some pressing family affairs to arrange." She seemed about to explain further; but Marmaduke looked so uneasily at her that she stopped. Then, resuming gaily, she added, "I told Ned that he need not stand on ceremony with you. Fancy my saying that of you, the most punctilious of men!"

"Quite right. I am glad that Mr. Conolly has not suffered me to interfere with his movements," he replied, with a smile, which he suppressed as he turned and greeted Miss McQuinch with his usual cold composure. But to Marmaduke, who seemed much cast down, he gave an encouraging squeeze of the hand. Not that he was moved by the misfortunes of Marmaduke; but he was thawed by the beauty of Marian.

"We shall have a pleasant evening," continued Marian. "Let us fancy ourselves back at Westbourne Terrace again. Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad. Let us think that it is one of our old Sunday afternoons. Sholto had better go upstairs and shave, to heighten the illusion."

"Not for me, since I cannot see myself, particularly if I have to call you Mrs. Conolly. If I may call you Marian, as I used to do, I think that our conversation will contain fewer reminders of the lapse of time."

"Of course," said Marian, disregarding an anxious glance from Elinor.

"What else should you call me? We were talking about Nelly's fame when you came in. The colonial edition of her book has just appeared. Behold the advertis.e.m.e.nt!"

There was a newspaper open on the table; and Marian pointed to one of its columns as she spoke. Douglas took it up and read the following:

Now Ready, a New and Cheaper Edition, crown 8vo, 5s.

THE WATERS OF MARAH,

BY ELINOR MCQUINCH.

"Superior to many of the numerous tales which find a ready sale at the railway bookstall." _Athenaeum_.

"There is nothing to fatigue, and something to gratify, the idle reader." _Examiner_.