Book 4 - Chapter 19

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_ BOOK IV. CHAPTER XIX

On a cold afternoon in January, Sholto Douglas entered a hold in New York, and ascended to a room on the first floor. Marian was sitting there, thinking, with a letter in her lap, She only looked up for a moment when he entered; and he plucked off his sealskin gloves and threw aside his overcoat in silence.

"It is an infernal day," he said presently.

Marian sighed, and roused herself. "The rooms look cheerless in winter without the open fireplaces we are accustomed to in England."

"Damn the rooms!" he muttered.

Marian took up her letter again.

"Do you know that he has filed a petition for divorce?" he said, aggressively.

"Yes."

"You might have mentioned it to me. Probably you have known it for days past."

"Yes. I thought it was a matter of course."

"Or rather you did not think at nil. I suppose you would have left me in ignorance forever, if I had not heard from London myself."

"Is it of importance, then?"

"Certainly it is--of vital importance."

"Have you any other news? From whom have you heard?"

"I have received some private letters."

"Oh! I beg your pardon."

Five minutes passed in silence. He looked out of the window, frowning. She sat as before.

"How much longer do you intend to stay in this place?" he said, turning upon her suddenly.

"In New York?"

"This is New York, I believe."

"I think we may as well stay here as anywhere else."

"Indeed! On what grounds have you arrived at that cheering conclusion?"

Marian shrugged her shoulders. "I dont know," she said.

"Nor do I. You do not seem happy here. At least, if you are, you fail to communicate your state of mind to those about you."

"So it seems."

"What does that mean?"

"That you do not seem to be happy either."

"How in the devil's name can you expect me to be happy in this city? Do you think it is pleasant to have no alternative to the society of American men except that of a sulky woman?"

"Sholto!" said Marian, rising quickly, and looking at him in surprise.

"Spare me these airs," he said, coldly. "You will have to accustom yourself to hear the truth occasionally."

She sat down again. "I am not giving myself airs," she said, earnestly. "I am astonished. Have I really been sulky?"

"You have been in the sulks for days past: and you are in them at this moment."

"There is some misunderstanding between us then; for you have seemed to me quite cross and out of sorts for the last week; and I thought you were out of temper when you came in just now."

"That is rather an old-fashioned retort."

"Sholto: I do not know whether you intend it or not; but you are speaking very slightingly to me."

He muttered something, and walked across the room and back. "I am quite clear on one point at least," he said. "It was not for this sort of thing that I crossed the Atlantic with you; and you had bettor make our relations more agreeable if you wish me to make them permanent."

"You to make them permanent? I do not understand."

"I shall not shrink from explaining myself. If your husband's suit is undefended, he will obtain a decree which will leave you a single woman in six months. Now, whatever you may think to the contrary, there is not a club in London that would hold me in any way bound to marry you after the manner in which you have behaved. Let me remind you that your future position depends on your present conduct. You have apparently forgotten it."

She looked at him; and he went back to the window.

"My husband's suit cannot be defended," she said. "Doubtless you will act according to the dictates of the London clubs."

"I do not say so," he said, turning angrily. "I shall act according to the dictates of my own common sense. And do not be too sure that the petition will be unopposed. The law recognizes the plea of connivance."

"But it would be a false plea," said Marian, raising her voice.

"I shall not discuss that with you. Whether your husband was blind, or merely kept his eyes shut will not be decided by us. You have been warned. We will drop the subject now, if you please."

"Do you suppose," said Marian, with a bright color in her cheeks, "that after what you have said, anything could induce me to marry you?"

He was startled, and remained for a moment motionless. Then he said, in his usual cold tone, "As you please. You may think better of it. I will leave you for the present. When we meet again, you will be calmer."

"Yes," she said. "Good-bye."

Without answering, he changed his coat for a silk jacket, transferred his cigar-case to a pocket in it, and went out. When he had passed the threshold, he hesitated, and returned.

"Why do you say good-bye?" he said, after clearing his throat uneasily.

"I do not like to leave you without saying it."

"I hope you have not misunderstood me, Marian. I did not mean that we should part."

"I know that. Nevertheless, we shall part. I will never sleep beneath the same roof with you again."

"Come!" he said, shutting the door: "this is nonsense. You are out of temper."

"So you have already told me," she said, becoming pale.

"Well, but--Marian: perhaps I may have spoken rather harshly just now; but I did not mean you to take it so. You must be reasonable."

"Pray let us have no more words about it. I need no apologies, and desire no advances. Good-bye is enough."

"But, Marian," said he, coming nearer, "you must not fancy that I have ceased to love you."

"Above all," said Marian, "let us have no more of that. You say you hate this place and the life we lead here. I am heartily sick of it, and have been so for a long time."

"Let us go elsewhere."

"Yes, but not together. One word," she added resolutely, seeing his expression become fierce. "I will not endure any violence, even of language, from you. I know of old what you are when you lose your temper; and if you insult me I will summon aid, and proclaim who I am."

"Do you think I am going to strike you?"

"No, because you dare not. But I will not listen to oaths or abuse."

"What have you to complain of? What is your grievance?"

"I make no complaint. I exercise the liberty I bought so dearly to go where I please and do what I please."

"And to desert me when I have sacrificed everything for you. I have incurred enormous expenses; alienated my friends; risked my position in society; and broken my mother's heart for your sake."

"But for that I would have left you before. I am very sorry."

"You have heard something in that letter which makes you hope that your husband will take you back. Not a woman in London will speak to you."

"I tell you I am not going back. Oh, Sholto, dont be so mean. Can we not part with dignity? We have made a mistake. Let us acknowledge it quietly, and go our several ways."

"I will not be got rid of so easily as you suppose," he said, his face darkening menacingly. "Do you think I believe in your going out alone from this hotel and living by yourself in a strange city? Come! who is it?"

"Who is----? What do you mean?"

"What new connexion have you formed? You were very anxious about our ship returning the other day--anxious about the mails, of course. Perhaps also about the surgeon."

"I understand. You think I am leaving you to go to some other man. I will tell you now the true reason."

"Do," said he, sarcastically, biting his lip.

"I will. I am leaving you because, instead of loving you, as I foolishly thought I could, I neither respect nor even like you. You are utterly selfish and narrow-minded; and I deserve my disappointment for having deserted for your sake a far better man. I am sorry you have sacrificed so much for me; but if you had been worthy of a woman's regard, you would not have lost me."

Douglas stared at her. "_I_ selfish and narrow-minded!" he said, with the calm of stupefaction.

"Yes."

"I may have been narrow-minded in devoting myself so entirely to you," said he slowly, after a pause. "But, though I do not ask for gratitude, I think I have been sufficiently a loser to disregard such a monstrous assertion as that I am selfish."

"You show your selfishness by dwelling on what you have lost. You never think of what I have lost. I make no profession of unselfishness. I am suffering for my folly and egoism; and I deserve to suffer."

"In what way, pray, are you suffering? You came here because you had a wretched home, and a husband who was glad to be rid of you. You do what you like, and have what you like. Name one solitary wish of yours that has not been silently gratified."

"I do not find fault with you. You have been generous in supplying me with luxuries such as money can obtain. But it was not the want of money that made me fancy my home wretched. It is not true that I can do as I like. How many minutes is it since you threatened to cast me off if I did not make myself agreeable to you? Can you boast of your generosity after taunting me with my dependence on you?"

"You misunderstood me, Marian. I neither boasted, nor threatened, nor taunted. I have even apologized for that moment's irritation. If you cannot forgive such a trifle, you yourself can have very little generosity."

"Perhaps not. I do not violently resent things; but I cannot forget them, nor feel as I did before they happened."

"You think so at present. Let us cease this bickering. Lovers' quarrels should not be carried too far."

"I am longing to cease it. It worries me; and it does not alter my determination in the least."

"Do you mean----"

"I do mean. Dont look at me like that: you make me angry instead of frightening me."

"And do you think I will suffer this quietly?"

"You may suffer it as you please," said Marian, stepping quietly to the wall, and pressing a button. "I will never see you again if I can help it. If you follow me, or persecute me in any way, I will appeal to the police for protection as Mrs. Conolly. I despise you more than I do any one on earth."

He turned away, and snatched up his coat and hat. She stood apparently watching him quietly, but really listening with quickened heart to his loud and irregular breathing. As he opened the door to go out, he was confronted on the threshold by a foreign waiter.

"Vas you reeng?" said the waiter doubtfully, retreating a step.

"I will not be accountable for that woman's expenses from this time forth," said Douglas, pointing at her, "You can keep her at your own risk, or turn her into the streets to pursue her profession, as you please."

The waiter, smiting vaguely, looked first at the retreating figure of Douglas, and then at Marian.

"I want another room, if you please," she said. "One on any of the upper floors will do; but I must have my things moved there at once."

Her instructions were carried out after some parley. In the meantime, Douglas's man servant appeared, and said that he had been instructed to remove his master's luggage.

"Is Mr. Forster leaving the hotel?" she asked.

"I dont know his arrangements, madam."

"I guess I do, then," said a sulky man, who was preparing to wheel away Marian's trunk. "He's about to shift his billet to the Gran' Central."

Marian, still in a towering rage, sat down in her new room to consider her situation. To fix her attention, which repeatedly wandered to what had passed between her and Douglas, she counted her money, and found that she had, besides a twenty pound note which she had brought with her from London, only a few loose dollars in her purse. Her practice in housekeeping at Westbourne Terrace and Holland Park had taught her the value of money too well to let her suppose that she could afford to remain at a first rate American hotel with so small a sum in her possession. At home Conolly had made her keep a separate banking account; and there was money to her credit there; but in her ignorance of the law, she was not sure that she had not forfeited all her property by eloping. She resolved to move at once into some cheap lodging, and to live economically until she could ascertain the true state of her affairs, or until she could obtain some employment, to support her. She faced poverty without fear, never having experienced it.

It was still early in the afternoon when she left the hotel and drove to the Crawfords'.

"So you have come at last," cried Mrs. Crawford, who was fifty years of age and stout, but leaner in the face than fat Englishwomen of that age usually are.

"I just expected you'd soon git tired of being grand all by yourself in the hotel yonder."

"I fear I shall have to be the reverse of grand all by myself in some very shabby lodging," said Marian. "Dont be surprised Mrs. Crawford. Can one live in New York on ten dollars a week?"

"_You_ cant live on ten dollars a week in New York nor on a hundred. You rode here, didnt you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Of course. If you have only ten dollars a week you should have walked. I know the sort you are, Mrs. Forster. You wont be long getting rid of your money, no matter where you live. But whats wrong? Hows your husband?"

"I dont know. I hope he is quite well," said Marian, her voice trembling a little. "Mrs. Crawford: you are the only friend I have in America; and you have been so very kind to me that since I must trouble some one, I have ventured to come to you. The truth is that I have left my husband; and I have only about one hundred dollars in the world. I must live on that until I get some employment, or perhaps some money of my own from England."

"Chut, child! Nawnsnse!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawford, with benevolent intolerance. "You go right back to your husband. I spose youve had a rumpus with him; but you mustnt mind that. All men are a bit selfish; and I should say from what I have seen of him that he is no exception to the rule. But you cant have perfection. He's a fine handsome fellow; and he knows it. And, as for you, I dont know what they reckon you in England; but youre the best-looking woman in Noo York: thats surtn. It's a pity for such a pair to fall out."

"He is not selfish," said Marian. "You never saw him. I am afraid I must shock you, Mrs. Crawford. Mr. Forster is not my husband."

"No! Do! Did you ever tell the General that?"

"General Crawford! Oh, no."

"Think of that man being cuter than me, a woman! He always said so. And the grit you must have, to tell it out as cool as that! Well! I'm sorry to hear it though, Mrs. Forster. It's a bad account--a very bad one. But if I take what you said just now rightly, youre married."

"I am. I have deserted a very good husband."

"It's a pity you didnt find that out a little sooner, isnt it?"

"I know, Mrs. Crawford. I thought I was acting for the best."

"Thought you were acting for the best in running away from a good husband! Well, you British aristocrats are singular. You throw stones at us because our women are so free and our divorces so easy. Yet youre always scandlizing us; and now _you_ tell me youve done it on morl grounds! Who educated you, child? And what do you intend to do now?"

"For the present, only to get a lodging. Will you tell me where I should look for one? I dont know the east from the west end of this town; and I am so inexperienced that I might make a mistake easily as to the character of the places. Will you direct me to some street or quarter in which I should he likely to find suitable rooms? I can live very economically."

"I dont know what to do," said Mrs. Crawford, perplexedly, turning her rings on her fingers. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And you so pretty!"

"Perhaps you would rather not assist me. You may tell me so candidly. I shall not be offended."

"You mustnt take me up like that. I must have a talk with the General about you. I dont feel like letting you go into some ordinary place by yourself. But I cant ask you to stay here without consulting----"

"Oh, no, you must not think of any such thing: I must begin to face the world alone at once. I assure you, Mrs. Crawford, I could not come here. I should only keep your friends away."

"But nobody knows you."

"Sooner or later I should meet someone who does. There are hundreds of people who know me by sight, who travel every year. Besides, my case is a very public one, unfortunately. May I take you into my confidence?"

"If you wish, my dear. I dont ask you for it; but I will take it kindly."

"I know you will. You must have heard all about me. Mr. Forster's real name is Douglas."

Mrs. Crawford stifled a whoop of surprise. "And you! Are you----?"

"I am."

"Only think! And that was Douglas! Why, I thought he was a straight-haired, sleeky, canting snake of a man. And you too are not a bit like what I thought. You are quite a person, Mrs.--Mrs. Conolly."

"I have no right to bear that name any longer. Pray call me by my assumed name still, and keep my secret. I hope you do not believe all the newspapers said?"

"No, of course not," said Mrs. Crawford. "But whose fault was it?"

"Mine. Altogether mine. I wish you would tell people that Mr. Conolly is blameless in the matter."

"He will take care of his own credit, never fear. I am sure you got some provocation: I know what men are. The General is not my first husband."

"No, I got no provocation. Mr. Conolly is not like other men. I got discontented because I had nothing to desire. And now, about the lodgings, Mrs. Crawford. Do not think I am changing the subject from reticence. It is the question of money that makes me anxious. All my resources would be swallowed up at the hotel in less than a week."

"Lodgings? You mean rooms, I guess. People here mostly go to boarding-houses. And as to the cheapness, you dont know what cheapness is. Cant you make some arrangement with your great relations in England? Have you no property of your own?"

"I cannot tell whether my property remains my own or not. You must regard me as a poor woman. I am quite determined to have the lodgings; and I should like to arrange about them at once; for I am rather upset by something that happened this morning."

"Well, if you must, you must, I know a place that might suit you: I lived in it myself when I was not so well off as I am at present. It is a little down-town; but you will have to put up with that for the sake of economy."

Mrs. Crawford, who had read in the papers of her guest's relationship to the Earl of Carbury, then sent for her carriage, and dressed herself handsomely. When they had gone some distance, they entered a wide street, crossed half way along by an avenue and an elevated railway.

"What do you think of this neighborhood?" said Mrs. Crawford.

"It is a fine, wide street," replied Marian; "but it looks as if it needed to be swept and painted."

"The other end is quieter. I'm afraid you wont like living here."

Marian had hitherto thought of such streets as thoroughfares, not as places in which she could dwell. "Beggars cannot be choosers," she said, with affected cheerfulness, looking anxiously ahead for the promised quiet part.

"Boarding-houses are so much the rule here, that it is not easy to get rooms. You will find Mrs. Myers a good soul, and though the house is not much to look at, it is comfortable enough inside."

The appearance of the street improved as they went on; and the house they stopped at, though the windows were dingy and the paint old, was better than Marian had hoped for a minute before. She remained in the carriage whilst her companion conferred with the landlady within. Twenty minutes passed before Mrs. Crawford reappeared, looking much perplexed.

"Mrs. Myers has a couple of rooms that would do you very well; only you would be on the same floor with a woman who is always drunk. She has pawned a heap of clothes, and promises to leave every day; but Mrs. Myers hasnt got rid of her yet. It's very provoking. She's quiet, and doesnt trouble any one; but still, of course----"

"She cannot interfere with me," said Marian. "If that is the only objection, let it pass. I need have nothing to say to her. If she is not violent nor noisy, her habits are her own affair."

"Oh, she wont trouble you. You can keep to yourself, English fashion."

"Then let us agree at once. I cannot face any more searching and bargaining."

"Youre looking pale. Are you sure you are not ill?"

"No. It is nothing. I am rather tired."

They went in together; and Marian was introduced to Mrs. Myers, a nervous widow of fifty. The rooms were small, and the furniture and carpets old and worn; but all was clean; and there was an open fireplace in the sitting-room.

"They will do very nicely, thank you," said Marian. "I will send for my luggage; and I think I will just telegraph my new address and a few words to a friend in London."

"If you feel played out, I can see after your luggage," said Mrs. Crawford. "But I advise you to come back with me; have a good lunch at Delmonico's; and send your cablegram yourself."

Marian roused herself from a lassitude which was coming upon her, and took Mrs. Crawford's advice. When they returned to the richer quarter of the town, and especially after luncheon, her spirits revived. At the hotel she observed that the clerk was surprised when, arranging for the removal of her luggage and the forwarding of her letters, she mentioned her new address. Douglas, she found, had paid all expenses before leaving. She did not linger in the building; for the hotel staff stared at her curiously. She finished her business by telegraphing to Elinor: "_Separated. Write to new address. Have I forfeited my money?_" This cost her nearly five dollars.

"Only that you must find out about your money, I wouldnt have let you spend all that," said Mrs. Crawford.

"I did not think it would have cost so much," said Marian. "I was horrified when he named the price. However, it cannot be helped."

"We may as well be getting back to Mrs. Myers's now. It's late."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Marian, sighing. "I am sorry I did not ask Nelly to telegraph me. I am afraid my funds will not last so long as I thought."

"Well, we shall see. The General was greatly taken with you for the way you looked after me when I was ill yonder; so you have two friends in Noo York City, at any rate."

"You have proved that to me to-day. I am afraid I shall have to trouble you further if I get bad news. You will have to help me to find some work."

"Yes. Never mind that until the bad news comes. I hope you wont mope at Mrs. Myers's. How does the American air agree with you?"

"Pretty well. I was sick for the first two days of our passage across, and somehow my digestion seems to have got out of order in consequence. Of late I have been a little unwell in the mornings."

"Oh! Thats so, is it? Humph! I see I shall have to come and look after you occasionally."

"Why?"

"Never you mind, my dear. But dont go moping, nor going without food to save money. Take care of yourself."

"It is nothing serious," said Marian, with a smile. "Only a passing indisposition. You need not be uneasy about me. This is the house, is it not? I shall lose myself whenever I go out for a walk here."

"This is it. Now good-bye. I'll see you soon. Meanwhile, you take care of yourself, as youre told."

It was dark when Marian entered her new residence. Mrs. Myers was standing at the open door, remonstrating with a milkman. Marian hastily assured her that she knew the way, and went upstairs alone. She was chilled and weary; her spirits had fallen again during her journey from the telegraph office. As she approached her room, hoping to find a good fire, she heard a flapping noise, which was suddenly interrupted by the rattle of a falling poker, followed by the exclamation, in a woman's voice, "Och, musha, I wouldnt doubt you." Marian, entering, saw a robust young woman kneeling before the grate, trying to improve a dull fire that burnt there. She had taken up the poker and placed it standing against the bars so that it pointed up the chimney; and she was now using her apron fanwise as a bellows. The fire glowed in the draught; and Marian, by its light, noted with displeasure that the young woman's calico dress was soiled, and her hair untidy.

"I think----"

"God bless us!" ejaculated the servant, starting and turning a comely dirty face toward Marian.

"Did I frighten you?" said Marian, herself startled by the exclamation.

"You put the life acrass in me," said the servant, panting, and pressing her hand on her bosom.

"I am sorry for that. I was going to say that I think you need not take any further trouble with the fire. It will light of itself now."

"Very well, miss."

"What is your name?"

"Liza Redmon', miss."

"I should like some light, Eliza, if you please."

"Yis, miss. Would you wish to take your tay now, miss?"

"Yes, thank you."

Eliza went away with alacrity. Marian put off her bonnet and furs, and sat down before the fire to despond over the prospect of living in that shabby room, waited on by that slipshod Irish girl, who roused in her something very like racial antipathy. Presently Eliza returned, carrying a small tray, upon which she had crowded a lighted kerosene lamp, a china tea service, a rolled-up table cloth, a supply of bread and butter, and a copper kettle. When she had placed the lamp on the mantelpiece, and the kettle by the fire, she put the tray on the sofa, and proceeded to lay the cloth, which she shook from its folds and spread like a sail in the air by seizing two of the corners in her hands, and pulling them apart whilst she held the middle fold in her teeth. Then she adroitly wafted it over the table, making a breeze in which the lamp flared and Marian blinked. Her movements were very rapid; and in a few moments she had arranged the tea service, and was ready to withdraw.

"My luggage will be sent here this evening or to-morrow, Eliza. Will you tell me when it comes?"

"Yis, miss."

"You know that my name is _Mrs_. Forster, do you not?"

"Mrs. Forster. Yis, miss."

Marian made no further attempt to get miss changed to maam; and Eliza left the room. As she crossed the landing, she was called by someone on the same floor. Marian started at the sound. It was a woman's voice, disagreeably husky: a voice she felt sure she had heard before, and yet one that was not familiar to her.

"Eliza. Eli-za!" Marian shuddered.

"Yis, yis," said Eliza, impatiently, opening a door.

"Come here, alanna," said the voice, with mock fondness. The door was then closed, and Marian could hear the murmur of the conversation which followed. It was still proceeding when Mrs. Myers came in.

"I didnt ought to have left you to find your way up here alone, Mrs. Forster," she said; "but I do have such worry sometimes that I'm bound to leave either one thing or another undone."

"It does not matter at all, Mrs. Myers. Your servant has been very attentive to me."

"The hired girl? She's smart, she is--does everything right slick away. The only trouble is to keep her out of that room. She's in there now. Unless I am always after her, she is slipping out on errands, pawning and buying drink for that unfortunate young creature."

"For whom?"

"A person that Mrs. Crawford promised to tell you about."

"So she did," said Marian. "But I did not know she was young."

"She's older than you, a deal. I knew her when she was a little girl, and I often forget how old she is. She was the prettiest child! Even now she would talk you into anything. But I cant help her. It's nothing but drink, drink, drink from morning til night. There's Eliza coming out of her room. Eliza."

"Yis, maam," said Eliza, looking in.

"You stay in the house, Eliza, do you hear? I wont have you go out."

"Could I spake a word to you, maam?" said Eliza, lowering her voice.

"No, Eliza. I'm engaged with Mrs. Forster."

"She wants to see you," whispered Eliza.

"Go downrs, Eliza, this minute. I wont see her."

"Mrs. Myers," cried the voice. Marian again shrank from the sound. "Mrs. My-ers. Aunt Sally. Come to your poor Soozy." Mrs. Myers looked perplexedly at Marian. The voice resumed after a pause, with an affected Yankee accent, "I guess I'll raise a shine if you dont come."

"I must go," said Mrs. Myers. "I promise you, Mrs. Forster, she shall not annoy you. She shall go this week. It aint right that you should be disturbed by her."

Mrs. Myers went into the other room. Eliza ran downrs, and Marian heard her open the house door softly and go out. She also heard indistinctly the voices of the landlady and her lodger. After a time these ceased, and she drank her tea in peace. She was glad that Mrs. Myers did not return, although she made no more comfortable use of her solitude than to think of her lost home in Holland Park, comparing it with her dingy apartment, and pressing her handkerchief upon her eyes when they became too full of tears. She had passed more than an hour thus when Eliza roused her by announcing the arrival of the luggage. Thereupon she bestirred herself to superintend its removal to her bedroom, where she unpacked a trunk which contained her writing-case and some books. With these were stowed her dresses, much miscellaneous finery, and some handsomely worked underclothing. Eliza, standing by, could not contain her admiration; and Marian, though she did not permit her to handle the clothes, had not the heart to send her away until she had seen all that the trunk contained. Marian heard her voice afterward in the apartment of the drunken lodger, and suspected from its emphasis that the girl was describing the rare things she had seen.

Marian imparted some interest to her surroundings that evening by describing them in a letter to Elinor. When she had finished, she was weary; and the fire was nearly out. She looked at her watch, and, finding to her surprise that is was two hours after midnight, rose to go to bed. Before leaving the room, she stood for a minute before the old-fashioned pier-glass, with one foot on the fender, and looked at her image, pitying her own weariness, and enjoying the soft beauty of her face and the gentleness of her expression. Her appearance did not always please her; but on this occasion the mirror added so much to the solace she had found in writing to Elinor, that she felt almost happy as she took the lamp to light her to her bedroom.

She had gone no farther than the landing when a sound of unsteady footsteps on the stairs caused her to stop. As she lifted the lamp and looked up, she saw a strange woman descending toward her, holding the balustrade, and moving as though with pains in her limbs. This woman, whose black hair fell nearly to her waist, was dressed in a crimson satin dressing-gown, warmly padded, and much stained and splashed. She had fine dark eyes, and was young, bold-looking, and handsome; but when she came nearer, the moist pallor of her skin, the slackness of her lower lip and jaw, and an eager and worn expression in her fine eyes, gave her a thirsty, reckless leer that filled Marian with loathing. Her aspect conveyed the same painful suggestion as her voice had done before, but more definitely; for it struck Marian, with a shock, that Conolly, in the grotesque metamorphosis of a nightmare, might appear in some such likeness. The lamp did not seem to attract her attention at first; but when she came within a few steps, she saw some one before her, and, dazzled by the light, peered at Marian, who lost her presence of mind, and stood motionless. Gradually the woman's expression changed to one of astonishment. She came down to the landing; stopped, grasping the handrail to steady herself; and said in her husky voice:

"Oh, Lord! It's not a woman at all. It's D. Ts." Then, not quite convinced by this explanation, she suddenly stretched out her hand and attempted to grasp Marian's arm. Missing her aim, she touched her on the breast, and immediately cried, "Mrs. Ned!"

Marian shrank from her touch, and recovered her courage.

"Do you know me?" she said.

"I should rather think I do. I have gone off a good deal in my appearance, or you would know me. Youve seen me on the stage, I suppose. I'm your sister-in-law. Perhaps you didnt know you had one."

"Are you Miss Susanna Conolly?"

"Thats who I am. At least I am what is left of Miss Susanna. You dont look overjoyed to make my acquaintance; but I was as good-looking as you once. Take my advice, Mrs. Ned: dont drink champagne. The end of champagne is brandy; and the end of brandy is----" Susanna made a grimace and indicated herself.

"I am afraid we shall disturb the house if we talk here. We had better say good-night."

"No, no. Dont be in such a hurry to get rid of me. Come into my room with me for a while. I'll talk quietly: I'm not drunk. Ive just slept it off; and I was coming down for some more. You may as well keep me from it for a few minutes. I suppose Ned hasnt forbidden you to speak to me."

"Oh, no," said Marian, yielding to a feeling of pity. "Come into my room. There is a scrap of fire there still."

"We used to lodge in this room long ago, in my father's time," said Susanna, following Marian into the room, and reclining with a groan on the sofa. "I'm rather in a fog, you know: I cant make out how the deuce you come to be here. Did Ned send you to look after me? Is he in New York? Is he here?"

"No," said Marian, foreseeing with a bitter pang and a terrible blush what must follow. "He is in England. I am alone here."

"Well, why--? what--? I dont understand."

"Have you not read the papers?" said Marian, in a low voice, turning her head away.

"Papers! No, not since I saw an account of my brilliant _debut_ here, of which I suppose you have heard. I never read: I do nothing but drink. What has happened?"

Marian hesitated.

"Is it any secret?" said Susanna.

"No, it is no secret," said Marian, turning, and looking at her steadily. "All the world knows it. I have left your brother; and I do not know whether I am still his wife, or whether I am already divorced."

"You dont mean to say youre on the loose!" cried Susanna.

Marian was silent.

"I always told Ned that no woman could stand him," said Susanna, with sodden vivacity, after a pause, during which Marian had to endure her astonished stare. "He always thought you the very pink of propriety. Of course, there was another man in it. Whats become of him, if I may ask?"

"I have left him," said Marian, sternly. "You need impute no fault to your brother in the matter, Miss Conolly. He is quite blameless."

"Yes," said Susanna, not in the least impressed, "he always is blameless. How is Bob? I mean Marmaduke, your cousin. I call him Bob, short for Cherry Bob."

"He is very well, thank you."

"Now, Bob was not a blameless man, but altogether the reverse; and he was a capital fellow to get on with. Ned was always right, always sure of himself; and there was an end. He has no variety. I wonder will Bob ever get married?"

"He is going to be married in the spring."

"Who to?"

"To Lady Constance Car----"

"Damn that woman!" exclaimed Susanna. "I hate her. She was always throwing herself at his head. Curse her! Damn her! I wish----"

"Miss Conolly," said Marian: "I hope you will not think me rude; but I am very tired, and it is very late. I must go to bed."

"Well, will you come and see me to-morrow? It will be an act of charity. I am dying here all alone. You are a nice woman, and I know what you must feel about me; but you will get used to me. I wont annoy you. I wont swear. I wont say anything about your cousin. I'll keep sober. Do come. You are a good sort: Bob always said so; and you might save me from destroying myself. Say youll come."

"If you particularly wish it, I will," said Marian, not disguising her reluctance.

"Youd rather not, of course," said Susanna, despondently.

"I am afraid I cannot be of any use to you."

"For that matter, no one is likely to be of much use to me. But it's hard to be imprisoned in this den without anyone to speak to but Eliza. However, do as you please. I did as I pleased; and I must take the consequences. Just tell me one thing. Did you find me out by accident?"

"Quite."

"That was odd." Susanna groaned again as she rose from the sofa. "Well, since you wont have anything to do with me, good-bye. Youre quite right."

"I will come and see you. I do not wish to avoid you if you are in trouble."

"Do," said Susanna, eagerly, touching Marian's hand with her moist palm. "We'll get on better than you think. I like you, and I'll make you like me. If I could only keep from it for two days, I shouldnt be a bit disgusting. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Marian, overcoming her repugnance to Susanna's hand, and clasping it. "Remember that my name here is Mrs. Forster."

"All right. Good-night. Thank you. You will never be sorry for having compassion on me."

"Wont you take a light?"

"I dont require one. I can find what I want in the dark."

She went into her apartment. Marian went quickly up to her own bedroom and locked herself in. Her first loathing for Susanna had partly given way to pity; but the humiliation of confessing herself to such a woman as an unfaithful wife was galling. When she went to sleep she dreamed that she was unmarried and at home with her father, and that the household was troubled by Susanna, who lodged in a room upstairs. _

Read next: Book 4: Chapter 20

Read previous: Book 4: Chapter 18

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