Part 21 (1/2)
”Always ready to make allowances for her, provided she sends you to lecture me, Conny. Why dont you wear your hat properly?” He arranged her hat as he spoke. Constance laughed and blushed. Marian shuddered. ”Now youre all that fancy painted you: youre lovely, youre divine. Are you ready for Bushy Copse?”
Constance replied by singing:
”Oh yes, if you please, kind sir, she said; sir, she said; sir, she said; Oh! yes if you ple--ease, kind sir, she said.”
”Then come along. After your ladys.h.i.+p,” he said, taking her elbows as if they were the handles of a wheelbarrow, and pus.h.i.+ng her out before him through the narrow entrance to the summer-house. On the threshold he turned for a moment; met Marian's reproachful eyes with a wink; grinned; and disappeared.
For half an hour afterward Marian sat alone in the summer-house, thinking of the mistake she had made. Then she returned to the Cottage, where she found Miss McQuinch writing in the library, and related to her all that had pa.s.sed in the summer-house. Elinor listened, seated in a rocking-chair, restlessly clapping her protended ankles together. When she heard of Conolly's relations.h.i.+p to Susanna, she kept still for a few moments, looking with widely opened eyes at Marian. Then, with a sharp laugh, she said:
”Well, I beg his pardon. I thought he was another of that woman's retainers. I never dreamt of his being her brother.”
Marian was horror stricken. ”You thought--! Oh, Nelly, what puts such things into your head?”
”So would you have thought it if you had the least gumption about people. However, I was wrong; and I'm glad of it. However, I was right about Marmaduke. I told you so, over and over and over again.”
”I know you did; but I didnt think you were in earnest.”
”No, you never can conceive my being in earnest when I differ from you, until the event proves me to be right.”
”I am afraid it will kill Constance.”
”_Dont_, Marian!” cried Elinor, giving her chair a violent swing.
”I am quite serious. You know how delicate she is.”
”Well, if she dies of any sentiment, it will be wounded vanity. Serve her right for allowing a man to be forced into marrying her. I believe she knows in her soul that he does not care about her. Why else should she be jealous of me, of you, and of everybody?”
”It seems to me that instead of sympathizing with the unfortunate girl, both you and Marmaduke exult in her disappointment.”
”I pity her, poor little wretch. But I dont sympathize with her. I dont pity Marmaduke one bit: if the whole family cuts him he will deserve it richly, but I do sympathize with him. Can you wonder at his preference?
When we went to see that woman last June I envied her. There she was, clever, independent, successful, holding her own in the world, earning her living, fascinating a crowd of people, whilst we poor respectable nonent.i.ties sat pretending to despise her--as if we were not waiting until some man in want of a female slave should offer us our board and lodging and the privilege of his lordly name with 'Missis' before it for our lifelong services. You may make up as many little bread-and-b.u.t.ter romances as you please, Marian; but I defy you to give me any sensible reason why Marmaduke should chain himself for ever to a little inane thing like Constance, when he can enjoy the society of a capable woman like that without binding himself at all.”
”Nonsense, Nelly! Really, you oughtnt to say such things.”
”No. I ought to keep both eyes tight shut so that I may be contented in that station to which it has pleased G.o.d to call me.”
”Imagine his proposing to marry her, Nell! I am just as wicked as you; for I am very glad she refused; though I cant conceive why she did it.”
”Perhaps,” said Miss McQuinch, becoming excited, ”she refused because she had too much good sense: aye, and too much common decency to accept.
It is all very well for us fortunate good-for-nothings to resort to prost.i.tution----”
”Oh, Nelly!”
”--I say, to prost.i.tution, to secure ourselves a home and an income.
Somebody said openly in Parliament the other day that marriage was the true profession of women. So it is a profession; and except that it is a harder bargain for both parties, and that society countenances it, I dont see how it differs from what we--bless our virtuous indignation!--stigmatize as prost.i.tution. _I_ dont mean ever to be married, I can tell you, Marian. I would rather die than sell myself forever to a man, and stand in a church before a lot of people whilst George or somebody read out that cynically plain-spoken marriage service over me.”
”Stop Nelly! Pray stop! If you thought for a moment you would never say such awful things.”
”I thought we had agreed long ago that marriage is a mistake.”
”Yes; but that is very different to what you are saying now.”