GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“I expect you, Marian, to listen to what I have to say.”

“On that subject I will not listen. I have felt very sore and angry ever since you told me last night to leave the room when Sholto insulted me, as if I were the aggressor.”

“Angry! I am sorry to hear you say so to me.”

“It is better to say so than to think so. There is no use in going on with this conversation, papa. It will only lead to more bitterness between us; and I had enough of that when I tasted it for the first time last night. We shall never agree about Mr. Conolly. I have promised to marry him; and therefore I am not free to withdraw, even if I wished to.”

“A promise made by you without my sanction is not binding. And — listen to me, if you please — I have obtained Mr. Conolly’s express assurance that if you wish to withdraw, he is perfectly willing that you should.”

“Of course, he would not marry me if I did not wish it.”

“But he is willing that you should withdraw. He leaves you quite free.”

“Yes; and, as you told me, he is quite confident that I will keep faith with him; and so I will. I have had a letter from him since you saw him.”

“What!” said Mr. Lind, rising also.

“Dont let us quarrel, papa,” said Marian, appealingly. “Why may I not marry whom I please?”

“Who wants to prevent you, pray? I have most carefully abstained from influencing you with regard to Sholto Douglas. But this is a totally different question. It is my duty to save you from disgracing yourself.”

“Where is the disgrace? Mr. Conolly is an eminent man. I am not poor, and can afford to marry anyone I can respect. I can respect him. What objection have you to him? I am sure he is far superior to Sholto.”

“Mr. Douglas is a gentleman, Marian: Mr. Conolly is not; and it is out of the question for you to ally yourself with a — a member of the proletariat, however skilful he may be in his handicraft.”

“What is a gentleman, papa?”

“A gentleman, Marian, is one who is well born and well bred, and who has that peculiar tone and culture which can only be acquired by intercourse with the best society. I think you should know that as well as I. I hope you do not put these questions from a desire to argue with me.”

“I only wish to do what is right. Surely there is no harm in arguing when one is not convinced.”

“Humph! Well, I have said all that is necessary. I am sure that you will not take any step calculated to inflict pain on me — at least an act of selfishness on your part would be a new and shocking experience for me.

“That is a very unfair way of putting it, papa. You give me no good reason for breaking my word, and making myself unhappy; and yet you accuse me of selfishness in not being ready to do both.”

“I think I have already given you my assurance, weighted as it is by my age, my experience, my regard for your welfare, and, I hope, my authority as a parent, that both your honor and happiness will be secured by your obeying me, and forfeited by following your own headstrong inclinations.”

Marian, almost crushed by this, hesitated a moment, twisting her fingers and looking pitiably at him. Then she thought of Conolly; rallied; and said: “I can only say that I am sorry to disagree with you; but I am not convinced.”

“Do you mean that you refuse to obey me?”

“I cannot obey you in this matter, papa. I—”

“That is enough,” said Mr. Lind, gravely, beginning, to busy himself with the writing materials. Marian for a moment seemed about to protest against this dismissal. Then she checked herself and went out of the room, closing the door quite quietly behind her, thereby unconsciously terrifying her father, who had calculated on a slam.

“Well,” said Elinor, when her cousin rejoined her in the drawingroom: “have you been selfish and disobedient? Have you lacerated a father’s heart?”

“He is thoroughly unfair,” said Marian. “However, it all comes to this: he is annoyed at my wanting to marry Ned: and I believe there will be no more peace for me until I am in a house of my own. What shall we do in the meantime? Where shall we go? I cannot stay here.”

“Why not? Uncle Reginald will sulk; sit at dinner without speaking to us; and keep out of our way as much as he can. But you can talk to me: we neednt mind him. It is he who will be out in the cold, biting his nose to vex his face. Such a state of things is new to you; but I have survived weeks of it without a single sympathizer, and been none the worse, except, perhaps, in temper. He will pretend to be inexorable at first: then he will come down to wounded affection; and he will end by giving in.”

“No, Nelly, I couldnt endure that sort of existence. If people cannot remain friends they should separate at once. I will not sleep in this house tonight.”

“Hurrah!” cried Miss McQuinch. “That will be beginning the war with spirit. If I were in your place, I would stay and fight it out at close quarters. I would make myself so disagreeable that nobody can imagine what life in this house would be. But your plan is the best — if you really mean it.”

“Certainly I mean it. Where shall we go, Nelly?”

“Hm! I am afraid none of the family would make us very comfortable under the circumstances, except Marmaduke. It would be a splendid joke to go to West Kensington; only it would tell as much against us and Ned as against the Roman father. I have it! We will go to Mrs. Toplis’s in St. Mary’s Terrace: my mother always stays there when she is in town. Mrs. Toplis knows us: if she has a room to spare she will give it to us without making any bother.”

“Yes, that will do. Are you ready to come now?”

“If you can possibly wait five minutes I should like to put on my hat and change my boots. We will have to come back and pack up when we have settled about the room. We cannot go without clothes. I should like to have a nightdress, at least. Have you any money?”

“I have the housekeeping money; but that, of course, I shall not take. I have thirty pounds of my own.”

“And I have my old stocking, which contains nearly seventeen. Say fifty in round numbers. That will keep us going very comfortably for a month.”

“Ridiculous! It will last longer than that. Oh!”

“Well?”

“We mustnt go, after all. I forgot you.”

“What of me?”

“Where will you go when I am married? You cant live by yourself; and papa may not welcome you back if you take my part against him.”

“He would not, in any case; so it makes no difference to me. I can go home if the worst comes to the worst. It does not matter: my present luxurious existence must come to an end some time or another, whether we go to Mrs. Toplis’s or not.”

“I am sure Ned will not object to your continuing with me, if I ask him.”

“No, poor fellow! He wont object — at first; but he might not like it. You have no right to inflict me on him. No: I stick to my resolution on that point. Send for the carriage. It is time for us to be off; and Mrs. Toplis will be more impressed if we come in state than if we trudge afoot.”

“Hush,” said Marian, who was standing near the window. “Here is George, with a face full of importance.”

“Uncle Reginald has written to him,” said Elinor.

“Then the sooner we go, the better,” said Marian.

“I do not care to have the whole argument over again with George.”

As they passed through the hall on their way out they met the clergyman.

“Well, George,” said Elinor, “how are the heathen getting on in

Belgravia? You look lively.”

“Are you going out, Marian,” he said, solemnly, disregarding his cousin’s banter.

“We are going to engage a couple of rooms for some errant members of the family,” said Elinor. “May we give you as a reference?”