Meanwhile, Mrs. Leith Fairfax had not been wasting her time. She had come upon Douglas in the large room, and had recognized him by his stature and proud bearing, in spite of the handsome Assyrian beard he had allowed to grow during his stay abroad.
“I have been very anxious to see you,” said she, forcing a conversation upon him, though he had saluted her formally, and had evidently intended to pass on without speaking. “If your time were not too valuable to be devoted to a poor hardworking woman, I should have asked you to call on me. Dont deprecate my forbearance. You are Somebody in the literary world now.”
“Indeed? I was not aware that I had done anything to raise me from obscurity.”
“I assure you you are very much mistaken, or else very modest. Has no one told you about the effect your book produced here?”
“I know nothing of it, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I never enquire after the effect of my work. I have lived in comparative seclusion; and I scarcely know what collection of fugitive notes of mine you honor by describing as a book.”
“I mean your ‘Note on three pictures in last year’s Salon,’ with the sonnets, and the fragment from your unfinished drama. Is it finished, may I ask?”
“It is not finished. I shall never finish it now.”
“I will tell you — between ourselves — that I heard one of the foremost critics of the age say, in the presence of a great poet (whom we both know), that it was such another fragment as the Venus of Milo, ‘whose lost arms,’ said he, ‘we should fear to see, lest they should be unworthy of her.’ ‘You are right,’ said the poet: ‘I, for one, should shudder to see the fragment completed.’ That is a positive fact. But look at some of the sonnets! Burgraves says that his collection of English sonnets is incomplete because it does not contain your ‘Clytemnestra,’ which he had not seen when his book went to press. You stand in the very forefront of literature — far higher than I, who am — dont tell anybody — five years older than you.”
“You are very good. I do not value any distinction of the sort. I write sometimes because, I suppose, the things that are in me must come out, whether I will or not. Let us talk of something else. You are quite well I hope?”
“Very far from it. I am never well; but since I never have a moment’s rest from work, I must bear with it. People expect me to think, when I have hardly time to eat.”
“If you have no time to think, I envy you. But I am truly sorry that your health remains so bad.”
“Thank you. But what is the cause of all this gloomy cynicism, Mr. Douglas? Why should you, who are young, distinguished, gifted, and already famous, envy me for having no leisure to think?”
“You exaggerate the sadness of my unfortunate insensibility to the admiration of the crowd,” said Douglas, coldly. “I am, nevertheless, flattered by the interest you take in my affairs.”
“You need not be, Mr. Douglas,” said Mrs. Fairfax, earnestly, fearing that he would presently succeed in rebuffing her. “I think you are much better off than you deserve. You may despise your reputation as much as you like: that only affects yourself. But when a beautiful girl pays you the compliment of almost dying of love for you, I think you ought to buy a wedding-ring and jump for joy, instead of sulking in remote corners of the continent.”
“And pray, Mrs. Leith Fairfax, what lady has so honored me?”
“You must know, unless you are blind.”
“Pardon me. I do not habitually imply what is not the case. I beg you to believe that I do not know.”
“Not know! What moles men are! Poor Marian!”
“Oblige me by taking this seat,” said Douglas, sternly, pointing to one just vacated. “I shall not detain you many minutes,” he added, sitting down beside her. “May I understand that Miss Lind is the lady of whom you spoke just now?”
“Yes. Remember that I am speaking to you as a friend, and that I trust to you not to mention the effort I am making to clear up the misunderstanding which causes her so much unhappiness.”
“Are you then in Miss Lind’s confidence? Did she ask you to tell me this?”
“What do you mean, Mr. Douglas?”
“I am quite innocent of any desire to shock or offend you, Mrs. Leith
Fairfax. Does your question imply a negative?”
“Most certainly. Marian ask me to tell! you must be dreaming. Do you think, even if Marian were capable of making an advance, that I would consent to act as a go-between? Really, Mr. Douglas!”
“I confess I do not understand these matters; and you must bear with my ineptitude. If Miss Lind entertains any sentiment for me but one of mistrust and aversion, her behavior is singularly misleading.”
“Mistrust! Aversion! I tell you she is in love with you.”
“But you have not, you admit, her authority for saying so, whereas I have her authority for the contrary.”
“You do not understand girls. You are mistaken.”
“Possibly; but you must pardon me if I hesitate to set aside my own judgment in deference to your low estimate of it.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Fairfax, her patience yielding a little to his persistent stiffness: “be it so. Many men would be glad to beg what you will not be bribed to accept.”
“No doubt. I trust that when they so humble themselves they may not encounter a flippant repulse.”
“If they do, it will spring from her unmerited regard for you.”
He bowed slightly, and turned away, arranging his gloves as if about to rise.
“Pray what is that large picture which is skied over there to the right?” said Mrs. Fairfax, after a pause, during which she had feigned to examine her catalogue. “I cannot see the number at this distance.”
“Do you defend her conduct on the ground of that senseless and cruel caprice which your sex seem to consider becoming to them; or has she changed her mind in my absence?”
“Oh! you are talking of Marian. I do not know what you have to complain of in her conduct. Mind, she has never breathed a word to me on the subject. I am quite ignorant of the details of your difference with her. But she has confessed to me that she is very sorry for what passed — I am abusing her confidence by telling you so — and I am a woman, with eyes and brains, and know what the poor girl feels well enough. I will tell you nothing more: I have no right to; and Marian would be indignant if she knew how much I have said already. But I know what I should do were I in your place.”
“Expose myself to another refusal, perhaps?”
Mrs. Fairfax, learning now for the first time that he had actually proposed to Marian, looked at him for some moments in silence with a smile which was assumed to cover her surprise. He thought it expressed incredulity at the idea of his being refused again.
“Are you sure?” he began, speaking courteously to her for the first time. “May I rely upon the accuracy of your impressions on this subject? I know you are incapable of trifling in a matter which might expose me to humiliation; but can you give me any guarantee — any—”
“Certainly not, Mr. Douglas. I am really sorry that I cannot give you a written undertaking that your suit shall succeed: perhaps that might encourage you to brave the scorn of a poor child who adores you. But if you need so much encouragement, I fear you do not greatly relish the prospect of success. Doubtless it has already struck her that since you found absence from her very bearable for two years, and have avoided meeting her on your return, her society cannot be very important to your happiness.”
“But it was her own fault. If she accuses me of having gone away to enjoy myself, her thoughts are a bitter sarcasm on the truth.”
“Granted