“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 that it was her own fault, if you please. But surely you have punished her enough by your long seclusion, and can afford to shew a tardy magnanimity by this time. There she is, I think, just come in at the door on the left. My sight is so wretched. Is it not she?”
“Yes.”
“Then let us get up and speak to her. Come.”
“You must excuse me, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I have distinctly given her my word that I will not intrude upon her again.”
“Dont be so foolish.”
Douglas’s face clouded. “You are privileged to say so,” he said.
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Fairfax, frightened. “But when I think of Marian, I feel like an old woman, and venture to remonstrate with all the presumption of age. I beg your pardon.”
He bowed. Then Marian joined them, and Mrs. Fairfax again gave tongue.
“Where have you been?” she cried. “You vanished from my side like a sprite. I have been searching for you ever since.”
“I have been looking at the pictures, of course. I am so glad you have come back, Sholto. I think you might have made time to pay us a visit before this. You look so strong and well! Your beard is a great improvement. Have you met Nelly?”
“I think we saw her at some distance,” said Douglas. “I have not been speaking to her.”
“How did you enjoy yourself while you were away?”
“As best I could.”
“You look as if you had succeeded very fairly. What o’clock is it?
Remember that we have to meet Nelly at the turnstiles at six.”
“It is five minutes to six now, Miss Lind.”
“Thank you, Mr. Douglas. We had better go, I think.”
As they left the room, Mrs. Fairfax purposely lingered behind them.
“Am I right in concluding that you are as frivolous as ever, Marian?” he said.
“Quite,” she replied. “To-day especially so. I am very happy to-day.”
“May I ask why?”
“Something has happened. I will tell you what it is some day perhaps, but not now. Something that realizes a romantic dream of mine. The dream has been hovering vaguely about me for nearly two years; but I never ventured to teach myself exactly what it was until to-day.”
“Realized here? in the Academy?”
“It was foreshadowed — promised, at home this morning; but it was realized here.”
“Did you know beforehand that I was coming?”
“Not until to-day. Mrs. Leith Fairfax said that you would most likely be here.”
“And you are happy?”
“So much so that I cannot help talking about my happiness to you, who are the very last person — as you will admit when everything is explained — to whom I should unlock my lips on the subject.”
“And why? Am I not interested in your happiness?”
“I suppose so. I hope so. But when you learn the truth, you will be more astonished than gratified.”
“I dare swear that you are mistaken. Is this dream of yours an affair of the heart?”
“Now you are beginning to ask questions.”
“Well, I will ask no more at present. But if you fear that my long absence has rendered me indifferent in the least degree to your happiness, you do me a great injustice.”
“Well, you were not in a very good humor with me when you went away.”
“I will forget that if you wish me to.”
“I do wish you to forget it. And you forgive me?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Then we are the best friends in the world again. This is a great deal better than meeting and pretending to ignore the very thing of which our minds are full. You will not delay visiting us any longer now, I hope.”
“I will call on your father tomorrow morning. May I?”
“He is out of town until Monday. He will be delighted to see you then. He has been talking to me about you a great deal of late. But if you want to see him in the morning you had better go to the club. I will write to him tonight if you like; so that he can write to you and make an appointment.”
“Do. Ah, Marian, instinct is better and truer than intellect. I have been for two years trying to believe all kinds of evil of you; and yet I knew all the time that you were an angel.”
Marian laughed. “I suppose that under our good understanding I must let you say pretty things to me. You must write me a sonnet before your enthusiasm evaporates. I am sure I deserve it as well as Clytemnestra.”
“I will. But I fear I shall tear it up for its unworthiness afterward.”
“Dont: