her. He took her in to dinner, and sat in silence beside her, heedless alike of his host’s commonplaces and Miss McQuinch’s acridities.
Mr. Lind unceremoniously took a nap after his wine that evening, and allowed his guest to go upstairs alone. Douglas hoped that Elinor would be equally considerate, but, to his disappointment, he found her by herself in the drawingroom. She hastened to explain.
“Marian is looking for some music. She will be back directly.”
He sat down and took an album from the table, saying: “Have you many new faces here?”
“Yes. But we never discard old faces for new ones. It is the old ones that are really interesting.”
“I have not seen this one of Mr. Lind before. It is capital. Ah! this of you is an old friend.”
“Yes. What do you think of the one of Constance on the opposite page?”
“She looks as if she were trying to be as lugubrious as possible. What dress is that? Is it a uniform?”
“Yes. She joined a nursing guild. Didnt Mrs. Douglas tell you?”
“I believe so. I forgot. She went into a cottage hospital or something of that kind, did she not?”
“She left it because one of the doctors offended her. He was rather dreadful. He said that in two months she had contributed more to the mortality among the patients than he had in two years, and told her flatly that she had been trained for the drawingroom and ought to stay there. She was glad enough to have an excuse for leaving; for she was heartily sick of making a fool of herself.”
“Indeed! Where is she now?”
“Back at Towers Cottage, moping, I suppose. That’s Mr. Conolly the inventor, there under Jasper.”
“So I perceive. Clever head, rather! A plain, hard nature, with no depths in it. Is that his wife, with the Swiss bonnet?”
“His wife! Why, that is a Swiss girl, the daughter of a guide at Chamounix, who nursed Marian when she sprained her ankle. Mr. Conolly is not married.”
“I thought men of his stamp always married early.”
“No. He is engaged, and engaged to a lady of very good position.”
“He owes that to the diseased craving of modern women for notoriety of any sort. What an admirable photograph of Marian! I never saw it before. It is really most charming. When was it taken?”
“Last August, at Geneva. She does not like it — thinks it too coquettish.”
“Then perhaps she will give it to me.”
“She will be only too glad, I daresay. You have caught her at a soft moment tonight.”
“I cannot find that duet anywhere,” said Marian, entering. “What! up already, Sholto? Where is papa?”
“I left him asleep in the dining-room. I have just been asking Miss
McQuinch whether she thought you would give me a copy of this carte.”
“That Geneva one. It is most annoying how people persist in admiring it. It always looks to me as if it belonged to an assortment of popular beauties at one shilling each. I dont think I have another. But you may take that if you wish.”
“Thank you,” said Douglas, drawing it from the book.
“I think you have a copy of every photograph I have had taken in my life,” she said, sitting down near him, and taking the album. “I have several of yours, too. You must get one taken soon for me; I have not got you with your beard yet. I have a little album upstairs which Aunt Dora gave me on my eighth birthday; and the first picture in it is you, dressed in flannels, holding a bat, and looking very stern as captain of your eleven at Eton. I used to stand in great awe of you then. Do you remember telling me once that ‘Zanoni’ was a splendid book, and that I ought to read it?”
“Pshaw! No. I must have been a young fool. But it seems that I had the grace even then to desire your sympathy.”
“I assure you I read it most reverently down in Wiltshire, where Nelly kept a select library of fiction concealed underneath her mattress; and I believed every word of it. Nelly and I agreed that you were exactly like Zanoni; but she was hardly to blame; for she had never seen you.”
“Things like that make deep impressions on children,” said Elinor, thoughtfully. “You were a Zanoni in my imagination for years before I saw you. When we first met you treated me insufferably. If you had known how my childish fancy had predisposed me to worship you, you might have vouchsafed me some more consideration, and I might have gone on believing you a demigod to the end of the chapter. I have hardly forgiven you yet for disenchanting me.”
“I am sorry,” said Douglas sarcastically. “I must have been sadly lacking in impressiveness. But on the other hand I recollect that you did not disappoint me in the least. You fully bore out the expectations I had been led to form of you.”
“I have no doubt I did,” said Elinor. “Yet I protest that my reputation was as unjust as yours. However, I have outlived my sensitiveness to this injustice, and have even contracted a bad habit of pretending to act up to it occasionally before foolish people. Marian: are you sure that duet is not on the sofa in my room?”
“Oh, the sofa! I looked only in the green case.”
“I will go and hunt it out myself. Excuse me for a few minutes.”
Douglas was glad to see her go. Yet he was confused when he was alone with Marian. He strolled to the window, outside which the roof of the porch had been converted into a summer retreat by a tent of pink-striped canvass. “The tent is up already,” he said. “I noticed it as we came in.”
“Yes. Would you prefer to sit there? We can carry out this little table, and put the lamp on it. There is just room for three chairs.”
“We need not crowd ourselves with the table,” he said. “There will be light enough. We only want to talk.”
“Very well,” said Marian, rising. “Will you give me that woolen thing that is on the sofa? It will do me for a shawl.” He placed it on her shoulders, and they went out.
“I will sit in this corner,” said Marian. “You are too big for the campstool. You had better bring a chair. I am fond of sitting here. When the crimson shade is on the lamp, and papa asleep in its roseate glow, the view is quite romantic: there is something ecstatically snug in hiding here and watching it.” Douglas smiled, and seated himself as she suggested, near her, with his shoulder against the stone balustrade.
“Marian,” said he, after a pause: “you remember what passed between us at the Academy yesterday?”
“You mean our solemn league and covenant. Yes.”
“Why did we not make that covenant before? Life is not so long, nor happiness so common, that we can afford to trifle away two years of it. I wish you had told me when I last came here of that old photograph of mine in your album.”
“But this is not a new covenant. It is only an old one mended. We were always good friends until you quarrelled and ran away.”
“That was not my fault, Marian.”
“Then it must have been mine. However, it does not matter now.”
“You are right. Prometheus is unbound now; and his despair is only a memory sanctifying his present happiness. You know why I called on your father this morning?”
“It was to see the electro-motor in the city, was it not?”
“Good Heavens, Marian!” he said, rising, “what spirit of woman or spirit of mischief tempts you to coquet with me even now?”
“I really thought that was the reason — besides, of course, your desire to make papa amends for not having been to see him sooner after your return.”
“Marian!”