"That is an undeserved stab," said Conolly.

"Never mind: I am always stabbing people. I suppose I like it," she
added, as they went together to the vestibule.

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 hard-working 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 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 to-morrow 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 to-night 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: I am not a critic. Talking of critics, where has Mrs. Leith
Fairfax gone to? Oh, there she is!"

Mrs. Fairfax came up when she saw Marian look round for her. "My dear,"
she said: "it is past six. We must go. Elinor may be waiting for us."

They found Elinor seated in the vestibule with Conolly, at whom Mrs.
Fairfax plunged, full of words. Conolly and Douglas, introduced to one
another by Marian, gravely raised their hats. When they had descended
the stairs, they stood in a group near one of the doors whilst Conolly
went aside to get their umbrellas. Just then Marmaduke Lind entered the
building, and halted in surprise at finding himself among so many
acquaintances.

"Hallo!" he cried, seizing Douglas's hand, and attracting the attention
of the bystanders by his boisterous tone. "Here you are again, old man!
Delighted to see you. Didnt spot you at first, in the beard. George told
me you were back. I met your mother in Knightsbridge last Thursday; but
she pretended not to see me. How have you enjoyed yourself abroad, eh?
Very much in the old style, I suppose?"

"Thank you," said Douglas. "I trust your people are quite well."

"Hang me if I know!" said Marmaduke. "I have not troubled them much of
late. How d'ye do, Mrs. Leith Fairfax? How are all the celebrities?"
Mrs. Fairfax bowed coldly.

"Dont roar so, Marmaduke," said Marian. "Everybody is looking at you."

"Everybody is welcome," said Marmaduke, loudly. "Douglas: you must come
and see me. By Jove, now that I think of it, come and see me, all of
you. I am by myself on week-nights from six to twelve; and I should
enjoy a housewarming. If Mrs. Leith Fairfax comes, it will be all proper
and right. Let us have a regular party."

Mrs. Fairfax looked indignantly at him. Elinor looked round anxiously
for Conolly. Marian, struck with the same fear, moved toward the door.

"Here, Marmaduke," she said, offering him her hand. "Good-bye. You are
in one of your outrageous humors this afternoon."

"What am I doing?" he replied. "I am behaving myself perfectly. Let us
settle about the party before we go."

"Good evening, Mr. Lind," said Conolly, coming up to them with the
umbrellas. "This is yours, I think, Mrs. Leith Fairfax."

"Good evening," said Marmaduke, subsiding. "I----Well, you are all off,
are you?"

"Quite time for us, I think," said Elinor. "Good-bye."

Mrs. Fairfax, with a second and more distant bow, passed out with
Conolly and Douglas. Elinor waited a moment to whisper to Marmaduke.

"First rate," said Marmaduke, in reply to the whisper; "and beginning to
talk like one o'clock. Oh yes, I tell you!" He shook Elinor's hand at
such length in his gratitude for the inquiry that she was much relieved
when a servant in livery interrupted him.

"Missus wants to speak to you, sir, afore she goes," said the man.

Elinor shook her head at Marmaduke, and hurried away to rejoin the rest
outside. As they went through the courtyard, they passed an open
carriage, in which reclined a pretty woman with dark eyes and delicate
artificial complexion. Her beauty and the elegance of her dress
attracted their attention. Suddenly Marian became aware that Conolly was
watching her as she looked at the woman in the carriage. She was about
to say something, when, to her bewilderment, Elinor nudged her. Then she
understood too, and looked solemnly at Susanna. Susanna, observing her,
stared insolently in return, and Marian averted her head like a guilty
person and hurried on. Conolly saw it all, and did not speak until they
rejoined Mrs. Fairfax and Douglas in Piccadilly.

"How do you propose to go home?" said Douglas.

"Walk to St. James's Street, where the carriage is waiting at the club;
take Uncle Reginald with us; and drive home through the park," said
Elinor.

"I will come with you as far as the club, if you will allow me," said
Douglas.

Conolly then took leave of them, and stood still until they disappeared,
when he returned to the courtyard, and went up to his sister's carriage.

"Well, Susanna," said he. "How are you?"

"Oh, there's nothing the matter with me," she replied carelessly, her
eyes filling with tears, nevertheless.

"I hear that I have been an uncle for some time past."

"Yes, on the wrong side of the blanket."

"What is its name?" he said more gravely.

"Lucy."

"Is it quite well?"

"I suppose not. According to Nurse, it is always ill."

Conolly shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into the cynical manner in
which he had used to talk with his sister. "Tired of it already?" he
said. "Poor little wretch!"

"It is very well off," she retorted, angrily: "a precious deal better
than I was at its age. It gets petting enough from its father, heaven
knows! He has nothing else to do. I have to work."

"You have it all your own way at the theatre now, I suppose. You are
quite famous."

"Yes," she said, bitterly. "We are both celebrities. Rather different
from old times."

"We certainly used to get more kicks than halfpence. However, let us
hope all that is over now."

"Who were those women who were with you a minute ago?"

"Cousins of Lind. Miss Marian Lind and Miss McQuinch."

"I remember. She is pretty. I suppose, as usual, she hasnt an idea to
bless herself with. The other looks more of a devil. Now that you are a
great man, why dont you marry a swell?"

"I intend to do so."

"The Lord help her then!"

"Amen. Good-bye."

"Oh, good-bye. Go on to Soho," she added, to the coachman, settling
herself fretfully on the cushions.




CHAPTER IX


On Monday morning Douglas received a note inviting him to lunch at Mr.
Lind's club. He had spent the greater part of the previous night
composing a sonnet, which he carried with him in his pocket to St.
James's Street. Mr. Lind received him cordially; listened to an account
of his recent stay abroad; and described his own continental excursions,
both gentlemen expressing great interest at such coincidences as their
having put up at the same hotel or travelled by the same line of
railway. When luncheon was over, Mr. Lind proposed that they should
retire to the smoking-room.

"I should like to have a few words with you first, as we are alone
here," said Douglas.

"Certainly," said Mr. Lind, assuming a mild dignity in anticipation of
being appealed to as a parent. "Certainly, Sholto."

"What I have to say, coming so soon after my long absence, will probably
surprise you. I had it in contemplation before my departure, and was
only prevented from broaching it to you then by circumstances which have
happily since lost their significance. When I tell you that my
communication has reference to Marian, you will perhaps guess its
nature."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Lind, affecting surprise. "Well, Sholto, if it be so,
you have my heartiest approval. You know what a lonely life her marriage
will entail on me; so you will not expect me to consent without a few
regrets. But I could not desire a better settlement for her. She must
leave me some day. I have no right to complain."

"We shall not be very far asunder, I hope; and it is in Marian's nature
to form many ties, but to break none."

"She is an amiable girl, my--my darling child. Does she know anything of
this?"

"I am here at her express request; and there remains to me the pleasure
of getting her own final consent, which I would not press for until
armed with your sanction."

Except for an involuntary hitch of his eyelids, Mr. Lind looked as
if he believed perfectly in Douglas's respect for his parental claims.
"Quite right," he said, "quite right. You have my best wishes. I have
no doubt you will succeed: none. There are, of course, a few
affairs to be settled--a few contingencies to be provided
for--children--accidents--and so forth. No difficulty is likely to arise
between us on that score; but still, these things have to be arranged."

"I propose a very simple method of arranging them. You are a man of
honor, and more conversant with business than I. Give me your
instructions. My lawyer shall have them within half an hour."

"That is said like a gentleman and a Douglas, Sholto. But I must
consider before giving you an answer. You have thrown upon me the duty
of studying your position as well as Marian's; and I must neither abuse
your generosity nor neglect her interest."

"You will, nevertheless, allow me to consider the conditions as settled,
since I leave them entirely in your hands."

"My own means have been seriously crippled by the extravagance of
Reginald. Indeed both my boys have cost me much money. I had not, like
you, the good fortune to be an only son. I was the fourth son of a
younger son: there was very little left for me. I will treat Marian as
liberally as I can; but I fear I cannot do anything for her that will
bear comparison with your munificence."

"Surely I can give her enough. I should prefer to be solely responsible
for her welfare."

"Oh no. That would be too bad. Oh no, Sholto: I will give her something,
please God."

"As you wish, Mr. Lind. We can arrange it to your satisfaction
afterward. Do you intend returning to Westbourne Terrace soon?"

"I am afraid not. I have to go into the City. If you would care to come
with me, I can shew you the Company's place there, and the working of
the motor. It is well worth seeing. Then you can return with me to the
Terrace and dine with us. After dinner you can talk to Marian."

Douglas consented; and they went to Queen Victoria Street, to a building
which had on each doorpost a brass shield inscribed THE CONOLLY
ELECTRO-MOTOR COMPANY OF LONDON, LIMITED. At the offices, on the first
floor, they were received obsequiously and informed that Mr. Conolly was
within. They then went to a door on which appeared the name of the
inventor, and entered a handsomely furnished office containing several
working models of machinery, and a writing-table, from his seat at which
Conolly rose to salute his visitors.

"Good evening, Mr. Lind. How do you do, Mr. Douglas?"

"Oh!" said Mr. Lind. "You two are acquainted. I did not know that."

"Yes," said Conolly, "I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Douglas at the
Academy yesterday evening."

"Indeed? Marian did not mention that you were there. Well, can we see
the wonders of the place, Mr. Conolly; or do we disturb you?"

"Not at all," replied Conolly, turning to one of the models, and
beginning his showman's lecture with disquieting promptitude. "Hitherto,
as you are no doubt aware, Mr. Douglas, steam has kept electricity, as a
motive power, out of the field; because it is much less expensive. Even
induced magnetic currents, the cheapest known form of electric energy,
can be obtained only by the use of steam power. You generate steam by
the combustion of coal: electricity, without steam, can only be
generated by the combustion of metals. Coal is much cheaper than metal:
consider the vast amount of coal consumed in smelting metals. Still,
electricity is a much greater force than steam: it's stronger, so to
speak. Sixpennorth of electricity would do more work than sixpennorth of
steam if only you could catch it and hold it without waste. Up to the
present the waste has been so enormous in electric engines as compared
with steam engines that steam has held its own in spite of its inferior
strength. What I have invented is, to put it shortly, an electric engine
in which there is hardly any waste; and we can now pump water, turn
mill-stones, draw railway trains, and lift elevators, at a saving, in
fuel and labor, of nearly seventy per cent, of the cost of steam. And,"
added Conolly, glancing at Douglas, "as a motor of six-horsepower can be
made to weigh less than thirty pounds, including fuel, flying is now
perfectly feasible."

"What!" said Douglas, incredulously. "Does not all trustworthy evidence
prove that flying is a dream?"

"So it did; because a combination of great power with little weight,
such as an eagle, for instance, possesses, could not formerly be
realized in a machine. The lightest known four-horse-power steam engine
weighs nearly fifty pounds. With my motor, a machine weighing thirty
pounds will give rather more than six-horse-power, or, in other words,
will produce a wing power competent to overcome much more than its own
gravity. If the Aeronautical Society does not, within the next few
years, make a machine capable of carrying passengers through the air to
New York in less than two days, I will make one myself."

"Very wonderful, indeed," said Douglas, politely, looking askance at
him.

"No more wonderful than the flight of a sparrow, I assure you. We shall
presently be conveyed to the top of this building by my motor. Here you
have a model locomotive, a model steam hammer, and a sewing machine: all
of which, as you see, I can set to work. However, this is mere show. You
must always bear in mind that the novelty is not in the working of these
machines, but the smallness of the cost of working."

Douglas endured the rest of the exhibition in silence, understanding
none of the contrivances until they were explained, and not always
understanding them even then. It was disagreeable to be instructed by
Conolly--to feel that there were matters of which Conolly knew
everything and he nothing. If he could have but shaped a pertinent
question or two, enough to prove that he was quite capable of the
subject if he chose to turn his attention to it, he could have accepted
Conolly's information on the machinery as indifferently as that of a
policeman on the shortest way to some place that it was no part of a
gentleman's routine to frequent. As it was, he took refuge in his
habitual reserve, and, lest the exhibition should be prolonged on his
account, took care to shew no more interest in it than was barely
necessary to satisfy Mr. Lind. At last it was over; and they returned
westward together in a hansom.

"He is a Yankee, I suppose,'" said Douglas, as if ingenuity were a low
habit that must be tolerated in an American.

"Yes. They are a wonderful people for that sort of thing. Curious turn
of mind the mechanical instinct is!"

"It is one with which I have no sympathy. It is generally subject to the
delusion that it has a monopoly of utility. Your mechanic hates art;
pelts it with lumps of iron; and strives to extinguish it beneath all
the hard and ugly facts of existence. On the other hand, your artist
instinctively hates machinery. I fear I am an artist."

"I dont think you are quite right there, Sholto. No. Look at the steam
engine, the electric telegraph, the--the other inventions of the
century. How could we get on without them?"

"Quite as well as Athens got on without them. Our mechanical
contrivances seem to serve us; but they are really mastering us,
crowding and crushing the beauty out of our lives, and making commerce
the only god."

"I certainly admit that the coarser forms of Radicalism have made
alarming strides under the influence of our modern civilization. But the
convenience of steam conveyance is so remarkable that I doubt if we
could now dispense with it. Nor, as a consistent Liberal, a moderate
Liberal, do I care to advocate any retrogression, even in the direction
of ancient Greece."

Douglas was seized with a certain impatience of Mr. Lind, as of a
well-mannered man who had never learned anything, and had forgotten all
that he had been taught. He did not attempt to argue, but merely said,
coldly: "I can only say that I wish Fate had made me an Athenian instead
of an Englishman of the nineteenth century."

Mr. Lind smiled complacently: he knew Douglas, if not Athens, better,
but was in too tolerant a humor to say so. Little more passed between
the two until they reached Westbourne Terrace, where Marian and her
cousin were dressing for dinner. When Marian came down, her beauty so
affected Douglas that his voice was low and his manner troubled as he
greeted 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 drawing-room. 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 drawing-room 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 to-night."

"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!" he said, still remonstrantly.

She looked at him with sudden dread, and instinctively recognized the
expression in his face.

"You know as well as I," he continued, "that I went to seek his consent
to our solemn league and covenant, as you call it. If that covenant were
written on your heart as it is on mine, you would not inflict on me this
pretty petty torture. Your father has consented: he is delighted. Now
may I make a guess at that happy secret you told me of yesterday, and
promised I should know one day?"

"Stop! Wait," said Marian, very pale. "I must tell you that secret
myself."

"Hush. Do not be so moved. Remember that your confession is to be
whispered to me alone."

"Dont talk like that. It is all a mistake. My secret has nothing to do
with you." Douglas drew back a little way.

"I am engaged to be married."

"What do you mean?" he said sternly, advancing a step and looking down
menacingly at her with his hand on the back of his chair.

"I have said what I mean," replied Marian with dignity. But she rose
quickly as soon as she had spoken, and got past him into the
drawing-room. He followed her; and she turned and faced him in the
middle of the room, paler than before.

"You are engaged to _me_," he said.

"I am not," she replied.

"That is a lie!" he exclaimed, struggling in his rage to break through
the strong habit of self-control. "It is a damnable lie; but it is the
most cruel way of getting rid of me, and therefore the one most
congenial to your heartlessness."

"Sholto," said Marian, her cheeks beginning to redden: "you should not
speak to me like that."

"I say," he cried fiercely, "that it is a lie!"

"Whats the matter?" said Elinor, coming hastily into the room.

"Sholto has lost his temper," said Marian, firmly, her indignation
getting the better of her fear now that she was no longer alone with
him.

"It is a lie," repeated Douglas, unable to shape a new sentence. Elinor
and Marian looked at one another in perplexity. Then Mr. Lind entered.

"Gently, pray," said he. "You can be heard all through the house.
Marian: what is the matter?"

She did not answer; but Douglas succeeded, after a few efforts, in
speaking intelligibly. "Your daughter," he said, "with the assistance of
her friend Mrs. Leith Fairfax, and a sufficient degree of direct
assurance on her own part, has achieved the triumph of bringing me to
her feet a second time, after I had unfortunately wounded her vanity by
breaking her chains for two years."

"That is utterly false," interrupted Marian, with excitement.

"I say," said Douglas, in a deeper tone and with a more determined
manner, "that she set Mrs. Leith Fairfax on me with a tale of love and
regret for my absence. She herself with her own lips deliberately
invited me to seek your consent to our union. She caused you to write me
the invitation I received from you this morning. She told me that my
return realized a dream that had been haunting her for two years. She
begged me to forgive her the past, and to write her a sonnet, of which
she said she was at least more worthy than Clytemnestra, and of which I
say she is at best less worthy than Cressida." He took a paper from his
pocket as he spoke; and, with a theatrical gesture, tore it into
fragments.

"This is very extraordinary," said Mr. Lind irresolutely. "Is it some
foolish quarrel, or what is the matter? Pray let us have no more
unpleasantness."

"You need fear none from me," said Douglas. "I do not propose to
continue my acquaintance with Miss Lind."

"Mr. Douglas has proposed to marry me; and I have refused him," said
Marian. "He has lost his temper and insulted me. I think you ought to
tell him to go away."

"Gently, Marian, gently. What am I to believe about this?"

"What I have told you," said Douglas, "I confirm _on my honor_, which
you can weigh against the pretences of a twice perjured woman."

"Sholto!"

"I have to speak plainly on my own behalf, Mr. Lind. I regret that you
were not in a position this morning to warn me of your daughter's
notable secret."

"If it is a secret, and you are a gentleman, you will hold your
tongue," interposed Elinor, sharply.

"Papa," said Marian: "I became engaged yesterday to Mr. Conolly. I told
Mr. Douglas this in order to save him from making me a proposal. That is
the reason he has forgotten himself. I had not intended to tell you so
suddenly; but this misunderstanding has forced me to."

"Engaged to Mr. Conolly!" cried Mr. Lind. "I begin to fear
that----Enga----" He took breath, and continued, to Marian: "I forbid
you to entertain any such engagement. Sholto: there is evidently nothing
to be gained by discussing this matter in hot blood. It is some girlish
absurdity--some--some--some--"

"I apologize for having doubted the truth of the excuse," said Douglas;
"but I see that I have failed to gauge Miss Lind's peculiar taste. I beg
you to understand, Mr. Lind, that my pretensions are at an end. I do not
aspire to the position of Mr. Conolly's rival."

"You are already in the position of Mr. Conolly's unsuccessful rival;
and you fill it with a very bad grace," said Elinor.

"Pray be silent, Elinor," said Mr. Lind. "This matter does not concern
you. Marian: go to your room for the present. I shall speak to you
afterwards."

Marian flushed, and repressed a sob. "I wish I were under _his_
protection now," she said, looking reproachfully at Douglas as she
crossed the room.

"What can you expect from a father but hostility?" said Elinor,
bitterly. "You are a coward, like all your sex," she added, turning to
Douglas. Then she suddenly opened the door, and passed out through it
with Marian, whilst the housemaids fled upstairs, the footman shrank
into a corner of the landing, and the page hastily dragged the cook
down to the kitchen.

The two men, left together in the drawing-room, were for some moments
quite at a loss. Then Mr. Lind, after a preliminary cough or two, said:
"Sholto: I cannot describe to you how shocked I am by what I have just
heard. I am deeply disappointed in Marian. I trusted her implicitly; but
of course I now see that I have been wrong in allowing her so much
liberty. Evidently a great deal has been going on of which I had not any
suspicion."

Douglas said nothing. His resentment was unabated; but his rage,
naturally peevish and thin in quality, was subsiding, though it surged
back on him at intervals. But now that he no longer desired to speak
passionately, he would not trust himself to speak at all. Suddenly Mr.
Lind broke out with a fury that astonished him, preoccupied as he was.

"This--this fellow must have had opportunities of thrusting himself into
her society of which I knew nothing. I thought she barely knew him. And
if I had known, could I have suspected her of intriguing with an
ill-bred adventurer! Yes, I might: my experience ought to have warned me
that the taint was in her blood. Her mother did the same thing--left the
position I had given her to run away with a charlatan, disgracing me
without the shadow of an excuse or reason except her own innate love for
what was low. I thought Marian had escaped that. I was proud of
her--placed un--unbounded confidence in her."

"She has struck me a blow," said Douglas, "the infernal treachery----."
He checked himself, and after a moment resumed in his ordinary formal
manner. "I must leave you, Mr. Lind. I am quite unable at present to
discuss what has passed. Any conventional expressions of regret would
be----Good-night."

He bowed and left the room. Mr. Lind, taken aback, did not attempt to
detain him or even return his bow, but stood biting his lips with a
frown of discomfiture and menace. When he was alone, he paced the room
several times. Then he procured some writing materials and sat down
before them. He wrote nothing, but, after sitting for some time, he went
upstairs. Passing Marian's room he listened. The sharp voice and
restless movements of his niece were the only sounds he heard. They
seemed to frighten him; for he stole on quickly to his own room, and
went to bed. Even there he could hear a shrill note of conversation
occasionally from the opposite room, where Marian was sitting on a sofa,
trying to subdue the hysteria which had been gaining on her since her
escape from the balcony; whilst Elinor, seated on the corner of a drawer
which projected from the dressing-table, talked incessantly in her most
acrid tones.

"Henceforth," she said, "Uncle Reginald is welcome to my heartiest
detestation. I have been waiting ever since I knew him for an excuse to
hate him; and now he has given me one. He has taken part--like a true
parent--against you with a self-intoxicated fool whom he ought to have
put out of the house. He has told me to mind my own business. I shall be
even with him for that some day. I am as vindictive as an elephant: I
hate people who are not vindictive: they are never grateful either, only
incapable of any enduring sentiment. And Douglas! Sholto Douglas! The
hero, the Newdigate poet, the handsome man! What a noble fellow he is
when a little disappointment rubs his varnish off! I am glad I called
him a coward to his face. I am thoroughly well satisfied with myself
altogether: at last I have come out of a scene without having forgotten
the right thing to say. You never see people in all their selfishness
until they pretend to love you. See what you owe to your loving suitor,
Sholto Douglas! See what you owe to your loving father, Reginald Lind!"

"I do not think that my father should have told me to leave the room,"
said Marian. "It was Sholto's place to have gone, not mine."

"Mr. Lind, who has so suddenly and deservedly descended from 'papa' to
'my father,' judiciously sided with the stronger and richer party."

"Nelly: I shall be as unhappy after this as even Sholto can desire. I
feel very angry with papa; and yet I have no right to be. I suppose it
is because I am in the wrong. I deceived him about the engagement."

"Bosh! You didnt tell him because you knew you couldnt trust him; and
now you see how right you were."

"Even so, Nelly, I must not forget all his past care of me."

"What care has he ever taken of you? He was very little better
acquainted with you than he was with me, when you came to keep house for
him and make yourself useful. Of course, he had to pay for your board
and lodging and education. The police would not have allowed him to
leave you to the parish. Besides, he was proud of having a nice, pretty
daughter to dispose of. You were quite welcome to be happy so long as
you did not do anything except what he approved of. But the moment you
claim your independence as a grown woman, the moment you attempt to
dispose of yourself instead of letting him dispose of you! Bah! _I_
might have been _my_ father's pet, if I had been a nonentity. As it was,
he spared no pains to make me miserable; and as I was only a helpless
little devil of a girl, he succeeded to his heart's content. Uncle
Reginald will try to do exactly the same to-morrow, he will come and
bully you, instead of apologizing as he ought. See if he doesnt!"

"If I had as much reason to complain of my childhood as you have,
perhaps I should not feel so shocked and disappointed by his turning on
me to-night. Surely, when he saw me attacked as I was, he ought to have
come to my assistance."

"Any stranger would have taken your part. The footman would, if you had
asked him. But then, James is not your father."

"It seems a very small thing to be bidden to leave the room. But I will
never expose myself to a repetition of it."

"Quite right. But what do you mean to do? for, after all, though
parental love is an imposition, parental authority is a fact."

"I will get married."

"Out of the frying pan into the fire! Certainly, if you are resolved to
marry, the present is as good as another time, and more convenient. But
there must be some legal formalities to go through. You cannot turn into
the first church you meet, and be married off-hand."

"Ned must find out all that. I am sadly disappointed and disilluded,
Nelly."

"Time will cure you as it does everybody; and you will be the better for
being wiser. By the bye, what did Sholto mean about Mrs. Fairfax?"

"I dont know."

"She has evidently been telling him a parcel of lies. Do you remember
her hints about him yesterday at lunch? I have not the least doubt that
she has told him you are frantically in love with him. She as good as
told you the same about him."

"Oh! she is not capable of doing such a thing."

"Isnt she? We shall see."

"I dont know what to think," said Marian, despondently. "I used to
believe that both you and Ned thought too little of other people; but it
seems now that the world is nothing but a morass of wickedness and
falsehood. And Sholto, too! Who would have believed that he could break
out in that coarse way? Do you remember the day that Fleming, the
coachman, lost his temper with Auntie down at the Cottage. Sholto was
exactly like that; not a bit more refined or dignified."

"Rather less so, because Fleming was in the right. Let us go to bed. We
can do nothing to-night, but fret, and wish for to-morrow. Better get to
sleep. Resentment does not keep me awake, I can vouch for that: I got
well broken in to it when I was a child. I heard Uncle Reginald going to
his room some time ago. I am getting sleepy, too, though I feel the
better for the excitement."

"Very well. To bed be it," said Marian. But she did not sleep at all as
well as Nelly.




CHAPTER X


Next morning Mr. Lind rose before his daughter was astir, and went to
his club, where he breakfasted. He then went to the offices in Queen
Victoria Street. Finding the board-room unoccupied, he sat down there,
and said to one of the clerks:

"Go and tell Mr. Conolly that I desire to speak to him, if he is
disengaged. And if anyone wants to come in, say that I am busy here. I
do not wish to be disturbed for half an hour or so."

"Yes, sir," said the clerk, departing. A minute later, he returned, and
said: "Mr. Conly is disengaged; and he says will you be so good as to
come to his room, sir."

"I told you to ask him to come here," said Mr. Lind.

"Well, thats what he said, sir," said the clerk, speaking in official
Board School English. "Shloy gow to him and tell him again?"

"No, no: it does not matter," said Mr. Lind, and walked out through the
office. The clerk held the door open for him, and carefully closed it
when he had passed through.

"Ow, oy sy!" cried the clerk. "This is fawn, this is."

"Wots the row?" said another clerk.

"Woy, owld Lind sends me in to Conly to cam in to him into the
board-room. 'Aw right,' says Conly, 'awsk him to cam in eah to me.' You
should 'a seen the owld josser's feaches wnoy towld im. 'Oyd zoyred jou
to sy e was to cam in eah to me.' 'Shloy gow and tell him again?' I
says, as cool as ennything. 'Now,' says he, 'Oil gow myself.' Thets wot
Aw loike in Conly. He tikes tham fellers dahn wen they troy it on owver
im."

Meanwhile, Mr. Lind went to Conolly's room; returned his greeting by a
dignified inclination of the head; and accepted, with a cold "Thank
you," the chair offered him. Conolly, who had received him cordially,
checked himself. There was a pause, during which Mr. Lind lost
countenance a little. Then Conolly sat down, and waited.