Part 49 (2/2)
”I would not ask why,” said Marian. ”I would do it.”
”That would be very nice of you,” said Conolly; ”but you cannot: expect such a selfish, mistrustful, and curious animal as a little child to be equally kind and confiding. Lucy is too acute not to have learned long since that grown people systematically impose on the credulity and helplessness of children.”
”Thats true,” said Elinor, reluctantly. Marian turned away and quietly resumed her conversation with Douglas. After a minute she strolled with him into the garden, whither Marmaduke had already retired to smoke.
”Has the evening been a pleasant one, Miss McQuinch?” said Conolly, left alone with her.
”Yes: we have had a very pleasant evening indeed. We played chess and _ecarte_; and we all agreed to make old times of it. Marmaduke sang for us; and Marian had us nearly in tears with those old ballads of hers.”
”And then I came in and spoiled it all. Eh?”
”Certainly not. Why do you say that?”
”Merely a mischievous impulse to say something true: jealousy, perhaps, because I missed being here earlier. You think, then, that if I had been here, the evening would have been equally pleasant, and Marian equally happy in her singing?”
”Dont you like Marian's singing?”
”Could you not have refrained from that most indiscreet question?”
”I ought to have. It came out unawares. Do not answer it.”
”That would make matters worse. And there is no reason whatever why the plain truth should not be told. When I was a child I heard every day better performances than Marian's. She believes there is something pretty and good in music, and patronizes it accordingly to the best of her ability. I do not like to hear music patronized; and when Marian, lovely as she is, gives her pretty renderings of songs which I have heard a hundred times from singers who knew what they were about, then, though I admire her as I must always, my admiration is rather increased than otherwise when she stops; because then I am no longer conscious of a deficiency which even my unfortunate sister could supply.”
”Your criticism of her singing sounds more sincere than your admiration of her loveliness. I am not musician enough to judge. All I know is that her singing is good enough for me.”
”I know you are displeased because it is not good enough for me; but how can I help myself? Poor Marian----”
”Do hus.h.!.+” said Elinor. ”Here she is.”
”You need not be in such a hurry, Duke,” said Marian. ”What can it matter to you how late you get back?”
”No,” said Marmaduke. ”I've got to write home. The governor is ill; and my mammy will send me a five-sheet sermon if I neglect writing to-night.
You will keep Lucy for another week, wont you? Box her ears if she gives you any cheek. She wants it: she's been spoiled.”
”If we find we can do no better than that with her, we shall hand her back to you,” said Conolly. Then the visitors took their leave. Marian gently pressed Douglas's hand and looked into his eyes as he bade her farewell. Elinor, seeing this, glanced uneasily at Conolly, and unexpectedly met his eye. There was a gleam of cynical intelligence in it that did not rea.s.sure her. A few minutes later she went to bed, leaving the couple alone together. Conolly looked at his wife for a moment with an amused expression; but she closed her lips irresponsively, and went to the table for a book which she wanted to bring upstairs. She would have gone without a word had he not spoken to her.
”Marian: Douglas is in love with you.”
She blushed; thought a moment; and said quietly, ”Very well. I shall not ask him to come again.”
”Why?”
She colored more vividly and suddenly, and said, ”I thought you cared. I beg your pardon.”
”My dear,” he replied, amiably: ”if you exclude everybody who falls in love with you, we shall have no one in the house but blind men.”
”And do you like men to be in love with me?”
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