GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“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 drawingroom. 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 selfcontrol. “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.