It was late in the afternoon when Davenant reappeared at Tory Hill,
having tramped the streets during most of the time since leaving Ashley
in the morning. He was nervous. He was even alarmed. He had little clue
to Olivia's judgment on his visit to the Marquise, and he found Ashley's
hints mysterious.
It was reassuring, therefore, to have her welcome him with gentle
cordiality into the little oval sitting-room, where he found her at her
desk. She made him take the most comfortable seat, while she herself
turned partially round, her arm stretched along the back of her chair.
Though the room was growing dim, there was still a crimson light from
the sunset.
He plunged at once into the subject that had brought him, explaining the
nature of the work her father would be called upon to do. It would be
easy work, though real work, just what would be within his powers. There
would be difficulties, some arising from the relationship of the
Massachusetts bar to that of Michigan, and others on which he touched
more lightly; but he thought they could all be overcome. Even if that
proved to be impossible, there were other things he knew of that Mr.
Guion could do--things quite in keeping with his dignity.
"I've already talked to papa about it," she said. "He's very
grateful--very much touched."
"There's no reason for that. I should like his company. I'm--I'm fond of
him."
For a few minutes she seemed to be pondering, absently. "There's
something I should like to ask you," she said, at last.
"Yes, Miss Guion? What is it?"
"When people have done so much harm as--as we've done, do you think it's
right that they should get off scot-free--without punishment?"
"I don't know anything about that, Miss Guion. It seems to me I'm not
called upon to know. Where we see things going crooked we must butt in
and help to straighten them. Even when we've done that to the best of
our powers, I guess there'll still be punishment enough to go round.
Outside the law-courts, that's something we don't have to look after."
Again she sat silent, watching the shifting splendor of the sunset. He
could see her profile set against the deep-red glow like an intaglio on
sard.
"I wonder," she said, "if you have any idea of the many things you've
taught me?"
"I?" He almost jumped from his seat. "You're laughing at me."
"You've taught me," she went on, quietly, "how hard and narrow my
character has been. You've taught me how foolish a thing pride can be,
and how unlovely we can make even that noble thing we call a spirit of
independence. You've taught me how big human nature is--how vast and
deep and--and _good_. I don't think I believed in it before. I know I
didn't. I thought it was the right thing, the clever thing, to distrust
it, to discredit it. I did that. It was because, until I knew you--that
is, until I knew you as you _are_--I had no conception of it--not any
more than a peasant who's always starved on barren, inland hills has a
conception of the sea."
He was uncomfortable. He was afraid. If she continued to speak like that
he might say something difficult to withdraw. He fell back awkwardly on
the subject of her father and the job at Stoughton.
"And you won't have to worry about him, Miss Guion, when you're over
there in England," he said, earnestly, as he summed up the advantages he
had to offer, "because if he's ill, I'll look after him, and if he's
_very_ ill, I'll cable. I promise you I will--on my solemn word."
"You won't have to do that," she said, simply, "because I'm going, too."