When Marion struck, she struck with all her might, and reckless of consequences. Mrs. Lockhart sat appalled, and Lancaster winced a little; but he was able to say good-humoredly, “I shall give up being a hypocrite; everybody finds me out. If I were a whited sepulchre, detection would not humiliate me; but when a bottle labeled ‘Poison’ is found to contain nothing worse than otto of roses, it can never hold up its head again.”
“Anybody can say what they please,” rejoined Marion; “but what they do is all that amounts to anything.”
“That is to say you are deaf, but you have eyes.”
“That is a more poetical way of putting it, I suppose. But some words are as good as deeds, and I can hear those.”
“It is not your seeing or hearing that troubles me, but your being able to read. If I had only been born an Arab or an ancient Hebrew, I might have written without fear of your criticism.”
“I suppose you wish me to say that I would learn those languages for the express purpose of enjoying your poetry. But I think you are lucky in having to write in plain English. It is the most difficult of all languages to be wicked in—genteelly wicked, at least.”
“You convince me, however, that it must have been the original language spoken by Job’s wife, when she advised him to curse God and die. If she had been as much a mistress of it as you are, I think he would have done it.”
“If he had been a poet, ’tis very likely.”
“I hope,” said Mrs. Lockhart with gentle simplicity, “that nothing has happened to Mr. Grant.”
Lancaster and Marion both turned their faces toward the window, and then Lancaster got up from the table—they had finished dinner—and looked out. “It has grown dark very suddenly,” he remarked. “I fear Mr. Grant will get wet if he does not return soon.”