The moment was fraught with possibilities. At such a moment as this she might say what was in her heart, and if she did, and he found she was thinking of a suitable young man, he might say something of what he meant to do for her when she married. It was dangerous, he knew, to commit one’s self, but still—
“Would you mind frightfully if I wore a kilt, because I think I must—darling, you don’t mind—”
“Is that what you were thinking of?”
“No—darling—shall I tell you? I am a little shy about it. I—”
“Don’t be shy.”
“Well—you look most awfully—what shall I say?—handsome is not the word, is it?—alluring—no, not that—distractingly elusive—yes, that’s it—at the same time you look as if you might be—are you—in love? Tell me—don’t be shy—is it—Elsie?”
Marcus was far from being in love with Elsie, but she was always at his elbow as it were. Whenever Diana seemed particularly happy, he thought of Elsie and wondered what she would do to get Diana back? What attractions she would dare to offer? There was nothing he wouldn’t do to show Diana how infinitely to be preferred was Scotland above any other country, how much nicer than aunts were uncles. And Diana responded by walking like a gazelle and climbing like a goat; that was as far as Marcus could go in describing her particular grace and amazing activity. The first salmon he hooked he handed to Diana to play. She played and lost it, and he swore he would have done likewise—and the gillie agreed with him. But he had seen “wurrrse fishermen cert’nly,” he would no be denying it. “Mister Maitland was a fair fisherman, but not so good a fisherman as he thought himself to be.” When Marcus realized how Sandy ached for the feel of the rod, he let him feel it now and then, and he went up by leaps and bounds, as a fisherman and a God-fearing man in the eyes of Sandy.
Marcus was at his best when Diana was with him: he shot better and fished better under the spur of her generous admiration and encouragement; and of Elsie and her picnics and her croquet parties, and even her dances, he could think with a pity that was almost tender. He had plenty of opportunities in which to win Diana’s confidence, and he imagined she gave it to him with a fine honesty that he found particularly gratifying. Mr. Watkins he dismissed with a gesture—it was impossible Diana could think seriously for one moment of a minor poet. Mr. Pease? Another gesture and he was as nothing—he no longer existed. He was not for Diana. The young man in London troubled him. St. Jermyn was his name. He had nothing against him except that he had shown symptoms of possessing that power of attracting the whole attention and sympathy of a woman that Eustace Carston had shown. Had Diana the same power of devotion her mother had? The thought was disquieting. Diana would not say anything about the man except that he had danced better than any other—that was all. She vowed that Uncle Marcus alone held her heart: could hold her heart among the heather and the burns and the lochs: that he fitted in with the surroundings as no other man could. No man could be so interesting, no man so Scotch! If only he would wear a kilt! She would so love it!
Although Diana wanted no one but Uncle Marcus, a great many men found their way to Glenbossie. Men from up the river and down the river came with offerings of beats and butts. Men from the neighbouring moors brought offerings in the way of days—a day’s driving later on; a day’s stalking. Marcus had these things of his own, but he found he would have to share them and sharing them would mean sharing Diana.