Marion did not know what to do, whether to join them in this walk, as curiosity suggested, or to drive home in state, as if it were she who was the mistress of everything. The paths, however, were damp in places, as they usually were, and she reflected that she could walk when she pleased, but that if her pretty white dress was marked with mud, it would have to be washed, and that nothing, not even a white dress, looks so well after it is washed. And also her shoes were thin: they were worked with beads, and she wore them over a pair of openwork stockings. The boggy parts would be just ruination to her pretty shoes. Mrs. Rowland had strong leather ones, and a grey dress that would take no harm. “For my part,” she said, “I would be better in the house, for I have a headache. I would like to come too, but if I got my feet wet, it would give me a cold, and I might never get well.”
“By all means drive home,” said Evelyn. “Your shoes are much too thin for walking, and see that tea is ready when we come in. Now, James.”
He took her away to the opening, from which the loch was visible, and pointed out to her, hill by hill, the whole range, lying under the evening sunshine and the flying shadows; now one peak coming out, now another, now a sudden gleam, like some sun-signal calling forth an unseen knoll into glory, among all the other unnoticed slopes, now a deep purple mantle of royal wealth coming down over the great veiled shoulder of a chosen mountain. During the few minutes they stood there gazing, a hundred transformations took place upon those heights. At what strange games were those Titans playing, veiling themselves, unveiling, retiring into mist, breaking out as with a shout, into the sudden light. Evelyn, for a moment, forgot everything as she gazed at this rapid drama of the hills. She was recalled to herself by the tremble in Rowland’s arm as he held hers. He had been as happy and proud in her enthusiasm as if the beloved mountains were part of himself: but there was something more important to him even than the hills. He gave her arm a close pressure as she was silent for a moment, and said close in her ear, with a tremor in his tone, “Evelyn, what do you think of them?”
The question brought her back to a prospect more near and important than the hills, one that she had been glad to put aside for the moment in favour of this wonderful and delightful scene. The moment at least was something gained, and she said to herself that she never would forget it—this first glimpse at the surroundings of her home. The other now had to be faced again, the interior landscape, which was not so delightful. “I think, dear James,” she said, “that they are both very shy and very strange between us two. They don’t know me at all, and you so little. Nature works, of course, on your side, but even Nature must have a little time. And for me, Nature is rather against me than for me. We must wait before we form any judgment.”
“But your first impression is—bad, or if not bad, yet——”
“It is not bad at all! Don’t take up false ideas. They are both so shy——”
“Shy! Evelyn! do you think what you are saying? Marion shy!”
“It is because she is shy that she chatters, poor little girl! Did you never know that was a form it took? Archie is silent, and she chatters. He is a little—rude, and she is a little—talkative. It is all from the same cause. You did not tell me what a pretty little thing she was, James.”
“Pretty!—do you think she is pretty? She is not the least of your kind, Evelyn.”
“I hope she is of a better kind. Next spring, when she has learned to make her courtesy, and is dressed regardless of expense; for I will take carte blanche, I warn you, so far as Marion is concerned—you shall see! She will make a sensation at the drawing-room.”