"Nephew Douglas," he said. "I am becoming an old man, and to-day I will
release myself from the burden of your affairs once and for all. This
is the woman, my daughter Joan, whom I have chosen to wife for thee.
Take her hand and let thy word be pledged to her."
If silence still reigned in that gloomy apartment, it was because there
were those present whom surprise had deprived of speech. The very image
of her father, Joan looked steadily into her cousin's face without
tremor or nervousness. Her features were shapely enough, but too large
and severe for a woman, her wealth of black hair was brushed fiat back
from her forehead in uncompromising ugliness. Her figure was as
straight as a dart, but without lines or curves, her gown, of homely
stuff and ill-made, completed her unattractiveness. There was neither
blush nor tremor, nor any sign of softening in her cold eyes. Then
Douglas, in whom were already sown the seeds of a passionate discontent
with the narrowing lines of his unlovely life, who on the hillside and
in the sweet night solitudes had taken Shelley to his heart, had lived
with Keats and had felt his pulses beat thickly to the passionate love
music of Tennyson, stood silent and unresponsive. Child of charity he
might be, but the burden of his servitude was fast growing too heavy for
him.
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