"Hush!" said a warning whisper, and the speaker nodded toward the crouching figure. "Her brother, most like," he added, in a whisper. "He's took all aback, poor fellow."
There was silence again, then they commenced to talk once more, and still Austin Ambrose sat still and motionless.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and a short, active-looking man dashed in.
"Why, Farmer James!" cried one of two, "what's amiss, man?"
"Give me time!" panted the farmer. "It's a night o'bad news, boys! The colt's come home—without him!"
The men sprung to their feet, and looked at the speaker aghast.
"Without the gentleman, farmer?"
"Ay," he said solemnly, wiping the perspiration from his face. "I met the colt tearing down the road to the stable with the saddle empty. A lantern, missis, quick. Who'll lend a hand, boys?"
One and all turned out and proceeded at something between a trot and a run into the road.
At a little distance the colt stood, wet and trembling, held by a boy. They paused a moment to stare at it and then passed on.
Austin Ambrose, uninvited by them, joined the group and ran with them.
They stopped a moment where the two roads joined, the one Blair had taken in the morning, the other he was returning by in the evening.
"Let's divide," said a man; but the farmer stooped down and examined the road.
"No occasion," he said; "here's the colt's hoof-marks. This is the road she come!"
Hurrying along, they climbed the narrow lane, and the foremost, a young lad carrying the lantern, stopped with a cry at the motionless form lying in the road.
There was a hush as the men crowded round. The farmer knelt down and examined it for a moment, then he looked up.
"I'm afeared he's dead," he said gravely.
"Is—is it foul play, do 'ee think, Farmer James?" inquired one of the men.
"Foul play!" the words ran round. "Why do 'ee say that?"
The man, a small, sharp-eyed old fellow, pointed to the road.
"Looks as if there'd been a struggle," he said. "But no matter now. Take that gate off its hinges, lads, and lay him on it. We'll carry him down to the Holme."
The gate was torn off its hinges—how little they guessed that it was not for the first time that night!—and some coats laid upon it; then they stooped to raise poor Blair.
As they did so, Austin Ambrose slid forward.
At the sound of the words "foul play," he had aroused. All was lost; Margaret dead, Blair dead; all his toil and ingenuity thrown away. But if these rustics were suspicious it was time to think of his own safety.
"Let me see!" he said, in a low voice. "He—he is a friend of mine. Who said 'foul play?' If I thought so—but, no! Look!" and he pointed to the stirrup throughwhich the foot was thrust. "My poor friend was thrown from the saddle; the mare bolted and must have dragged him. His foot is still in the stirrup."
"That's true," said one. "Ah! if that stirrup leather had slipped out sooner——"
Almost in silence they carried him down to the small farm called the Holme; and the good-hearted people roused from their beds did their best for him.
In a short time he was undressed and put to bed.
Austin Ambrose, calm and self-possessed, but very sorrowful, showed the affliction of a brother.
"I am afraid it is all over!" he said, as they gathered round the bed and looked at the handsome face and stalwart form, which many of them had seen depart in the morning so full of life and happiness.
After a time the doctor came. He was an old man, who had worn himself out in the hard practice of a wild country-side. Accidents were his daily experience, and he fell to work in the cool, business-like way acquired by custom.
White and breathless, Austin Ambrose, who had been permitted to remain during the examination, waited for the verdict. It came at last.
"He's not dead," said the old doctor, gravely, "and that's about all that can be said. It was a terrible blow!"
Austin Ambrose's lips contracted, and his eyes sought the old man's weather-beaten face keenly.
"A blow, doctor?" he said, gravely.
"Yes," was the reply; "he was struck on the back of the head, sir."
Austin Ambrose uttered an exclamation.
"Oh, impossible, doctor!" he said. "Who should do such a thing? My poor friend had not an enemy in the world."
"Plunder?" said the old man, questioningly.
Austin Ambrose shook his head.
"His purse, watch, jewelry, even the things he purchased at Ilfracombe, are untouched. Besides, we found him lying, his foot still entangled in the stirrup, as you have heard."
"Humph!" said the doctor, still at work with restoratives. "Well, he must have fallen on the back of his head; but"—he looked puzzled and frowned thoughtfully—"but it's very strange. If I hadn't known what you have just told me, I should say that he had been struck, and that if he should die, the coroner's verdict would have to be 'Willful murder!'"
Austin Ambrose's lips twitched, but he shook his head and sighed.
"Thank Heaven that I have no such suspicion—it would be too dreadful! No, my poor friend was thrown and dragged by the frightened horse. It is, alas! too common an accident."
"Yes, yes, just so," said the doctor. "It's a pity, a thousand pities, for he is a splendid fellow," and he looked with sad admiration on the stalwart form. "What is his name?"
Austin Ambrose hesitated a moment.
"His name is Stanley. He is a very dear friend of mine," he added, "and only recently married."
The old doctor started.
"You don't mean to say that he's the husband of the unfortunate young lady who was drowned off Long Rock this morning?"
Austin Ambrose nodded, the doctor sighed.
"Well, sir, I'll do my best to bring him back to life; but it will be cruel kindness, I fear, under the circumstances. Poor young fellow! But if he should die he will be spared the misery awaiting him!"
"You—you think there is no hope of her escape?" faltered Austin.
The doctor shook his head.
"There may be a faint hope for him," he said, pointing to the bed. "But for her there is none, none whatever. She was seen on the rocks; they tell me that her cape and hat have been found washed ashore. No; if he should die they will not be long apart. But you look worn out, sir, you had better get some rest."
Austin Ambrose shook his head.
"I will not go until——" and he stopped significantly.
For the remainder of the night they watched beside the still form. Life was in yet, beating faintly, like a flickering lamp; but the dawn came, and Blair still remained hovering between the shores of the River of Death.
The morning passed. The whole village was in a state of excitement over the two accidents; that they should have happened on the same day, and to man and wife, seemed phenomenal, and every one of the inns drove a roaring trade with the crowds of excited men.
There was the chance, too, of another fatality, for the Days' boat had disappeared, and it was rumored that she had gone down in the storm.
Toward evening, however, the crowd collected on the beach, for the boat had been sighted.
Austin Ambrose had left Blair for a short rest, but he could neither sleep nor remain quiet, and his restless feet had dragged him to Appleford.
He stood just on the edge of the crowd watching theboat with lack-luster eyes that shone dully in his pallid face.
There was a rush and a cheer as the boat came in, and two or three men ran out into the water—it was smiling calmly enough now—to haul her in, but as her keel touched the beach, Day held up his hand.
"Don't cheer, lads," he said, gravely; "I've bad news."
"Ay, ay, we can guess, James," said a voice, "you've seen the poor lady!"
Day started and glanced at his wife, who sat in the stern, her shawl to her eyes.
"Tell 'em, you," he said, in a whisper.
She raised her head.
"Yes," she said, with a sob, "I've seen the poor lady. We saw her on the rocks, almost at the last moment."
"And you couldn't get near?" said a man.
She looked round.
"Do you think we'd be here without her if there'd been half a chance?" she said, reproachfully.
"Ay, ay!" said the old boatswain. "Well, well, that settles it, and that's some'at of a comfort! The poor soul's gone! Don't 'ee cry, missis!" he added as he helped Mrs. Day out of the boat.
It so happened that as she stepped on the beach she was near Austin Ambrose.
He had been listening in a kind of stupor, his eyes wandering from Mrs. Day's face to her husband's.
At the moment of her landing he was so near that her arm touched his.
As it did so his eyes fell upon the shawl which she had been pressing to her eyes.
The sun was shining full on it, and in the dull vague fashion peculiar to his frame of mind his eye was following the pattern.
Suddenly he started, and a light shone in his eyes.
"Let me help you," he said, and gently but firmly he laid his hand upon her arm covered by the shawl.
And, as he did so, the light gleamed still more brightly in his face, for he discovered that the shawl with which she had been wiping away her tears—was dry!
Mr. Austin Ambrose walked back to Lee with a step that had regained its usual elasticity, and with hope again beaming in his eyes.
Few men would have been sharp enough to notice, in the midst of such excitement, so trivial a fact that Mrs.Day's shawl was dry; but Mr. Austin Ambrose was not an ordinary man, and in an instant his acute brain was hard at work.
If Mrs. Day had been out in the boat all night, as she would have them believe, then her shawl would have been still wet; but as it was dry, then Mrs. Day must have been somewhere to dry it, and Austin Ambrose felt, with that kind of conviction which is more a matter of faith than reason, that Margaret had been with her.
He felt as certain as that he was walking along the road that the Days had rescued Margaret from the rock, and had taken her to some place of safety, and that for some reason, best known to themselves, the Days had agreed to conceal the fact, and lead the public to believe that Margaret had perished.
"That woman wasn't crying," he muttered to himself as he walked along; "her eyes were as dry as the shawl! No; Margaret is in hiding somewhere, and those Days know where. Now, if Blair will only kindly pull round, I am all right."
When in the Holme, he learned that "Mr. Stanley" was still unconscious, and that there had been no change in his condition.
"Get some one from London," he said to the old doctor, with an energy which surprised him. "Get the best man—the very best: wemustsave him!"
"You can send for Sir Astley," said the doctor, quietly; "but if we send for the whole college of physicians, they can do no more than we are doing. It is concussion of the brain, and the poor fellow's magnificent constitution will fight for him far more effectually than we can. He shall have every attention, trust me."
Austin Ambrose acquiesced. Sir Astley might have seen Blair, and recognize him, and, in any case, might talk about the affair when he got back to London, and cause inquiries to be made.
So the days wore on. No man could have received more attention than Blair got at the hands of the old doctor, whose interest in the case increased as it became more critical.
Austin Ambrose, too, watched over him, as the people of the house declared, "like a brother!"
The case still puzzled the doctor, and he went one day and looked at the spot where Blair had been found; but the feet of the people who had searched for him had blotted out the impression of the struggle between Pyke and Blair, and there was no trace left of the murderous assault.
Chance had worked hard in Austin Ambrose's behalf,and if Blair should only recover, all might yet go well with his plans.
On the eighth day, toward evening, the doctor, who had been bending over the bed with his fingers on Blair's pulse, looked up suddenly, and motioned to the nurse and Austin Ambrose.
"Shut out the light," he said, in a low voice.
They drew the window curtains, and Austin Ambrose stepped up on tiptoe.
"Is—is he coming to?" he asked breathlessly.
The doctor nodded.
"I think so. Let no one speak to him but me."
They waited, and presently Blair opened his eyes and looked round with a dazed inquiry.
"Margaret!" he said.
The doctor held up his hand warningly to the others.
"Madge! Where are you?" he said again, almost inaudibly.
"Your wife cannot come to you at present," replied the doctor quietly. "Do not speak just yet."
"Where am I? Have I been ill?" inquired Blair, knitting his brows, as if trying to remember. "Ah, yes; the horse! Is the horse all right?"
"The horse is all right," said the doctor. "I will tell you all about it after you have had a good sleep. You have been very ill, and will be worse if you do not sleep."
"All right," he said, with a sigh. "Madge, my wife, is asleep, I suppose? Have I been ill long? Don't wake her or distress her; I shall be all right! Stop!" he exclaimed; "the paints and things, they are in my pockets, and the easel will be sent on to-day. Give them to her! I hope they haven't come to harm!"
"They are all safe," said the doctor soothingly.
"I'm glad," said Blair, with another sigh; "and the horse is all right? Well, it's not so bad! I thought he had settled me, confound him!"
The doctor thought he referred to the colt, but Austin Ambrose's cheeks paled.
He stepped forward noiselessly.
"I am here, Blair," he murmured softly. "Take the doctor's advice, and don't talk yet."
"You, Austin, old fellow!" exclaimed Blair, trying to hold out his hand. "Why, how did you hear of it? To come the same night. That's kind. But how did you get here? and Madge—have you seen Madge? Don't let her be frightened, Austin, I shall be up in an hour or two. Tell her—no, don't tell her anything; leave it to me."
"Very well," said Austin; "and now get some sleep, old fellow. I shan't say another word."
Blair closed his eyes, and presently the doctor looked up and nodded.
"He is asleep, and is saved, please Heaven!" he said in a grave voice.
All that Austin Ambrose had accomplished was as nothing to the task that loomed before him.
The time must come when Blair would ask for Margaret, and insist upon seeing her.
Many men would have shrunk from such an ordeal, but Austin Ambrose was not the man to allow sentiment, as he would have called it, to interpose between him and a long cherished design; so that when, on awakening from the deep sleep which saved his life, Blair asked: "Where is Margaret?" Austin Ambrose was prepared.
"Blair," he said, laying his hand upon the sick man's, "are you strong enough to hear what I have to tell you? I trust so, for I cannot keep it from you."
"Keep it from me! What is it?" demanded Blair, trying to raise himself. "Is it anything to do with Madge? No, it can't be, of course. But why doesn't she come? Ah, I see—give me a minute, Austin," and he turned his head away. "My accident has frightened her, and she is ill."
"Yes, she is ill!" said Austin Ambrose, watching him closely. "Blair, for Heaven's sake, be brave, be calm."
"What is it? You haven't told me all," he exclaimed. "Don't turn your face away; tell me. Anything is better than suspense. Let me go to her—bring her to me. She can't be so ill——" he paused, breathlessly.
Austin Ambrose laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Blair, dear, dear Blair," he murmured; "she cannot come to you; you cannot go to her. She has been very ill—Blair, your wife is dead!"
The sick man looked at him and laughed.
"That's a pretty kind of joke to play upon a man lying on his back," he said. "Go and fetch her, and we'll laugh at it together—perhaps she'll see the fun in it; I don't!"
Then, as Austin Ambrose remained silent, Blair looked from him to the doctor, who had entered—an awful look of anguished, fearful scrutiny.
"I'm—I'm dreaming; that's what it is," he muttered. "Madge—don't leave me. Take hold of my hand I—I dreamt somebody had told me you were dead. Don't cry, dear. It's I who was nearly dead, not you; and I'm all right now. Did you find the painting things? They're all right, are they? I told Austin—I told——" he stopped short suddenly, and uttered a cry, a heartrending cry, and raised himself so that he could see Austin Ambrose's face. "I'm not asleep," he moaned; "I am awake. Andyou are there—and you have just told me. Dead! Dead! Austin—don't—keep—it from me! Tell me all. Look, I'll be quiet. I won't utter a sound. Doctor, for Heaven's sake make him tell me."
The doctor turned his face away. It was wet with tears; there was not a tear in Austin Ambrose's eyes.
"Shall I tell him—or wait?" he whispered to the doctor. The doctor nodded.
"Better now than later; the shock will be less now he is weak. Poor fellow, poor fellow!"
Austin Ambrose bent down, and in a few words scarcely audible, told the story. He said nothing of the visitor who had come, nothing of Margaret's anguish. According as he told it, Margaret had strolled down to the rock and remained there too long, until the tidal wave had caught her and washed her out to sea.
Blair listened, his face pallid as that of death, his wide eyes fixed gleamingly on the speaker's face, his hands clutching the quilt. Every now and then his lips moved as if he were repeating the words as they dropped cautiously from Austin Ambrose's lips, and when he had finished he still leant upon his arm and looked at Austin with horror and despair.
Then, without a cry, he sank back upon the pillow and closed his eyes.
"He has swooned," said Austin. "It was too soon."
The doctor shook his head.
"No; better now than later."
After a moment or two Blair opened his eyes.
"Have you told me all?" he demanded, and there was something in the tone and the wild glare of his eye that smote Austin Ambrose and made him quail.
"Yes," he said, after a moment's pause, "everything has been done, Blair. Everything. I think you will know that without my saying it. There is no hope—there was none from the first. She was not seen after the tide reached her—she will not be seen again. Blair, you will play the man for—for all our sakes," and he pressed the hot hand clutching the quilt.
Blair looked at him and withdrew his hand; they saw his lips move once or twice, and guessed whose name they formed; then he spoke.
"Austin, did you ever pray?" It was a strange, a solemn question. "If so, pray now, pray that I may die!"
Over the weeks that followed it will be well to draw a veil; enough that during them the strong man hovered between life and death, at times raving madly and callingupon the woman he had loved and lost, at others lying in a stupor which was Death's twin sister.
As soon as he was able to walk with the aid of a stick, Blair got out of the house unnoticed and made his way to Appleford.
Pale and trembling he stood on the beach and looked at the rocks where Margaret had been seen—looked until his eyes grew dim, then he crawled back to the cottage.
"You have been to Appleford?" said Austin, who had watched him.
Blair lifted his heavy eyes.
"Yes, I have been to Appleford," he said in a hollow voice. "I have seen the last——" he stopped, and his breath came and went in quick gasps. "Austin, while I live, my poor darling will be with me in my thoughts but—but never speak her name to me. Never! I—I could not bear it."
"Yes!" murmured Austin Ambrose, sympathetically. "I understand. You will fight your sorrow like a man Blair. Time—Time, the great healer—will close over even so great a wound as yours, and you will be able to speak of her, poor girl."
Blair looked before him with lack-luster eyes.
"Do you think that a man who had been thrust out of Heaven could ever learn to forget the happiness he had lost?" he said, in a low voice. "While life lasts I shall remember her, shall long to go to her! That is enough," he added sternly; "we will never speak of her again!"
What passed in the cabin of the Rose of Devon between the two women, Mrs. Day never told, not even to her husband.
In the morning, while the Rose was sailing along the coast, she went to the captain and requested that she and her husband might be taken as near Appleford as possible, that they might get back in their boat.
"My cousin will remain on board, Captain Daniel," she said. "She will go with you across the Channel, and land at the first French port."
Captain Daniel whistled.
"You settle things easily, Mrs. Day," he said, with a half smile; "how do you know I'll take her?"
"You'll take her for my sake and your own," said Mrs. Day quietly. "For mine because we are old friends, for yours because if she landed in England there'd be questions asked about the Rose of Devon that might be awkward to answer."
"And how am I to know that I can trust her?" he said.
"Because she has to trust you," said Mrs. Day. "Captain Daniel, my cousin has just come through a great trouble, and she's as anxious as you are that no one should know that she was ever aboard the Rose. If you don't mention it when you get back to England, she won't, wherever she is. You needn't require any oath; she's one whose word is as good as her bond; she's a lady and different to me. Just land her at the first place on the other side you touch, and say nothing. She'll pay for her passage——"
"Thank you, Mrs. Day," said the captain. "I don't want the poor woman's money, and she's welcome to the run. As to keeping quiet, well, I think we can do that as well as she can; and if she will say nothing about the Rose, the Rose will say nothing about her. We know how to keep a secret, I think! If she's got in trouble and wants to show a clean pair of heels, well, I reckon we've been in the same plight, and may be, shall be again. Anyway, whether or no, Captain Daniel isn't the man to turn his back upon a woman in distress!"
Mrs. Day gave him her hand with a simple dignity which would not have shamed the first lady of the land.
The Rose beat about, and in another hour or two Mrs. Day and her husband got into their boat, and Margaret was left on the Rose of Devon, which, spreading all sail, was cleaving its way to the French coast.
For two days she kept to her cabin. There was a young lad on board, the captain's boy—a little mite of a fellow—and he waited upon her, carrying all sorts of delicacies from the cook's galley to her cabin; but Margaret, though she thanked him in a voice which made the lad's heart leap and brought the color to his face, could touch nothing but a little dry bread and tea, though she tried hard for the boy's sake.
The rough-looking skipper, with the truest delicacy, left her to herself, merely sending his compliments about twice a day, and a request to be informed if there was anything he could do for her.
On the third day she found courage to go on deck. The sailors looked at her curiously at first, but something in her beautiful, wan face appealed to their rough natures, and touching their caps, they went on with their work.
Margaret leaned against the bulwarks and looked out at the sea. She was a good sailor, and the vast expanse of cloudless blue above and the rolling water beneath her brought something of peace to her tortured heart.
Presently Captain Daniel came up with a deck chair in his hand and a thick rug over his arm. With a littlebow, he put the chair right for her and spread the rug over it.
"Glad to see you on deck, miss," he said shyly. "The air's rather chilly; I'll fetch you another rug: there's plenty of them aboard."
Margaret thanked him, her voice sounding weak and hollow.
"I'm afraid I ought not to be here at all," she said, coloring; "you are very kind to let me stay. It will not be for long—you will land me soon, will you not?"
Captain Daniel took off his hat.
"You shall stay as long as you please, miss, and the longer you stay the better the Rose of Devon will like it."
"I am very grateful," she said in a low voice; "but I will not stay after we reach a French port. Mrs. Day has told you——" She stopped, and the captain took it up.
"Mrs. Day has told me nothing more than that you are in trouble, miss, and I reckon that's enough. There's no need for you to say anything! Me and my ship and my men are at your service, and if there's one place more than another you'd like to land at, say the word, and there the Rose goes, fair wind or foul!"
Then, without waiting for any response, he touched his hat and went aft.
As he had spoken so Captain Daniel acted.
The boy was ordered to make the cabin as comfortable as possible. An awning was rigged up on deck to provide shelter for her, and the cook taxed his inventive faculties to the utmost in the concoction of dishes which he deemed suitable to an invalid lady. The rough sailors lowered their voices as they went about their work, and even put out their pipes when she came on deck.
Their kindness, and the beauty of sea and sky, did more toward Margaret's recovery than fifty doctors could have effected, and by the time the Rose had sighted the French coast her face had lost something of its wanness, and a faint color had found its way to her cheeks.
She spent most of her time sitting on deck looking out to sea, trying to piece together the broken fragments of her shattered life.
For the future she had no plans, and could form none. Of what use or value could her life be to her when the man she had loved and trusted had broken her heart and left her desolate and utterly hopeless?
But as they neared Brest on the Brittany coast, she felt she must come to some decision.
She was alive, alas! and the future lay before her; something had to be done with it. Margaret, broken-heartedand weighed down by sorrow as she was, was still the same Margaret, strong of purpose and self-reliant. Love she had done with forever, happiness had passed beyond her reach, but her art still remained to her—the mistress whom those who serve find faithful to the end.
As the Rose sailed into the harbor, Captain Daniel came up to Margaret.
"We're nearing port, miss," he said, "but it don't follow that you and the Rose need part company. Brest's a poor place for a lady to be turned out in. If so be as you care to go on with us, why I'll pick up a few things in the port here to make the cabin more fit for you. I'm thinking, if you'll forgive me, miss, that the sea is doing you good, and that if you'd come on with the Rose as far as Leghorn in Italy——"
Margaret's face flushed faintly, and a light, the first that had shone there for many a day, glowed in her eyes. The captain saw it and pressed his point.
"Italy's the place, miss!" he said, persuasively. "At Leghorn you'd be near Florence and Rome, and all the grand sights! But here, Brest, it's only a 'one hoss' place."
Margaret hesitated. The prospect of going to Italy contained as much pleasantness as any prospect could for her.
"Are you sure that I should not be in the way?" she asked, gently. "You are all so kind, and make such sacrifices for me——"
"Don't say another word, Miss Leslie," said Captain Daniel; for "Leslie" was the name Mrs. Day had given to her. "Me and my crew will be proud to have you with us!"
Margaret went ashore at Brest for a few hours, and got some articles of dress, and the Rose, staying no longer than was necessary to obtain provisions, set sail for Leghorn.
The weather was fine and the wind favorable, and in due course the Rose reached the Italian port.
Margaret's parting with Captain Daniel was characteristic of them both. When she offered to pay for her passage, the captain refused, at first politely, and then almost roughly and sternly.
"Why, Miss Leslie, sakes alive!" he exclaimed, "I'd rather see the Rose at the bottom of the sea than me or my men should take a shilling piece from you; and all I say is, if you want to pleasure us, why, when you're tired of Italy and I—talians, drop a line to Captain Daniel of Falmouth, and the Rose shall come and fetch you away, and be proud to do it."
Margaret could scarcely speak, but she managed to getout a few words of thanks, and the captain, almost crushing her hand—now very thin and white—turned to go, but he stopped at the last moment to add a word.
"And, Miss Leslie, don't be afeared of me and my men a-cackling. There's not a man as can't keep his own counsel, and there's not a man as wouldn't rather be strung up at the yard-arm than admit that he'd ever set eyes on you! No, miss, so far as the Rose is concerned, your whereabouts is as safe as if we didn't know."
Then he went, and Margaret was, indeed, left alone in the world without a friend!
Captain Daniel had engaged a room for her at the hotel, but to Margaret, whose wounded heart ached for quiet and solitude, the busy seaport seemed noisy and intrusive, and the next day she started for Florence.
Fortunately, she had some money with her; not a large sum, but the captain's hospitality had left it intact, and Mrs. Day had promised to send on the notes which Margaret had left behind directly Margaret sent her an address.
For the present, for a few months at any rate, she was secure from the dread attacks of that most malignant of foes—poverty. And she had her art; and she was in Florence, the Florence of painters and poets, the Flower City of the old world. The captain, who seemed as well acquainted with inland places as he was with the sea-board, had recommended her to a quiet little hotel overlooking the best view in Florence; and there, in a little room near the sky, Margaret found the solitude and quiet which she so much needed.
One morning, the third after her arrival, she roused herself sufficiently to go into the town and purchase some painting materials, and carrying them to a quiet spot commanding a view of the Arno and the wooded slopes above it, began to paint.
At first her hand trembled and her eyes were dim, for at every stroke of her brush the past came crowding back upon her, and she could almost fancy that Blair was lying by her side, and that she could hear his loving voice and bright laugh; but after a time she gained strength, and was gradually losing herself in her work—the work which alone could bring her "surcease from sorrow," when she heard voices near her, and looking up saw a young girl coming quickly along the path. She was a beautiful girl of about seventeen, with the frank open face of sorrowless childhood, and the springy step of youth and health. The day was hot, and she had taken off her hat which was swinging in her hand. Margaret had seen her before the girl had noticed Margaret sitting almost hidden behinda bush, and she came on, singing merrily and swinging her straw hat to the tune.
Suddenly she caught sight of Margaret, and she and the song stopped abruptly.
It was almost impossible for her to pass so close without saying something in the way of greeting, and so she made a little bow, and said rather shyly:
"I'm afraid I startled you. I didn't know anybody was near, or I shouldn't have made such a noise."
"I only heard you singing," said Margaret.
The words and the gentle tone, together with the beautiful face with its sad expression, seemed to fascinate the girl, and she drew nearer, saying timidly:
"But I was making a tremendous noise! You are painting?"
"Yes," answered Margaret, with a sigh, "I am trying to do so."
"What a lovely spot you have chosen!" said the girl looking round. "May I see what you have done? I am so fond of art myself, but"—and she made a little grimace—"I am a shocking stick!"
Then she colored furiously and laughed with pretty embarrassment.
"That's slang, I know. I beg your pardon! But I learn it from Ferdy! There—how stupid of me! Of course, you don't know who Ferdy is: he is my brother."
By this time she had looked at the canvas.
"Why!" she exclaimed, "that is beautiful! You are an artist!"
"A poor one," said Margaret, smiling in spite of herself at the girl's enthusiasm.
"Oh, no; you are a real artist!" she said. "I know the real from the sham; because we have so many of the latter staying in Florence. Poor Florence! They make daubs of her all the year round, and send them about the world as true pictures, while they are only libels. But yours will be a beautiful picture! How splendidly you have got those trees there, and that bit of cloud. Oh!" and she sighed, "I would give ten years of my life if I could ever paint like that!"
"That would be rather a heavy price if your life should be as happy all through as it is now," said Margaret, in her sweet, gentle fashion.
The girl looked at her and pondered for a moment, then she flung herself on the grass beside Margaret, and said:
"Do you know, you reminded me of mamma just then. That is just how she speaks when she wants to scold me for one of my extravagancies. Of course I wouldn't giveten years—or one year—of my life for anything; who would?"
Margaret sighed. How gladly would she have given all the remainder of her life to be able to wipe out the past! never to have seen Blair, or to have known those few short weeks of happiness.
"It all depends," said Margaret, gravely. "Some people's lives are not so happy that they could not spare a few years from them."
The girl glanced at Margaret's pale face and then at her black dress, and remained silent for a moment or two; then she looked up and said, timidly:
"Do I interrupt you sitting here? I will go at once if I am a nuisance."
"No, no," said Margaret, quickly, and with a wistful smile. "You do not interrupt me; pray stay!"
"I like to see you paint," said the girl, after a pause. "Somehow you remind me so much of mamma, though, of course, you are so much younger! I wish you knew mamma. Are you staying in Florence?"
"Yes," said Margaret, "I am staying at the hotel there," and she pointed with her brush.
"Really! Then you must be——" exclaimed the girl, quickly, but checking herself abruptly, and coloring with annoyance.
"I must be—what?" said Margaret, smiling at her embarrassment. "What were you going to say?"
"I was going to make one of my foolish speeches; and I'd better say it now I have gone so far, and get you to forgive me. I was going to say that you must be the young lady who lives so quietly at the hotel that they call her the 'Mysterious Lady.'"
Margaret smiled gently.
"Do they call me so?" she said; then she sighed, and went on with her work.
The girl sat and watched her for a moment, then she said:
"I'd better go now, I have offended you," and she half rose.
Margaret put out her white hand, and laid it on her arm with a gentle pressure.
"Do not," she said. "You have not offended me. And now, will you tell me something about yourself?"
She asked the question, not that she was at all curious, though the girl interested her, but to put her more at her ease.
"With all the heart in the world," was the instant reply. "Do you see that villa there—that one with the turrets? That is ours; mamma and Ferdinand, mybrother, live there. It is called the Villa Capri; and, do you know, there are some beautiful views from it. If I were sure you wouldn't be offended, I would ask you to come and pay us a visit, and see if you could not make a picture of the river running below the woods. Oh, I would like that!"
Something in the girl's voice attracted Margaret's attention.
"Are you Italian?" she said.
"Half and half," was the reply, with a laugh. "My father was Italian, my mother is English. I call myself all English—please do not forget that!" she added, with all an English girl's frankness. "My brother, we say, represents the Italian side of the family. I should like you to know him. He is out riding this morning——"
Almost as she spoke a voice sang out clear and musical above the trees:
"Florence! Florence!"
The girl laughed and sprung to her feet, then she sunk down again as quickly.
"It is Ferdy!" she said. "Let him find me if he can!" and in a falsetto which rang quaintly through the hills, she called, "Ferdy! Ferdy!"
Margaret heard the dull beat of a horse's hoofs as the rider rode this way and that, misled by the echo, then, as, tired of the sport, the girl sprung to her feet and shouted with a full round tone, Margaret saw a handsome young fellow ride pell-mell at them.
"Oh, take care, take care, Ferdy!" shouted the girl; but the warning came too late; the horse struck the leg of the easel with its fore hoof, and over went the whole apparatus, paintbox, brushes, and the rest, leaving Margaret sitting smiling amidst the ruins.
The girl uttered a cry of dismay, and the young fellow, almost before he had pulled the horse in, flung himself from the saddle and stood bareheaded and penitent before Margaret.
"Oh, Ferdy, Ferdy, how could you be so reckless?" exclaimed the girl.
He put up his hand as if to silence her; then, as he went on his knees to recover the scattered implements, he said:
"Signorina, I am overwhelmed with shame! Believe me, I did not suspect that any one was here beside this madcap sister of mine! Pardon me, I pray you! Have I broken anything?—have I frightened you? I shall never forgive myself! Is that right?" and he put the easel in its place with the greatest and most anxious care.
"Thank you, yes," said Margaret. "No harm has beendone. You did not see me, that bush hid me. Please do not mind; it does not in the least signify!"
"Oh, but——" he said, arranging the palette and paints with the nicest carefulness—"it signifies so much that I shall not sleep in peace unless you will forgive me!"
It was an Italian speech, but it was spoken with an air of sincerity that was singularly English, and the speaker's eyes were fixed so earnestly and pleadingly upon Margaret's face, that her color rose, and she bent down and got her brushes to hide it. The girl glided to her side.
"Poor Ferdy! But it was very stupid of him, and he might have hurt you as well as the easel, and then I should never have forgiven him, whatever you had done. But you will forgive him, will you not?"
She seemed to set so much value on the expression of forgiveness, that Margaret, with a soft laugh, said at once:
"Certainly, I forgive him!"
The young man's face cleared instantly, and with the slight foreign accent which was more marked in him than his sister, he said:
"I am deeply grateful! I do not deserve it. Florence, have you told the lady your name? Will you tell her mine?"
The girl at this direct invitation stepped forward, and with a little graceful movement of the hand, said:
"Madame, let me present to you my brother, Prince Ferdinand Rivani."
"And I, the Princess Florence, my sister," said the prince; and the prince bowed, and the young girl dropped a courtesy in courtly fashion.
"And now we have been formally introduced," said the girl, with a merry laugh. "We are friends, are we not, and you will come to see us? Ferdy, the lady——" she hesitated and looked at Margaret, and Margaret, with downcast eyes, said:
"Miss Leslie."
"Miss Leslie! What a pretty name! Why, it is more Italian than English, I think. Miss Leslie is staying at the hotel."
The prince drew himself up, and with the same fixed regard of respectful, almost reverential, admiration, said:
"I shall have the honor of waiting upon Miss Leslie to-morrow—if she permits."
A servant who had been holding the horse came up, and as the prince mounted, the princess drew near and bent over Margaret.
"Mind! We are to be friends, you and I! I shall comewith Ferdinand to-morrow!" then, laying her hand upon the horse's neck, she tripped off beside her brother.
Margaret sat and looked at the view with eyes that saw nothing. She had come to Florence for solitude and seclusion, and already that solitude was threatened. What should she do? The girl was so lovable that Margaret's tender heart already felt drawn toward her. All the more should she guard against the possibility of an intimacy between her—nameless and under a cloud of shame—and these high-born Italians.
With a sigh she began to put her easel together, thinking that she must leave Florence in the morning, when she saw a newspaper lying on the ground.
It was folded up and had evidently fallen from the pocket of the prince.
Half mechanically she opened it and found that it was an English newspaper of some weeks back. Still mechanically she let her eyes wander over the columns, when suddenly she saw amongst the provincial news an account of her own death off the rocks at Appleford.
Trembling and shuddering, for the lines brought back all the torture of that day, she read the succinct narrative, and found that in very truth the world had accepted her death as a fact beyond question. But a strange coincidence awaited her, for turning to the births, marriages, and deaths columns, she saw this announcement—"At Leyton Court, on the 25th instant, Martha Hale, aged 68, the faithful servant of the Earl of Ferrers."
In one and the same paper was the account of her own death, and that of the only person whom she would have to acquaint with the fact that she was living! The last link between Margaret Hale and Mary Leslie was broken, and the past had slipped away as completely as if, indeed, the tidal wave had washed her out to sea!
It was autumn, but such an autumn as often puts summer to shame. The skies were as blue, the air as soft, as those of July; but that the leaves had changed their emerald hues for those of russet-brown and gold, one might well be tempted to believe that the summer was still with us, and the winter afar off.
The sun poured its generous warmth over the Villa Capri, laving the white stone front of the graceful house with its bright rays, and tinting the statues on the terraces, which, in Italian fashion, rose in three tiers from the smooth lawn to thesalonand dining-room windows. On the highest of the three terraces, lying back in a hammock chairof velvet tapestry, was an old lady with a face of aristocratic beauty set in snow-white hair. At a little distance, pacing up and down, were two young ladies, the younger of the two with her arm round the waist of her companion, and her beautiful young face turned up with that air of pure devotion and affection which only exists in the heart of one woman for another.
The old lady was the Princess Rivani, the mother of Florence and Ferdinand; and the two girls were Margaret and Florence. It had come to pass that Margaret was an honored inmate of the Villa Capri.
The Princess Florence had fallen in love with Margaret's lovely face, and its sad, gentle smile, and still more with her sweet voice, and had taken a fancy that Margaret's presence in the villa was necessary to her existence; and as princesses' whims are born but to be gratified, Margaret was here.
The mother, who made a rule never to deny her darling child any innocent and harmless desire, welcomed Margaret with the gentle sweetness of a patrician, combined with the frank candor of an old lady.
"I am very glad to see you, Miss Leslie," she had said. "You have won my daughter's heart, and your presence seems necessary to her happiness. I trust you will not let her be a burden to you. Please consider the villa your home while it seems good to you to remain with us, and I hope that will be for a long period."
That was all; but as the signora—as the elder princess was called—always said what she meant, and never more than she meant, it was a good deal. She had scanned Margaret's face when she had been presented to her, and had listened to her voice, and was convinced that Margaret was a lady, and a fit companion for the princess, and she had said so in a sentence to her daughter.
"I like your friend, Florence, and I can understand the charm she exerts over you. It is a very lovely face, a——"
"Is it not, mamma?" exclaimed Florence enthusiastically.
"—But it is a very sad one. I am afraid Miss Leslie has had some great trouble, one of those sorrows which set their mark upon the heart, as a fell disease brands the face."
"But you will not like her the less for that, mamma?" Florence had said, and the signora had replied with a sigh:
"No, rather the more, my dear," for the signora had suffered also in her life.
So the princess had her wish gratified, and Margaretcame to the villa, and the princess, instead of growing tired of her, as one would be tempted to prophesy, seemed to grow more attached and devoted as the days rolled into weeks, and the weeks threatened to glide into months.
If it had not been for the experience of the grandeur of Leyton Court, Margaret might have been rather overwhelmed by the splendor of Capri Villa, for the Rivanis were great people, of the best blood in Italy, and lived in a state befitting their rank.
The villa was not so large as the Court—that Court which Blair had often told her she would one day be mistress of—but it was exquisitely situated, and the interior was replete with the refined splendor of a palace.
The suit of rooms allotted to Margaret were large and grand enough for a duchess, but when she murmured something in deprecation of such sumptuous apartments, the princess had opened her blue eyes wide and smiled with surprise.
"Oh, but I want you to be comfortable, dear," she said. "I want you to feel at home—that is the English phrase, isn't it?"
"Yes, but 'at home' all my rooms would have gone into the smallest you have given me," Margaret had said, smiling.
"Really! Well, at any rate you need large rooms, for are you not an artist, and do you not want a studio? Ferdinand has given orders that the large room with the big window is to be fitted up as a painting-room for you; and he promised to choose some pictures and some curios, and all those kind of things you artists love, to furnish it. He has gone to Rome, you know."
Margaret looked rather grave. A prince is a prince to us English people, and it rather alarmed her that she should be the cause of so much trouble to his highness.
The princess laughed at her serious countenance.
"Do not look so grave," she said. "It was Ferdy's own idea. He chose the rooms, and said how nice the big one would do for a studio. You can't think how thoughtful he is—when he chooses to think at all."
"His highness is very good," said Margaret, "but I am ashamed to give him so much trouble."
The princess laughed again.
"Ferdy loves trouble. His great grief is that he has nothing to do, for you see there is nothing to employ him here. The steward looks after the land, and the major domo does all the business in the villa, and there is nothing for poor Ferdy to do when he is away from the court. I want you to like my brother, Miss Leslie," she added.
"I should be very ungrateful if I did not," said Margaret.
All this had occurred on the first day of her arrival; since then the studio had been furnished and she had been made to feel as if she were part and parcel of the Rivani family. Just before Margaret's arrival, the prince had been called away by his duties to the Italian Court, and the three ladies were left alone, so that Margaret had as yet had no opportunity of thanking him for his kindness, of which she was reminded every time she entered the luxurious studio he had furnished for her.
Margaret's lines had indeed fallen in pleasant places, and if the possession of good and true friends and the comforts of a luxury brought to the highest state of perfection, could have brought happiness, she should have been happy. But the sadness which wrapped her as in a veil through which she smiled, and sometimes laughed, never left her, and she spent hours in her studio, with the brush lying untouched, and her dark eyes fixed dreamily upon the hills which rose before her windows. She could not prevent her thoughts from traveling back towards the past, that past with which she had done forever, and often in the gloaming of the late summer evenings she would see Blair's face rise before her, and hear his voice as she had heard it during those few happy weeks when she had believed him to be her lover and husband.
There was only one way of escape from these thoughts, this flitting back of her heart which brought her so keen an anguish, and that was in work.
She had come to the villa on the understanding that she should give lessons in painting to the princess, but Florence soon showed the futility of such an arrangement.
"Dear, you will never make me an artist," she said; "never, do what you will! I can learn to paint a barn, or a village pump, so that I needn't write 'this is a barn,' or 'this is a pump,' underneath them, but that is all. Don't waste your valuable time upon an impracticable—isn't that a splendid English word?—subject, but do your own work. I'll bring you my dreadful daubs, and you shall tell me where I am wrong, but you sha'n't work and drudge like an ordinary drawing-mistress. I daren't let you, for the last words Ferdy said were, 'Don't abuse Miss Leslie's good nature, and bore her! Remember that she is an artist, and she's something to the world that you must not rob it of!' and Ferdy said wisely."
"I think he spoke too generously, and thought only of the stranger within his gates," said Margaret.
"But mamma thinks the same," said the princess. "She has set her heart upon your painting a great picturewhile you are at the villa. You know that mamma and Ferdy are devoted to art; I think that either of them would rather be an artist—a true artist—than Ruler of Italy, and if you want to do them an honor, why paint a grand picture, exhibit it at the Salon, and date it from the Villa Capri."
Life at the villa, Margaret found, was one of routine—pleasant, easy routine—but still carefully measured out and planned.
At eight the great bell in the campanile rang for rising; at nine the household gathered in the hall for prayers; at half-past breakfast was served. At one o'clock the luncheon bell rang, and at seven the major domo, in his solemn suit of black, stood at the drawing-room door to announce dinner.
There was an army of servants, male and female, and the three ladies were attended with as much state as if the king were present.
Between breakfast and dinner Margaret worked.
Art is a jealous mistress; she will not share her shrine with any other god, though it be Cupid himself. If Margaret had remained the happy wife of Lord Blair, it is a question whether any more pictures of worth would have left her easel, but now, with her great sorrow ever present with her, she felt that her work alone would bring her partial forgetfulness.
And she did work. At first she thought she would paint a view of Florence from the hills, and she made a very fair sketch; but, about a week after her arrival at the villa she was sitting before a fresh canvas, and, her thoughts flying back to the past, she, all unwittingly, took up the charcoal and began to draw the outline of the Long Rock at Appleford. It was not until she had sketched in the whole of the scene that she became conscious of what she was doing; and when she had so become conscious, she took up her brush to wipe the marks out. Then she hesitated. A desire to paint the scene took possession of her, and she went on with it.
She painted the rock, with the sea raging round it, and the sky threatening it from above; and, as she painted, the whole scene came back to her, just as a scene which a novelist has witnessed with his own eyes comes back to him.
And as the picture grew, it exerted a fascination for her which she could not repel.
On this she worked day after day, carefully locking up the unfinished picture in the mahogany case which the prince had supplied with the rest of the furniture of the studio.
She felt that she could do nothing until it was finished. One day the princess knocked at the door, and Margaret, before she opened it, hurriedly inclosed the canvas in its mahogany case.
"Why, you have shut your picture up," said the princess in a tone of disappointment.
"I will show it to you, if you wish," said Margaret, laying her hand upon the key; but the princess stopped her.
"No, no," she said. "Do not. I think I understand. It is your great picture, is it not? And you do not want any one to see it until it is finished."
Margaret was silent for a moment, then, as the princess put her arm round her, and laid her cheek against Margaret's, she said:
"If I ever am so fortunate as to do anything approaching 'great,' this will be it, and I do not want you to see it until it is finished, princess."
"I would not see it for worlds until you say that I may, dear," said the girl, lovingly.
Day by day Margaret worked at the picture; it took possession of her body and soul. All the anguish of that awful night, when she battled against life and prayed for death, was portrayed in that savage sea and darkling sky.
She finished the scene, and was looking at it one day, with the dissatisfaction that the true artist always feels, when she thought of the words of Turner: "No landscape, beautiful as it may be, is complete without the human figure, God's masterpiece in nature."
She pondered over this for awhile, then, taking up her brush, she painted on the top of the rock the figure of a woman. It was that of a young girl, half kneeling, half lying, the water lapping savagely at her feet, her face upturned to the angry sky.
Half unconsciously she painted that face as her own—a girl's face, white and wan, marked with an agony beyond that of the fear of death. Despair and utter hopelessness spoke eloquently in the dark eyes and the attitude of the figure; and when she had finished it, she stood and gazed at it, half frightened by its realism.
She knew that if it was not a great picture, it was a picture at which no one could look at and pass by unmoved.
She locked the door of the cabinet which inclosed the canvas, and went on the terrace and found the princess waiting for her. The girl put her arm round Margaret's waist, and led her up and down, the signora looking on at the pair from her chair smilingly.
"And have you nearly finished your picture, dear?" asked Florence.
"Yes," said Margaret, dreamily, "it is quite finished."
"Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Florence. "Ferdinand will be so pleased. He is coming this evening, you know, dear."
"I did not know," said Margaret, still absently.
"Ah, no, I forgot. I did not tell you, because mamma cautioned me not to say anything that might disturb you at your work. He is coming, and rather a large party with him."
Margaret, as the girl spoke, remembered noticing that some preparations seemed to have been going on in the villa for some days past, as if for many guests; she had thought little of it at the time, her mind being absorbed in her work.
"My brother often brings some of his friends back with him," said Florence; "they like the quietude of Florence after the fuss and bustle of the court. How glad I shall be to get him back, not that I have missed him so much this time, for, you see, I have had you, dear."
"I am afraid I have been a very poor companion," said Margaret.
"You have been the dearest, the best, and the sweetest a girl was ever lucky enough to find!" responded the princess, earnestly.
They walked up and down the terrace for some time, talking about the prince and his many virtues, as a sister who adores her brother will talk to her closest bosom friend; then Margaret went to her own room.
The thought of the coming influx of visitors disturbed her; like most persons who have endured a great sorrow, she shrank from meeting new faces, and she resolved to keep to her own rooms, as it was understood she should do when she pleased, while these gay people remained.
Toward evening the guests arrived, and Margaret, from behind the curtains of her long window, saw several handsome carriages drive up to the great entrance, and a group of ladies and gentlemen—most of the latter in military or court uniforms; in their midst stood the tall figure of the prince, towering above the rest, his handsome face wearing the grave smile of welcome, as he ushered his friends into the house, in which were the usual stir and excitement attending the arrival of a large party.
Margaret drew the lace curtains over her window, and took up a book. Presently the dressing-bell rang, then the dinner-bell, and soon after there came a knock at the door. In response to her "Come in," the Princess Florenceentered in her rich evening dress, and ran across the room.
"Why, dear, aren't you dressed?" she exclaimed.
"I am not coming down to dinner to-night, Florence, if you will excuse me," said Margaret, gently.
Florence stopped short, and looked at her with keen disappointment in her blue eyes.
"Not coming down to dinner? Oh, Miss Leslie, I am so sorry! And Ferdy, he will be so disappointed!"
"The prince," said Margaret, smiling at the girl's earnestness. "I do not suppose your brother will notice my absence, Florence."
"Not notice!" exclaimed Florence. "Why, he asked after you almost directly after he had got into the house; and he has inquired where you were at least half a dozen times."
"The prince is very kind," said Margaret, "but I will not come down to-night, dear."
"You do not like all these people coming?" said the princess; "and yet you would like them, they are all so nice and—and friendly: it is a sort of holiday for them, you know."
"I am sure they are very nice, dear," said Margaret, "but I would rather be alone."
There was nothing more to be urged against such quiet decision, and the princess kissed her and reluctantly went down to thesalon.
A maid who had been set apart to wait upon Margaret brought her her dinner, and Margaret took up her book afterward, and tried to lose herself in it. Now and again she took a candle and looked at her picture, and every time she looked at it the present faded and the past stood out before her.
What was Blair doing now? Had the woman, his wife, returned to him? Where was he, and was he happy? No, Margaret thought, there could be no happiness for him unless he were utterly destitute of heart and could forget the girl whose love for him had led her to ruin and dishonor!
From these sad thoughts she was aroused by a knock at the door and the voice of the princess calling softly:
"May we come in, dear?"
Margaret opened the door, and there stood the prince beside his sister.
He was in evening dress, and upon his bosom glittered a cluster of orders; he looked the patrician he was, but there was a deep humility and reverence in the manner of his bow and the way in which he extended his hand to her.
"Will you forgive this intrusion, Miss Leslie?" he saidin his excellent English, which was made more musical rather than less by the slight accent. "I have come to beg you to give us the honor and pleasure of your company. Florence tells me that you are not ill, or I should not have bothered you."
Margaret made room for them to enter, standing with downcast eyes under his gaze, which was full of admiration and respectful regard.
"Pray come," he said with an eagerness only half concealed. "For all our sakes, if not for your own, and I should add for your own, too; for there are some people here whom I think you would like to meet." He mentioned some names of which Margaret had heard as those of great people in Rome. "And there are some artists, too, Miss Leslie; surely you will not refuse them the pleasure and honor of making your acquaintance. My mother, too, begs that, if you feel well enough, you will come down. There is Count Vasali, the great musician; he will play for us, I hope."
"Oh, do come, if only for an hour, dear," said the princess, adding her prayer.
Margaret hesitated, and while she hesitated the prince went slowly up to the easel upon which the picture stood, with the cabinet unlocked.
He started, and drew a little nearer, then looked from Margaret to the picture, and from the picture to Margaret again.
"Is this——?" he said, in a low voice, then stopped.
"Oh, it is the picture! May I look now he has seen it?" exclaimed the princess; then she, too, drew near, and stood speechless.
"I—I hope you like it," said Margaret, with the nervousness of an artist whose work is being surveyed and criticised.
"Like it!" exclaimed the prince, gravely. "It is——" He stopped again, then turned to Margaret with almost solemn earnestness. "Miss Leslie, I am not an artist; I do not presume to be a critic, but I am convinced that this is a marvelous picture! It is, I think, a great work. I cannot tell you how it moves me! But there are others in the house who are more capable of judging and appreciating it. You will let me show it to them?"
Margaret flushed and then turned pale. She would have kept the picture to herself, for the present, at any rate; but then she considered the matter in the few seconds while he stood waiting. After all, she was an artist; it was by her art that she must exist, and it was well that her picture should be seen.
"I will do as you wish, prince," she said.
"No, not I, but you!" he said, gently, with a little thrill in his voice that touched Margaret, and made the princess turn and look at him.
"Take it, then," said Margaret.
He took it from the easel, and locked it in the cabinet carefully.
"And you will come down? You must!" urged Florence eagerly. "You must hear what they say. I know what it will be: they will say what Ferdinand said!"
"Very well," said Margaret, with a little sigh.
The princess clapped her hands.
"Oh, I am so glad. I will come for you in half an hour. Will that do?"
"Miss Leslie will understand that she will meet friends," said the prince, laying a delicate stress on the word, "though she has not seen them yet."