Wild Margaret. Garvice Charles

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СКАЧАТЬ moved noiselessly on the thick Turkey carpet, which stretched itself like a glittering snake over the marble floor before the pictures.

      What jewels were to some women, and dress to others, pictures were to Margaret.

      She was standing rapt in an ecstasy before a head by Guido, her hands clasped and hanging loosely in front of her, her lovely face upturned, a picture as beautiful as the one upon which she gazed, when she suddenly became aware, without either seeing or hearing, but with that sense, which is indescribable and nameless, that she was not alone, but that some one else had entered the gallery.

      The consciousness affected her strangely, and for a moment she did not move eye or limb; then, with an effort, she turned her head and saw a tall figure standing a few paces from the doorway.

      It was that of an old man, with white hair and dark – piercing dark – eyes. He was clad in a velvet dressing-gown, whose folds fell round the thin form and gave it an antique expression, which harmonized with the magnificence and silence of the gallery.

      The eyes were bent on her, not sternly, not curiously, but with a calm, steadfast regard, which affected her more than any expression of anger could have done.

      She stood quite still, her heart beating wildly, for she knew, though she had never seen him, that it must be the earl himself.

      CHAPTER III

      Margaret stood perfectly still, her eyes downcast, yet seeing quite plainly the tall patrician figure enveloped in the folds of violet velvet.

      What should she do? Pass by him without a word, or murmur some kind of apology? How upset and annoyed her grandmother would be when she heard of her trespass, and its discovery by the earl, of all people. And the earl himself, what was he thinking of her? He was, no doubt, setting her down, in his mind, as an ill-bred, forward girl, who had intruded out of sheer impudence! The idea was almost unendurable, and smarting under it, the color came slowly into her face and her lips quivered.

      Meanwhile, the earl, who had been indifferently wondering who she was, moved slowly, his hands behind him, along the gallery and toward her. His movements nerved her, and bending her head she made for the door, but slowly. The earl may have thought that she was one of the higher servants, but as she came nearer – for she had to pass him to leave the gallery – he must have seen that she was not one of the establishment, which was far too numerous for him to be familiar with.

      "Do not let me drive you away," he said, in a low-toned, but exquisitely clear and musical voice, which had so often moved his fellow peers in the Upper House.

      "I am going," said Margaret, flushing. "I – I ought not to have come."

      She had never spoken to a nobleman in her life before, and did not know whether to say "my lord" or "your lordship," at the end of her sentence.

      "Ought you not?" he said, with a faint smile crossing his clear-cut features.

      "No – my lord," she faltered, venturing on that form; "I – I came here by accident. I lost my way. I am very sorry."

      "Do not apologize," he said, bending his piercing eyes on her face, and smiling again as he noticed her abashed expression; "it is not a deadly sin. Are you – " he hesitated. It was evident that he did not want to add to her distress and confusion, and was choosing his words – "Are you staying here?"

      "Yes," said Margaret; "I am staying with Mrs. Hale, my grandmother, my lord."

      "Ah, yes!" he murmured. "Yes. Mrs. Hale. Yes, yes. You are her granddaughter. What is your name?"

      "Margaret – Margaret Hale," she said.

      "And how long have you been here?" he asked.

      "I came last night, my lord," said Margaret.

      "Last night? Yes. And you were on a voyage of discovery – "

      "Oh, no, no!" she broke in, quickly. "I was looking for Mrs. Hale, and – opened the wrong door; when I came into the corridor outside I saw the pictures, and" – her color rose – "I was tempted to come in," and, with an inclination of the head, she was moving away.

      His voice stopped her.

      "Are you fond of pictures?" he asked, as one of his age and attainments would ask a child.

      "Yes," said Margaret, simply, refraining even from adding, "very."

      His glance grew absent.

      "Most of your sex are," he said, musingly. "All life is but a picture to most of them. The surface, the surface only" – he sighed very faintly and wearily, and was pacing on, to Margaret's immense relief, as if he had forgotten her, when he stopped, as if moved by a kindly impulse, and said: "Pray come here when you please. The pictures will be glad of your company; they spend a solitary life too often. Yes, come when you please."

      "Thank you, my lord," said Margaret, quietly, and without any fuss.

      Perhaps the reserved and quiet response attracted his attention.

      "Which was the picture I saw you admiring when I came in?" he asked. "You were admiring it, I think?"

      "It was the head by Guido, my lord," she answered.

      He looked at her quickly.

      "How did you know it was Guido's?" he asked, and he went and stood before the picture, looking from it to her.

      Margaret stared. How could it be possible for any intelligent person not to know!

      "It is easy to tell a Guido, my lord," she said, with a slight smile. "One has only to see one of them once, and I have seen them in the National Gallery fifty – a hundred times."

      He looked at her, not curiously – the Earl of Ferrers, famed for his exquisite courtesy, could not have done that – but with a newly-born interest.

      "Yes? Do you recognize other masters here? This, for instance," and he raised his hand; it stood out like snow in front of the violet velvet, and a large amethyst on the forefinger gleamed redly in the downward light.

      "That is a Carlo Dolci, my lord; but not a very good one."

      "Right in both assertions," he said, with a smile. "And this?"

      "A Rubens, and a very fine one," she said, forgetting his presence and grandeur, and approaching the picture. "I have never seen more beautiful coloring in a Rubens – but I have not seen the Continental galleries. It would look better still if it were not hung so near that De la Roche; the two clash. Now, if the other Rubens on the opposite side were placed – " but she remembered herself, and stopped suddenly, confused and shamefaced.

      "Pray go on," he said gently. "You would hang them side by side. Yes. You are right! Tell me who painted this!" and he inclined his head toward a heavy battle piece.

      "I do not know, my lord," said Margaret.

      He smiled.

      "It is a pleasant discovery to find that your knowledge is not illimitable," he said. "It is a Wouvermans."

      Margaret looked at it, and her brows came together, after a fashion peculiar to her when she was thinking deeply, displeased, or silent under pressure.

      "Well?" he said, as if he had read her thoughts; СКАЧАТЬ