Leslie's Loyalty. Garvice Charles

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      "Coming? Where?" He has forgotten all about the invitation.

      "Why, to St. somewhere or other," says Yorke. "It never entered my head that you'd refuse. Why should you? If you don't care about it yourself, you ought to go for Miss Leslie's sake. She wants a change, an outing; any one can see that. Perhaps you haven't noticed how pale she looks this morning."

      Oh, Yorke!

      "Leslie is all right," says Lisle, irritably; "she is always strong and well. I'm sorry we cannot accompany you, but I beg your pardon, you are standing in my light. Thank you."

      Yorke looks from the pale, livid face of the dreamer to the impossible picture on the easel, and bites his lips. He is sorely tempted to catch up the artist, easel and all, and bundle them into the carriage. Then a far better and more feasible idea strikes him.

      "I'm sorry you can't go, Mr. Lisle," he says as indifferently as he can, "because I thought of asking you to make a rough sketch of the castle for me. Want it for my own room, you know. I'm awfully mad on water colors."

      Mr. Lisle looks up with awakened interest.

      "There is a good sketch to be got out of the west end, the turret," he murmurs, absently.

      "That's just what I wanted," Yorke strikes in promptly. "That's the bit I was going to ask you to paint. Come along, sir; allow me," and he catches up the portable easel and paint box and carries them out before Lisle can realize what is being done.

      "All right!" Yorke cries to the astonished Leslie: "he is coming. Run in and put your things on, and don't give him time to think."

      "But," falters Leslie, a smile beginning to break on the lovely face.

      "But nothing!" he cuts in. "Please be quick, or he'll have time to change his mind."

      Leslie runs in, laughing, and Yorke, stowing the easel under the seat, shouts out for Grey.

      "Tell the – Mr. Temple we're ready," he says quickly. "Got that hamper?"

      "Yes, your grace," says Grey.

      "Confound – all right then. Get your master down as soon as possible; and Grey, bring me out a glass of ale. Heigh-ho, that was a narrow squeak," and he draws a long breath. "What, let him deprive her of her outing? Not if I had to take the house as well!"

      Presently the duke and Grey come out, and Grey helps him into his seat. They have not long to wait for the other two, and Yorke looks approvingly at the slim, graceful figure, which plainly dressed though it may be, is unmistakably that of a lady.

      Mr. Lisle, scarcely knowing what they are doing with him, is bundled in; and Yorke, as a matter of course, stands by to assist Leslie to the seat on the box beside him.

      "But would not some one else like to sit there?" she says, hesitatingly.

      "I am sure Mr. Lisle would be more comfortable inside," he says. "And we mustn't keep the horses waiting longer than we can help, please," he says, and he puts his hand under her elbow and hoists her up carefully.

      Then he springs into his place, touches the horses with the whip, and away they go.

      Leslie draws a long breath. It is not until they have got to the open country that she can believe that they have actually started.

      "It was a near thing," he says, as if he were reading her thoughts.

      "Yes," and she smiles; "I don't know how you managed it."

      He laughs light-heartedly.

      "It was done by force of arms. I meant you – I mean Mr. Lisle – to go, and when I mean a thing I'm hard to obstruct."

      "This is rather a grand turn-out, Yorke," remarks the duke. "May one ask where and how you got it? It doesn't look like a hired affair."

      "It isn't," he replies. "When I got to Northcliffe I ran against little Vinson, who appears to be staying there. The wagon was standing outside and he asked me if I would like to go for a drive. I said I should if he'd let me have the horses and not ask to go with me. He stared for a minute, then he took off his gloves, and – here you are, you know."

      "Wasn't that rather cool?" asks the duke.

      Yorke laughs.

      "Oh, he's a good-natured little chap, and didn't seem to mind. Said he'd go for a sail instead."

      "He must be very good-natured," said Leslie, smiling in spite of herself.

      "So he ought to be. He's as rich as Crœsus, and hasn't a care in the world. His father, Lord Eastford, you know, bought up a lot of nursery gardens just outside what was then London, and they've turned out a gold mine. The part got fashionable, you know."

      The mention of a lord reminds Leslie – she had forgotten it until now – that the young man beside her is a duke, and she wonders whether she ought to have addressed him as "your grace."

      "Now, Miss Lisle," he says, "you've got to play the part of guide, you know. Is it straight on, or how?"

      "Straight on, your grace," she says, thinking she will try how it sounds. It doesn't sound very well in her own ears, nor, apparently, in his, for he stops in the act of flicking a fly off the horse's harness and looks at her; but he does not make any remark.

      The roads are good, the day heavenly, and as they bowl along Leslie leans back, wrapped in a supreme content. Her father's voice discoursing of "art" floats now and again toward her, the thud, thud of the horses' hoofs makes pleasant music; and if she should tire of the pretty scenery, there is the handsome face of a good-tempered young man beside her to look at for a change.

      Leslie does not know very much about driving; but she knows that he is driving well, that the horses, fresh and high-mettled as they are, are thoroughly under his control; and, half-unconsciously, she finds herself admiring the way in which he handles the whip and the reins.

      "May one ask what you are thinking of, Miss Leslie?" he says, glancing at her, after a long silence.

      "I was wondering which I liked best – sailing or driving," she replies.

      "But you haven't driven yet," he says. "Would you like to drive?"

      Leslie shakes her head.

      "I should drive them into a ditch, or they would run away with me," she says, smiling.

      "Not a bit of it," he retorts; "and I know you are not afraid, because you said last night that you never were afraid."

      "Did I say that?" she says. "What wonderful things one says in the moonlight!"

      "See here," he says. "I'll show you how to hold the reins."

      "If I am not afraid, they will be, if they think you are going to transfer these wild animals to my guidance," and she glances over her shoulder.

      "Oh, they're all right," he says, carelessly. "Give me your hand. No, the left one. That's it."

      He takes it and opens the slim fingers, and inserts the reins in their proper places; and as he does so notices, if he did not notice last night, how beautifully shaped and refined the small hand is.

      "That's right. Now take the whip in your right СКАЧАТЬ