Leslie's Loyalty. Garvice Charles

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ because men are such fools that they spoil their lives before they know where they are," he says. "I once saw a man try to swim across the Thames, for a wager, with a ten-pound weight round his neck. He would have been drowned, if they hadn't picked him up pretty smartly. It's the same in life – ." He stops suddenly and laughs rather shortly. "We'll get on to a more cheerful topic. There's a hawk, see?" and he points to a bird circling in the vault of blue.

      "I was wondering what it was," says Leslie. "You must have good eyes. Do you know all the birds when you see them?"

      "Nearly all, I think," he replies. "Horses, and dogs, and birds, I know a little about, but I don't know anything else. I think I should have made a decent gamekeeper or horse breaker; I'm not fit for anything else. But sometimes I console myself with something I read in the paper the other day; the fellow said that there were far too many clever people in the world, and that very soon it would be quite a distinction not to have painted a picture, or written a book, or done something in the scientific way. I'm on the safe road to distinction, Miss Lisle. There isn't a bigger dunce in Portmaris than I am."

      So they talk. It is not much. It is neither witty nor wise; it is just the pleasant, aimless chatter of two young people who are almost strangers; and yet so absorbed and interested are they, that they do not note how time flies, that the sun is sinking in the west, and that the shadows are stealing over hill and dale.

      Leslie is perfectly at her ease. She has almost forgotten, quite forgotten for the time, indeed, that the young man sitting beside her with his arms folded behind his head, and talking of his fishing and his shooting, and of the strange beasts and birds and fishes he has seen, killed, or captured, is a duke; and he, Yorke, always ready to be happy, to meet the sweet goddess Happiness, half-way, is filled with a strange feeling of peace, that yet is not peace, which at times almost startles him.

      In all his life he has not met with a girl like this; so simple, yet so sweetly wise; so good, and yet so bright and winsome. He is beginning to know some of the multitudinous expressions of the beautiful face, to lay traps for the slow heart-winning smile, to set snares for drawing the clear, darkly gray eyes toward his, that he may look into their depths. Her voice makes sweet melody in his ears, and stirs his heart with a vague thrill which will trouble him presently, trouble him very much. It seems to him one moment that he has known her for years, the next that she has just lighted from the clouds, or risen from the depths of the blue sea, and that he shall never know her or get any nearer to her.

      And under the influence of these sensations, which summed up as a whole, are as a potent spell, he forgets the dark girl whom he has persuaded Vinson to take away out of sight, forgets the compact that he has made with the duke, forgets that he is sailing under false colors and is deceiving the girl beside him – forgets, in short, everything, save that she is beside him, and that he has the delight of looking at, and talking to, and, ah, best of all, of listening to her.

      He would be content to sit there – so that she were by his side – till the end of the world, but a shadow falling across the entrance to the hut rouses Leslie to a sense of the flight of the common enemy.

      "Why, it must be late," she says, with the air of one making a great discovery.

      "Is it?" he says. "Must we really go? It is very jolly here – it is as jolly as it was last night on the water."

      But he gets up and follows her, and they make their way back. As they emerge on the hill-side, they find that the wind has dropped, and is sighing across the downs rather plaintively; and Yorke, looking up, sees a cloud, which, though it is not much bigger than a man's hand, is full of warning.

      "Did you happen to bring an umbrella with you?" he asks, with affected carelessness.

      Leslie laughs.

      "Not even a sunshade. Why?"

      "Nothing," he says, inwardly calling himself opprobrious names for not providing the Englishman's traveling companion.

      "Do you think it is going to rain?" she asks. "Oh, no, it isn't possible."

      "Everything is possible in this charming climate of ours," he says. "Well, Mr. Lisle, how are you getting on?" he asks, as they go up to the artist, still hard at work.

      He looks up with a start. To him they have only been absent, say, a quarter of an hour.

      "It is difficult," he says. "Very. One needs time – time."

      "We'd better come another day," says Yorke. "Oh, you have got on famously," and he keeps his countenance capitally as he looks at the sketch. "I'll carry your easel," and he folds it up, and puts it over his shoulder.

      They find the duke waiting for them at the bottom of the tower, and seeing them all together, he does not suspect that the two young people have been spending the whole afternoon tete-a-tete.

      "I was just going off without you," he says, addressing all three, but looking at Leslie's face, which wears a rapt and dreamy expression.

      "It's well you didn't," retorts Yorke. "You and Grey would never have reached home alive. Miss Leslie and I are the only persons who can manage these nags. But come on," and he glances upward – that cloud has grown considerably since they left the hermit's hut – and leads the way to the inn.

      "Now, ma'am," he says to the landlady, in his frank, and genial way. "Got the kettle boiling? Right! Let us have some tea while the horses are being put to."

      Then he goes round to the stable, inspects the horses, and is back in time to hand Leslie a cup of the beverage, which be the hour what it may, is always welcomed by fair women.

      "Now up you get," he says, after surreptitiously tipping everybody – landlord, hostler, rosy-cheeked maid, all round. "Miss Leslie, we can't get on without you in front, you know," he remarks, as Leslie is about to go inside; and he helps her to the box.

      The horses are fresh and eager for work, and for a time he drives, but presently he puts the reins in her hands.

      "According to promise," he says. "Hold 'em tight while I," and he bends down and searches for something under the box seat.

      "Oh, how beautifully they go," she says, half to herself. "What is it you are looking for, your gra – Lord Yorke?"

      "Never you mind," he says. "You look after your horses."

      Leslie laughs, and laughs again as he comes up, red in the face, and with a Scotch wrap in his hand.

      "Are you so cold?" she asks.

      "Very," he responds. "It's going to snow, I fancy."

      "Why, it is quite close," she says, removing her eyes for a moment from the horses to glance at him with smiling surprise. "It seems hotter than it has been all day."

      As she speaks, a low rumbling rolls over their heads and a flash of light cuts across the sky.

      "That is lightning," she exclaims.

      "It was rather like it," he admits, dryly.

      "Did you bring any gamps?" asks the duke.

      "Nary one," replies Yorke, grimly. "Slang away, I can bear it – and I deserve it," he mutters, glancing at the girlish figure beside him.

      Mr. Lisle looks round absently.

      "I'm afraid – it – it is going to rain," he says.

      In СКАЧАТЬ