Wild Margaret. Garvice Charles
have that honor," she said.
He looked at the copy.
"And a very good one! Your picture is better than the old one."
"You are not an artist, evidently," she said with a smile.
"No," he admitted; then a light shone in his eyes. "Oh, no, I am a savage!"
A burning blush covered her face, and she took up her brush.
Mr. Stibbings appeared between the velvet curtains.
"Dinner served, my lord."
Lord Blair Leyton nodded impatiently without turning.
"Are you staying here?" he said.
"Yes," said Margaret, going on with her painting.
He stood looking at her, at the beautiful, intelligent "artist" face, at the dove-colored dress, at the pink-white hand with its supple, capable fingers.
"Are you not going to dinner, my lord?" she said, unable to bear his silent presence any longer.
"I beg your pardon!" he said with a little start. "I was waiting for you."
"For me?" she said, turning her face to him with wide-eyed surprise.
"Yes," he said; "we will go together. You are coming, are you not?"
"I?" she said, then she laughed; "I am Mrs. Hale's – the housekeeper's granddaughter, Lord Leyton."
He reddened and bit his mustache.
"And you are not coming?" he said. "I am very sorry. I – "
"Dinner is served, my lord," said a footman in a low voice from the doorway.
Lord Blair uttered an impatient exclamation, which, as it was something remarkably like an oath, was fortunately unintelligible.
"Have you forgiven me yet?" he said, humbly.
"Forgiven?" said Margaret, as if she were trying to discover to what he referred. "Forgiven?"
"Yes! That affair of yesterday – the set-to, you know," he explained.
"Oh!" – the monosyllable dropped like a stone from her lips – "I had forgotten."
"That's right," he said, quickly; "if you've forgotten you have forgiven. I assure you – "
"Dinner is served, my lord," said a solemn voice.
He turned sharply.
"Confound it all – "
"Whether I have forgiven you is not of the least consequence, my lord," said Margaret, "but the earl will certainly not forgive you if you keep dinner waiting any longer," and she bent over her canvas with an air of absorption which shut him out of her cognizance completely.
He stood for a minute, then with an audible "Confound the dinner!" strode off.
CHAPTER V
Margaret did not raise her head from her work as Lord Blair Leyton moved reluctantly and impatiently down the gallery, but when the echo of his footsteps had died away she looked up with a slightly startled and altogether strange expression.
To her astonishment and disgust, the hand which held her brush was trembling. It was impossible to work any longer. Guido's head danced before her sight, and the other head – the handsome one of Blair Leyton – came between her and the painted one.
How very far from guessing she had been that this, the young man she had called a savage, was the earl's nephew, Lord Blair Leyton!
What must he think of her? And yet he had taken her for a guest of the house, had asked her if she were not going in to dinner with him!
She sat, paint brush in hand, and stared musingly at the curtained doorway through which he had gone, and thought of him.
It is a dangerous thing for a young, impressionable girl to think of a young man. But how could she help it? Her grandmother's words were ringing in her ears; according to Mrs. Hale, nothing was too bad to be said of poor Blair Leyton. He was the wickedest of the wicked, bad beyond all description. And yet – and yet! How bravely he had fought a stronger and bigger man than himself on behalf of a helpless dog!
She pondered over this question for half an hour, looking dreamily in the direction he had gone, then, without having arrived at any answer to it, she jumped up and, putting her painting materials together, left the gallery.
"Grandma," she said, as she entered the room in which the old lady was seated, placidly knitting, for the dinner was in full swing, and Mrs. Hale's anxiety was over, "grandma, I have seen Lord Leyton."
The old lady almost jumped.
"Seen Lord Leyton, Madge?"
Margaret nodded.
"Yes; he came into the gallery – "
The old lady broke in with a groan.
"Margaret, no good will come of your going to the picture gallery! Mark my words! It isn't – isn't proper and right like! And you've seen him. Did he speak to you?"
"Very much," said Margaret, smiling, but pensively. "He asked me if I weren't going in to dinner with him!"
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Hale, lifting her hands. "Took you for a lady! Dear, now!"
"Yes; isn't it strange?" said Margaret, with great irony.
"Well – I don't know that," said the old lady, eying the graceful figure and lovely, refined face. "But, Margaret – "
"Well, grandma?" said Margaret, as the old lady hesitated.
"Well, I was going to say that – that – you must be careful!"
"Careful? What of?" said Margaret smiling. "Does Lord Blair bite, as well as the earl? What am I to be careful of, grandma?"
The old lady frowned.
"My dear, it isn't right and proper that you and Lord Blair should be on speaking terms," she said at last. "He's the earl's nephew, and – and you are only my granddaughter, you know."
"Which I am quite content to be," said Margaret, busily engaged with her paint box. "But I don't see that I have done anything very wicked, grandma. I couldn't very well refuse to answer him when he spoke."
"No, no, certainly not," said the old lady; "but if he speaks again – but there, it isn't likely you'll see him again. He is only going to stop the night, and you're not likely to meet him again, that's one comfort."
"It is indeed," said Margaret, with a laugh. "Especially as he is the gentleman whom I saw fighting in the village, and whom I called a savage."
"You – you called him a savage!" gasped Mrs. Hale. "My dear Margaret, is it possible?"
"It is only too possible and certain," said Margaret lightly, "and his lordship remembered it, too. However, as he asked me to forgive him, I suppose he has forgiven me; and if he has not I don't care. He was like a savage, and I spoke the truth." Then after a pause, during which the old lady stared in a rapt kind of fashion – "Grandma, what a pity it is that so wicked a man should be so good-looking."
"Yes, he is handsome enough," sighed the old lady, shaking her head.
"Oh, handsome, yes! I didn't mean that exactly. I meant really good looking. He looks so frank and – yes! – gentle, and his eyes seem to shine with kindness and – and – boyishness. Nobody would believe that he was a bad young man."
"They'd soon learn the truth when they knew him," said the old lady, rather shrewdly.
"I dare say. What a good thing it would be if all the good men were handsome, and all the bad ugly. You would tell at a glance, then, how the case lay. As it is, the man who looks like a villain may be as good as a saint, while the other who looks like a hero and an angel, is probably as bad as – as – "
"Lord Blair," broke in the old lady.
"Exactly – as Lord Blair," laughed Margaret. "And now I am going out to hear the nightingales, grandma. We haven't any nightingales in London