The Marquis of Lossie. George MacDonald
final touches to her portrait. Or she would fall to singing some song he had taught her, more likely a certain one he had written in a passionate mood of bitter tenderness, with the hope of stinging her love to some show of deeper life; but would, while she sang, look with merry defiance in his face, as if she adopted in seriousness what he had written in loving and sorrowful satire.
They rode in silence for some hundred yards. At length he spoke, replying to her last asseveration. "Then what can you gain, child," he said –
"Will you dare to call me child – a marchioness in my own right!" she cried, playfully threatening him with uplifted whip, in the handle of which the little jewels sparkled.
"What, then, can you gain, my lady marchioness," he resumed, with soft seriousness, and a sad smile, "by marrying one of your own rank? – I should lay new honour and consideration at your feet. I am young. I have done fairly well already. But I have done nothing to what I could do now, if only my heart lay safe in the port of peace: – you know where alone that is for me my – lady marchioness. And you know too that the names of great painters go down with honour from generation to generation, when my lord this or my lord that is remembered only as a label to the picture that makes the painter famous. I am not a great painter yet, but I will be one if you will be good to me. And men shall say, when they look on your portrait, in ages to come: No wonder he was such a painter when he had such a woman to paint."
He spoke the words with a certain tone of dignified playfulness.
"When shall the woman sit to you again, painter?" said Florimel – sole reply to his rhapsody.
The painter thought a little. Then he said:
"I don't like that tire woman of yours. She has two evil eyes – one for each of us. I have again and again caught their expression when they were upon us, and she thought none were upon her: I can see without lifting my head when I am painting, and my art has made me quick at catching expressions, and, I hope, at interpreting them."
"I don't altogether like her myself," said Florimel. "Of late I am not so sure of her as I used to be. But what can I do? I must have somebody with me, you know. – A thought strikes me. Yes. I won't say now what it is lest I should disappoint my – painter; but – yes – you shall see what I will dare for you, faithless man!"
She set off at a canter, turned on to the grass, and rode to meet Liftore, whom she saw in the distance returning, followed by the two grooms.
"Come on, Raoul," she cried, looking back; "I must account for you. He sees I have not been alone."
Lenorme joined her, and they rode along side by side.
The earl and the painter knew each other: as they drew near, the painter lifted his hat, and the earl nodded.
"You owe Mr Lenorme some acknowledgment, my lord, for taking charge of me after your sudden desertion," said Florimel. "Why did you gallop off in such a mad fashion?"
"I am sorry," began Liftore a little embarrassed.
"Oh! don't trouble yourself to apologise," said Florimel. "I have always understood that great horsemen find a horse more interesting than a lady. It is a mark of their breed, I am told."
She knew that Liftore would not be ready to confess he could not hold his hack.
"If it hadn't been for Mr Lenorme," she added, "I should have been left without a squire, subject to any whim of my four footed servant here."
As she spoke she patted the neck of her horse. The earl, on his side, had been looking the painter's horse up and down with a would be humorous expression of criticism.
"I beg your pardon, marchioness," he replied; "but you pulled up so quickly that we shot past you. I thought you were close behind, and preferred following. – Seen his best days, eh, Lenorme?" he concluded, willing to change the subject.
"I fancy he doesn't think so," returned the painter. "I bought him out of a butterman's cart, three months ago. He's been coming to himself ever since. Look at his eye, my lord."
"Are you knowing in horses, then?"
"I can't say I am, beyond knowing how to treat them something like human beings."
"That's no ill," said Malcolm to himself. He was just near enough, on the pawing and foaming Kelpie, to catch what was passing. – "The fallow 'll du. He's worth a score o' sic yerls as yon."
"Ha! ha!" said his lordship; "I don't know about that – He's not the best of tempers, I can see. But look at that demon of Lady Lossie's – that black mare there! I wish you could teach her some of your humanity.
"– By the way, Florimel, I think now we are upon the grass," – he said it loftily, as if submitting to an injustice – "I will presume to mount the reprobate."
The gallop had communicated itself to Liftore's blood, and, besides, he thought after such a run Kelpie would be less extravagant in her behaviour.
"She is at your service," said Florimel.
He dismounted, his groom rode up, he threw him the reins, and called Malcolm.
"Bring your mare here, my man," he said.
Malcolm rode her up half way, and dismounted.
"If your lordship is going to ride her," he said, "will you please get on her here. I would rather not take her near the other horses."
"Well, you know her better than I do. – You and I must ride about the same length, I think."
So saying his lordship carelessly measured the stirrup leather against his arm, and took the reins.
"Stand well forward, my lord. Don't mind turning your back to her head: I'll look after her teeth; you mind her hind hoof," said Malcolm, with her head in one hand and the stirrup in the other.
Kelpie stood rigid as a rock, and the earl swung himself up cleverly enough. But hardly was he in the saddle, and Malcolm had just let her go, when she plunged and lashed out; then, having failed to unseat her rider, stood straight up on her hind legs.
"Give her her head, my lord," cried Malcolm.
She stood swaying in the air, Liftore's now frightened face half hid in her mane, and his spurs stuck in her flanks.
"Come off her, my lord, for God's sake. Off with you!" cried Malcolm, as he leaped at her head. "She'll be on her back in a moment."
Liftore only clung the harder. Malcolm caught her head – just in time: she was already falling backwards.
"Let all go, my lord. Throw yourself off."
He swung her towards him with all his strength, and just as his lordship fell off behind her, she fell sideways to Malcolm, and clear of Liftore.
Malcolm was on the side away from the little group, and their own horses were excited, those who had looked breathless on at the struggle could not tell how he had managed it, but when they expected to see the groom writhing under the weight of the demoness, there he was with his knee upon her head – while Liftore was gathering himself up from the ground, only just beyond the reach of her iron shod hoofs.
"Thank God!" said Florimel, "there is no harm done. – Well, have you had enough of her yet, Liftore?"
"Pretty nearly, I think," said his lordship, with an attempt at a laugh, as he walked rather feebly and foolishly towards his horse. He mounted with some difficulty, and looked very pale.
"I hope you're not much hurt," said Florimel kindly, as she moved alongside of him.
"Not in the least – only disgraced," he answered, almost angrily. "The brute's a perfect Satan. You must part with her. With such a horse and such a groom you'll get yourself talked of all over London. I believe the fellow himself was at the bottom of it. You really must sell her."
"I would, my lord, if you were my groom," answered Florimel, whom his accusation of Malcolm had filled with angry contempt; and she moved away towards the still prostrate mare.
Malcolm was quietly seated on her head. She had ceased sprawling, and lay nearly motionless, but for the heaving of her sides with her huge inhalations. She knew from experience that struggling