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--not of your sort, I mean. Ours haven't nice voices at all, and
they mostly sing 'We won't go home till morning,' or 'He's a jolly good
fellow,' and their voices sound rather unsteady as they go along the
pavement. Those are the London kind of nightingale! Oh, what a lovely
night----"
"Put a shawl on, Madge!" called the old lady. "Come back now; I can't
have you catching cold the very first night!"
"Shawl? I haven't such a thing!" laughed Margaret. "This will do, won't
it?" and catching up an antimacassar she threw it round her shoulders
and ran out.
Dinner at Leyton Court was a stately function. Very often the earl, as
Mrs. Hale had said, would make his meal of a morsel of fish or a tiny
slice of mutton, but all the same an elaborate _menu_ was prepared, and
the courses were served with due state and ceremony by the butler and
two footmen.
This night, in honor of Lord Blair, the dinner was more elaborate than
usual; Mr. Stibbings had selected his choicest claret, and a bottle of
'73 Pommery, and had himself superintended its icing. Already, although
he had only been in the house a few hours, the young man had won the
hearts of the servants!
But notwithstanding the choice character of the wines and the elaborate
_menu_, Lord Blair seemed rather absent-minded and preoccupied. The
earl was silent, almost grimly so, but the young man seemed not grim
by any means, but dreamy. The fact was that the face of the young girl
who had called him a savage yesterday, and whom he had seen again in
the gallery this evening, was haunting him.
And--he wondered when and how he could see her again.
Of course he knew, as well as did Mrs. Hale, that there should be no
acquaintanceship between Viscount Leyton and the granddaughter of his
uncle's housekeeper, but he did not think of that, and, if he had, the
reflection would not have stifled the desire to find her out and get a
few more words from those sweet lips, one more smile or glance from the
lovely eyes.
So that, what with Lord Blair being Margaret-haunted, and the earl
being possessed by the fact of his nephew's wickedness, the grand
dinner was anything but hilarious.
They talked now and again, but long before the dessert appeared they
had dropped into a mutual silence. Then Mr. Stibbings carried in,
daintily and carefully, a bottle of the famous Leyton port, and, with
the air of one bestowing a farewell benediction, glided out and left
the two gentlemen alone.
"Do you drink port, Blair?" said the earl, with his hand on the
decanter.
"Yes, sir; I drink anything," replied the young man, awaking with a
little start.
"You have a good digestion--good constitution?" said the earl.
"Oh, yes," assented Lord Blair, cheerfully; "I suppose so. Never had a
day's illness in my life that I can remember, and can eat anything."
The earl looked at him musingly.
"And yet----" he paused, "your habits are not regular; you keep late
hours?"
Lord Blair laughed.
"I'm seldom in bed before ten," he said. "Yes," he added, "I'm afraid I
don't keep very good hours; it's generally daylight before I am in my
little cot. What capital port, sir!"
"Yes? I do not drink it," said the earl.
There was silence for a moment, during which the elder man looked at
the handsome face and graceful, stalwart figure of the younger one.
Lord Blair was one of those men who look at their best in evening
dress, and the earl could not help admiring him. Then he sighed.
"Have you thought over the words that passed between us this afternoon,
Blair?" he asked.
"Well--I'm afraid I haven't," he admitted, frankly.
The earl frowned.
"And yet they were important ones--especially those which referred
to your future, Blair. We have not seen much of each other--perhaps
wisely----"
"I dare say," said Lord Blair, cheerfully. "People who can't agree are
better apart, sir."
"But," continued the earl grimly, and not relishing the interruption,
"but I would wish you to believe that I have your best interests at
heart."
"Thank you, sir. I will take another glass of port."
"And in no surer way can these interests be promoted than by your
marriage with Violet Graham."
Lord Blair frowned slightly, then he smiled.
"'Pon my word, sir, I'm sorry to refuse you anything, especially after
all your liberality; but it isn't to be done."
"Why not?" demanded the earl coldly.
Lord Blair hesitated, then he laughed grimly.
"Well, I suppose we can't hit it off; we don't care for each other."
The earl frowned.
"I have every reason to believe that Violet would be willing----"
"Oh, it's all a mistake, sir!" broke in Lord Blair quickly. "Nothing
of the kind! Violet doesn't care a straw for me! And as to breaking
her heart, as you said this afternoon, why"--he laughed--"she's the
last girl in the world for that sort of thing! No, we thought we could
manage it, but we found pretty soon that it wouldn't work, and so--and
so--well, we just broke it off!"
"I can understand!" said the earl, grimly. "You wearied her with your
dissipation, and stung her by your neglect."
Lord Blair flushed.
"Put it so, if you like, sir," he said, thinking what a good thing it
was that they did _not_ see much of each other.
"And so lost the chance of restoring your ruined fortunes," said the
earl. "Violet's fortune is a large one. I am one of the trustees, and
can speak with authority. It is large enough to repair all the mischief
your wild, spendthrift course has produced. And you have lost, not only
the means of your salvation, but one of the best girls in England.
Great Heaven"--he spoke quite quietly--"how can a man be so great a
fool, and so blind!"
At another time the young man might have retorted, but he had had a
good dinner and two glasses of the wonderful port, and so he only
laughed.
"I suppose I am a fool, sir," he said good-temperedly. "Perhaps it's
part of my constitution. But don't let us quarrel. It isn't worth
while."
"You are right. It isn't worth while," said the earl, sinking back in
his chair. "After all, I ought to be thankful that Violet has escaped;
but blood is thicker than--water and I have thought of you more than of
her. But let it pass. You are bent on following the road you have set
out upon, and not even she nor I can stay you. As to Ketton, you refuse
to accept my offer----"
"Yes, sir," said Lord Blair, gently but firmly. "I shall mortgage
Ketton. I can't take any more money from you. If we were--well, better
friends, it would be different, but----It's a pity you can't touch this
port! The best wine I ever tasted!"
The earl sat in silence for a few minutes, then he rose.
"Coffee will be served in the drawing-room," he said. "You will excuse
me?"
"Oh, certainly," said Lord Blair, jumping up. "I don't care about the
coffee, I will go and get a cigar on the terrace. Perhaps I sha'n't see
you again, sir, I start early in the morning. If I should not, I'll say
good-bye," and he held out his hand.
The earl touched it with his thin white fingers.
"Good-bye," he said, and with a sigh he passed down the corridor to his
own apartments.
Lord Blair took out his cigar-case and stepped through the open window
on to the terrace.
"Yes, I'm on the road to ruin, as mine uncle says," he mused, "and
going along at a rattling good pace, too! Sha'n't be long before I
reach the terminus, I expect. Hartwell gone, Parkfield gone, and now
Ketton. I'm sorry about Ketton! But I'd rather pawn everything that's
left than take any more money from him! Heigho! I wonder whether any
of the fellows who are so thick now will cut me when I can't come up
on settling day and my name's on the black list! And I could put it
all right by marrying Violet Graham. Just by marrying Violet. But I
can't do that. I suppose I _am_ a fool, as the old gentleman politely
remarked. It's wonderful that I'm the only man he is ever rude to.
They say he is the pink of courtesy and politeness to the rest of the
world. 'Courtly Ferrers,' they used to call him. Ah, well, what does it
matter? All the same in a hundred years. I've had my fling, or nearly
had it, and after me----"
Before he could conclude with "the deluge," a girl's voice rose softly
and sweetly in the distance, and seemed to float in and harmonize with
the rather melancholy strain of his musings; and yet the voice was
blithe and joyous enough, too.
Lord Blair leaned over the stone rail of the balustrade and listened.
A spell fell upon the wild young man, and for a few minutes a strange
feeling--was it of remorse for his wasted life?--possessed him. Then
there rose the desire to see the singer, and as such desires were far
stronger in Lord Blair's breast than remorse, he moved quickly along
the terrace in the direction of the voice.
It did not occur to him that it might be Margaret Hale, and he
experienced a sudden thrill of gratification as he saw the dove-colored
dress shining, a soft patch of light against the shrubbery of the small
garden.
At the same moment Margaret saw his shadow cast upon the smooth lawn,
and the song died on her lips.
He stopped short, and stood on top of the steps leading to the little
garden, looking down at her.
"May I come?" he said quietly.
Margaret inclined her head gravely and rose. It was quite unnecessary
to tell the Viscount Leyton that he was at liberty to step into a part
of the garden that would belong to him some day.
"I'm awfully unlucky, Miss Hale," he said, flinging his cigar away and
coming up to the seat where she had been sitting. "This is the second
time to-day I have disturbed you; and yesterday--oh, yesterday won't
bear thinking of! You were singing, weren't you?"
"Yes, my lord," said Margaret gravely, for her grandmother's words had
suddenly occurred to her, and she moved away.
"Are you going?" he said. "Now, I have driven you away! Please, don't
go. I'll take myself off at once."
"I was going, my lord," said Margaret.
"Oh, come," he retorted pleadingly; "it's almost as wicked to tell
stories as it is to fight; and you know you were sitting here
comfortably enough until I intruded upon you."
His voice, his manner were irresistible, and produced a smile on
Margaret's face.
"It is getting late," she said, "and Mrs. Hale may want me."
"I don't think she will. It isn't late--" he looked at his watch--"I
can't see. Your eyes are better than mine, I'll be bound. I've spoilt
them sitting up studying at night. Will you look? But upon this
condition," he added, covering the face of the watch with his hand,
"that if it isn't ten o'clock, you will stay a little while longer; of
course I'll go--if you want me to!"
His eagerness was so palpable, almost so boyish, that Margaret could
not repress a soft laugh. Rather gingerly she came back a step, and he
held out his watch.
"It is half-past nine," she said.
"There you are, you see; it isn't late at all! Now you stop out till
ten, and I'll take myself off"--and with a nod he walked toward the
steps, with Margaret's antimacassar shawl in his hand.
"My lord!" she said, in a tone of annoyance, for it seemed as if he had
done it on purpose.
"Yes," he responded, turning back very promptly.
"Will you give me my anti--my shawl, please?"
"Eh? Oh, of course, I beg your pardon," he said, "I took it up
intending to ask you to put it on--nights are chilly sometimes. Here
you are. Let me put it on for you."
"No, no, thank you," said Margaret, taking it from him.
"Well, it is warm," he said, looking up at the sky, and then quickly
returning his gaze to her face. "It's a pity you can't paint this; but
you artists get rather handicapped on these night scenes, don't you?
Want a big moon and a waterfall, and all that kind of thing?"
Margaret smiled. Certainly, in matters pertaining to art he was a
perfect savage.
"To-night could be painted, my lord," she said, just stopping to say
it, then moving away again.
"You think so?" he said, displaying, with boyish ingenuousness, his
desire to engage her in conversation. "Well, I don't know much about
it; rather out of my line, you know. But I like seeing pictures, and I
think you must be awfully clever----"
"Thanks, my lord!" said Margaret, with admirable gravity. "But your
avowed ignorance rather detracts on the value of your expressed
approval, does it not?"
He looked at her.
"That's rather hot and peppery, isn't it?" he said, ruefully. "Look
here, you know, if I'm not up in painting, I know a little of other
things. There are three things you might put me through a regular exam.
in, and I shouldn't come out badly."
"For instance, my lord?" said Margaret, dangerously interested, and
slowly stopping.
"For instance. Well, I know a horse when I see it."
"Very few people take it for a cow," retorted Margaret.
He laughed.
"Oh, _you_ know what I mean. Many flats take a screw for a horse,
though. Well, I know what a horse is worth pretty well, and I know a
good dog when I see him, and I can tell you the proper kind of fly for
most of the rivers in England and Scotland; and I know the quickest
and surest way of stalking a stag; and--I can play a decent hand at
ecarte--that is, if it's not _too_ late in the evening; and--and----"
he paused and looked rather at a loss.
"Is that all, my lord?"
"That's--that's all. It seemed rather a long lot, too, while I was
running it over," he responded.
"And what use is your knowledge to you, my lord, unless you intend
turning horse-dealer or gamekeeper?--but perhaps you do."
He laughed.
"By George, you're hard upon me! Won't you sit down?" Insensibly,
Margaret sank into the seat, and he dropped carelessly on to the arm.
"Well, I might do worse!"
"Much worse!" assented Margaret, severely.
He looked at her rather curiously.
"How strangely you said that," he remarked. "Meant for me from the
shoulder, I expect; now wasn't it?"
Margaret was silent. She _had_ meant it as a rebuke, but she would not
have admitted it for the world.
He regarded her silently for a second, then he said:
"Miss Hale, they have been telling you something about me. They have,
haven't they?"
A faint flush rose to her face.
"Would that matter in the slightest, my lord?"
"By George, yes!" he said. "Look here! there is an old proverb that
says: 'Don't believe more than half you see, and less than half you
hear.' I should like to know what they have been telling you about me!"
"What should 'they' say, my lord?" said Margaret. "Except that you are
a very high-principled and serious-minded gentleman, doing all the good
you could find to do, and setting a high example to your friends and
companions?"
He leaned forward so that he might see her face, then broke into the
musical and contagious laugh.
"It's too bad!" he said. "Miss Hale, I give you my word that the dev--,
that nobody is quite as bad as he is painted----"
"It is to be hoped not, or, judging from the portraits one sees at the
Academy, there must be a great many ugly people in the world," she
said, quietly.
Lord Blair stared at her with unconcealed delight.
Pretty women he had met by the hundred, but a girl who was lovely as a
flower, and witty as well, was a rarity that set his heart throbbing.
"All right!" he said. "I see you have made up your mind about me,
and that you won't let me say a word in my own defense. But every
poor beggar of a convict is allowed to say something before they pass
sentence, don't you know, and you'll let me say my word before you
send me away, painted black right through. Miss Hale, I'm in one of
my unlucky months! Everything I've touched this June has gone wrong!
My horse--but I don't want to trouble you about that--and to put the
finishing touch to the catalogue, I had the bad luck to have you
looking on while I'm having a set-to with a country yokel. Of course,
you think the worst of me, and yet----" He stopped. "Well, I'm bad
enough, I dare say," he said, with a sort of groan; "but I haven't had
much chance; I haven't, indeed. They don't make many saints out of the
kind of life that has fallen to me. What can you expect of a fellow
who is thrown upon the world at nineteen without a friend to keep him
straight or say a word of warning? And that was just the way of it with
me; my father died when I was nineteen and I was let loose with plenty
of money, and not a soul to show me the right road."
"Your mother?" said Margaret, and the next instant regretted it, for
across his handsome face came a spasm, as if she had touched a wound
across his heart.
"My mother died two years before my father; her death killed him. I
wish that it had killed me. Don't let's speak of her."
"I am very sorry, my lord," murmured Margaret.
"All right," he said cheerfully. "If she had been living--but then!
Well, I had no one. My uncle--the earl, here--would have nothing to
say to me; I reminded him too much that he had lost his own boy and
that I must come into the property. As if I wouldn't rather have died
instead of the lad! He was as nice a boy as ever you saw--poor little
chap! Well, where was I? Oh, on the road to ruin as my uncle said
this afternoon, and, by George, he was right!" and he laughed. "But
there--once you make the first false step, the rest is easy; it's all
down hill, you see, and nobody to put the skid on--nobody! But never
mind any more about me; I can see you've passed sentence. Are you
living here altogether, Miss Hale?"
"No," said Margaret with a little start, and very quietly. She was
thinking of the wasted life, the friendless, guardless youth which his
wild, incoherent statement revealed, and something like pity for him
was creeping into her heart.
Pity! It is a dangerous sentiment for one like Margaret to harbor for
one like Blair Leyton!
"No; I am here on a visit, my lord."
"How jolly!" he said. "I hope you are enjoying yourself. But, perhaps
you always live in the country?"
"I am enjoying myself very much. No, I live in London, my lord."
"In London!" he said, quickly. "But I say----" he broke off
appealingly, "I wish you wouldn't 'my lord' me, you know."
Margaret laughed.
"My circle of acquaintances does not include any noblemen, Lord Leyton,
and I am not quite sure of the way to address one of your rank," she
said, faltering a little.
"How well she said that!" he thought. "Most girls would have giggled
and blushed, but she took it as quietly as a duchess would have done!"
Then aloud he said:
"Well, it's usual to address us by our surname; I wish you would call
me Leyton."
Margaret was silent a moment, while he scanned her face with suppressed
eagerness.
"If it is quite usual," she said in her blissful ignorance. "It sounds
rather abrupt."
"Why, of course!" he said. "Abrupt, not a bit. And you live in London!
Now, shall I guess what part? Let me see. You are an artist. Yes. Well,
Chelsea----"
"Wrong; but Kensington is not so far away," she said, with a smile.
"Kensington," he said. "The Art School, of course. How jolly! I've got
rooms not very far from there. Perhaps we shall--" he hesitated and
watched her rather fearfully--"we might meet, you know."
"I should say that there was nothing more improbable, my--Lord Leyton.
We don't know the same people, and never shall, and----" she stopped,
her own words had recalled Mrs. Hale's warning. "I must go now," she
said, rising suddenly.
"Oh, it's not ten," he pleaded. "You feel chilly? Let me put your shawl
on. It has slipped down. Why, what a funny shawl it is!"
"It's an antimacassar," she said laughing.
"So it is!" he said. "And look here, it has got entangled in my
watch-chain; but they are built to get entangled in things, aren't
they?" he added, fumbling with all a man's awkwardness at the tangled
threads.
"Oh, you'll never get it off like that," said Margaret impatiently, and
innocently enough her small supple fingers flew at it.
His own hand and hers touched, and with a feeling of surprise he felt
the blood tingling at her touch. He looked at the lovely face so close
to his own, so gravely, unconsciously beautiful, and a wild desire
to lift the hand to his lips seized him, but with a mighty effort he
forced it down.
"There it is!" he said. "And now to reward me for--not getting it
undone, will you let me give you this flower?" and he stooped and
picked a red rose.
Margaret started slightly and looked at him; but the handsome face wore
its frankest, "goodest" look, and with a laugh she held out her hand.
He drew it back with an answering laugh.
"Before I give it to you, will you tell me one thing, Miss Hale?"
"That depends," she said, "upon what the thing is."
"It's not much," he said. "Only this: will you tell me that you don't
think I am quite the savage you accused me of being yesterday?"
She looked up at him with a faint color in her face.
"Yes, I will do that," she said. "But I think you should keep the rose,
Lord Leyton."
"No," he said, laughingly, but with an intent look in his eyes, fixed
upon her. "No, I've got a fancy for leaving something behind me that
you may remember me by. I'm going to-morrow, you know."
"I did not know," said Margaret.
"Yes," with a sigh. "My welcome to the Court is soon outworn, and I'm
back to London and the old road," with a laugh.
Margaret stood with averted face.
"Is--is it so inevitable, that same road? Is there no other, my lord?"
she said.
"No, I'm afraid not, my lady," he said, smiling, but rather gravely.
"I think there must be, that there might be if you cared to take it,"
she said, gravely.
"If you cared that I should take it--I mean"--he broke off quickly,
for she had looked alarmed at his words and their tone--"I mean that
it's very good of you to care what becomes of a useless fellow like me,
and----"
"Margaret!" called Mrs. Hale's voice from the open window.
Margaret started.
"Good-night, my lord," she said, hurriedly, and yet with simple dignity.
"Stop," he said, in a low voice; "you have forgotten your rose," and,
following her a step or two, he touched her arm. "It is not a very
grand one; there was a bowl of beauties in my room: some good soul had
pick--" he stopped, for the color rose to Margaret's face. "_You_ put
them there!" he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. "_You_!"
"I--I did not know----" she said, faltering, and trying to speak
proudly.
"Oh, don't destroy my pleasure by explaining that you did not mean them
for me!" he pleaded. "You put them there at any rate. Will you let me,
in return, fix this rose in your shawl? We shall be more than quits
then on my side!"
Oh, Margaret, put back the proffered flower! Red stands in the language
of magic for all that is evil, for a passion that will burn into ashes
of pain; put back the hand that offers it to you!
But he was too quick. Gently, reverently he fixed the rose in the
meshes of the antimacassar, and, as he put it straight with a caressing
touch, he murmured:
"Good-night! Try and remember me, Miss--Margaret, at any rate as long
as the rose lives!"
Red as the flower itself, trembling with a feeling that was painfully
like the stab of conscience, Margaret glanced up at him, and without a
word, sped from his side.
Lord Leyton stood looking after her, as strange an expression in his
face as her own had worn.
Then with a long sigh he went back to the seat and threw himself down
into it, in the place where she had sat.
Half an hour passed; the nightingale for which Margaret had been
waiting came out and sang for him; but the song gave him no delight,
for in his whirling brain its notes seemed to take the shape of words:
words of such sad, strange import! "Spare her!--spare her!" the bird
seemed to sing; and as if he could not endure the appeal any longer, he
rose impatiently and walked toward the terrace.
As he did so, a tall, skulking figure moved snake-like after him.
Lord Blair stopped at the bottom of the steps, and the shadow pursuing
him stopped also, and raised a heavy stick.
For a moment it hovered evilly over Lord Blair's head, then, as if
smitten by a sudden remorse or a desire for a still deeper revenge,
Pyke let the stick fall, and, slinking back, disappeared amongst the
shrubs.