Major Moncrief was as good as his word, and joined his friend before the
stipulated ten days had expired. Nor had time hung heavily on Wilton's
hands. He was up early, and turned out every day to tramp through the
heather, or among the wooded valleys of the picturesque country
surrounding the lodge. He was an active pedestrian and a good shot;
moreover, he went thoroughly into the pursuit or amusement that engaged
him. The game-keeper pronounced him a real sportsman, but thought it
rather odd that, whatever line of country they had beaten, or were going
to beat, Colonel Wilton generally contrived to pass across the brae, or
the path leading from Brosedale to Monkscleugh. The evening was
generally spent in arranging and correcting his Crimean and Indian
diaries, so, with the help of a couple of horses, which arrived under
the care of his soldier servant, he had no lack of amusement and
occupation. Nevertheless, he welcomed Moncrief very warmly.
"You are a first-rate fellow for joining me so soon. It certainly is
not good for man to live alone. These are capital quarters--lots of
game, beautiful country, hospitable neighbors. Look here! I found these
when I came in yesterday."
So spoke Wilton, handing a card and a note to his friend as they drew
near the fire after dinner.
"Hum!--ah!--Sir Peter, or rather Lady Fergusson has lost no time,"
returned the major, laying down the card, which was inscribed "Sir Peter
J. Fergusson, Brosedale," and, opening the note, which bore a crest and
monogram in lilac and gold, "her ladyship is anxious we should partake
of the hospitality of Brosedale on Thursday next, '_sans cérémonie_.' I
am to bring my friend Colonel Wilton."
"Who are these people?" asked Wilton, as he peeled a walnut.
"Oh, Sir Peter is a man who made a big fortune in China; a very decent
little fellow. He married an Honorable widow with a string of daughters,
who manages a happy amalgamation of her old and her new loves by styling
herself the Honorable Lady Fergusson. Sir Peter bought a large estate
here for a song when the Grits of Brosedale smashed up. I met the
baronet in London at General Maclellan's, and my lady was monstrously
civil; hoped to see me when I was in their neighborhood, and all that;
but, of course, Wilton, you will not go? We did not come down here for
polite society--it would be a bore."
Wilton did not answer immediately. "I do not know," he said, at last.
"It would not do to give such near neighbors the cold shoulder. We might
be glad of them if we tire of each other. Suppose we go this time, and
see what sort of neighbors we have?"
Moncrief looked at his friend with some surprise. "As you like," he
said. "I should have thought it anything but a temptation to you."
"My dear fellow, the weather and the sport and the scenery have made me
so confoundedly amiable that I am indisposed to say 'No' to any one."
"Very well, I will write and accept; but if you think I am going to dine
with every resident who chooses to enliven his dulness by entertaining
two such choice spirits as ourselves, you are very much mistaken, my
lad. I suppose you are anxious to prosecute your search for a wife, in
obedience to that crotchety old peer."
"Not I," returned Wilton, laughing; "and, if I were, I do not think it
very likely I should find the desired article among the Honorable Lady
Fergusson's daughters."
"I believe Fergusson was married before," said the major, "in his
earlier, humbler days, when he little thought he would reign in the
stead of old Jammie Grits at Brosedale." Whereupon the major branched
off into some local anecdotes, which he told with much dry humor. Wilton
listened and laughed, but did not forget to put him in mind of the
necessary reply to Lady Fergusson's invitation.
The major was by no means well pleased at being obliged to dress after a
severe day's work, for which he was not as yet in training; moreover, he
was full fifteen years older than his friend, and at no period of his
life possessed the fire, the eager energy which Wilton carried with him
into every pursuit, even into every whim. So he grumbled through the
purgatorial operation, and marvelled gloomily at Wilton's unusual
readiness to rush into the inanities of a country dinner.
As to Wilton, he felt quite angry with himself for the curious elation
with which he mounted the dog-cart that was to convey them to Brosedale.
He did not think there was so much boyish folly left in him; but, occupy
himself as he might, he could not banish the haunting eyes of Ella
Rivers. He could not forget the unconscious dignity of her question, "Is
it death?" The full knowledge of danger, and yet no wild terror! There
was a fascination about that insignificant stranger which, absurd and
unreasonable though it was, he could not shake off. This effect was
heightened by the peculiar, sad indifference of her manner. It was odd
that he had never met her in any of his varied and extensive
excursions. The weather had been beautiful, too--most favorable for
sketching, but she had never appeared. If he could see her again, and
disperse the species of mystery which formed part of her charm, by
ascertaining who and what she was, he felt as if he could better break
the spell. But all this was more vaguely felt than actually thought and
acknowledged. Wilton would have laughed at any one who told him that his
thoughts were all more or less pervaded by the quiet little girl who had
shown such an unusual dislike to soldiers.
The friends reached Brosedale just as Sir Peter hoped they would not be
late. The house--which was an old one, so largely added to, altered, and
improved, that scarcely any of the original could be traced--was very
like all rich men's houses where the women have no distinctive
taste--handsome, ornate, and commonplace. Lady Fergusson was a fine,
well-preserved woman, richly dressed in silk and lace. She received
Major Moncrief and his friend with much cordiality, and presented them
to her daughters, Miss Helen and Miss Gertrude Saville, and also to a
nephew and niece who were staying in the house.
"My eldest daughter, who was with me when we had the pleasure of meeting
you in town, is staying with her aunt, Lady Ashleigh, in Wiltshire,"
said the hostess to Moncrief. "She is quite enthusiastic about
archæology, and Ashleigh is in itself a treasure of antiquity."
Miss Helen Saville was a grand, tall brunette, with rich red lips and
cheeks, luxuriant if somewhat coarse black hair, and large, round black
eyes, that looked every one and everything full in the face. Her sister
was smaller, less dark, and in every way a faint copy of the great
original. The niece was a plain girl, with good points, dressed
effectively; and the nephew a young lieutenant in some hussar regiment,
who considered himself bound to fraternize with Wilton. The latter was
told off to take in Miss Saville by Sir Peter, a small man, whose
close-clipped white whiskers looked like mutton-chop patterns thickly
floured. He had a quiet, not to say depressed air, and a generally
dry-salted aspect, which made Wilton wonder, as he stood talking with
him before the fire, at the stuff out of which the conquerors of fortune
are sometimes made.
"What a beautiful country this is!" said Wilton to his neighbor, as his
soup-plate was removed, and Ganymede, in well-fitting broadcloth, filled
his glass.
"Strangers admire it, but it is by no means a good neighborhood."
"Indeed! I suppose, then, you are driven in upon your own resources."
"Such as they are," with a smile displaying white but not regular
teeth.
"No doubt they are numerous. Let me see; what are a young lady's
resources--crochet, croquet, and curates, healing the sick and feeding
the hungry?"
"Oh, I do none of those things. The crochet, croquet, and curates, are
my sister's amusements, and I dislike both the sick and the hungry,
although I have no objection to subscribe for them."
"Ah! you are terribly destitute; and you do not ride, or I should have
met you."
"Yes, I am very fond of riding; but we have scarcely returned a week,
and I have had a bad cold."
"Perhaps you draw?" asked Wilton, approaching his object from afar.
"No; I have always preferred music. None of us care for drawing, except
my youngest sister."
"Indeed!" (looking across the table), "that is a pleasant variety from
the crochet, croquet, and curates."
"No; not Gertrude--I mean Isabel. She is still in the school-room."
"Ah! And I suppose sketches with her governess?"
"Yes."
"As I imagined," thought Wilton, "my pretty companion is the governess.
Perhaps she will be in the drawing-room when we go there. If so, I must
lay the train for some future meeting."
"Pray, Colonel Wilton, are you any relation to a Mr. St. George Wilton
we met at Baden last summer? He was, or is, _attaché_ somewhere."
"He has the honor of being my first cousin once removed, or my third
cousin twice removed--some relation, at all events. I am not at all well
up in the ramifications of the family."
"Well, he is a very agreeable person, I assure you, quite a favorite
with every one, and speaks all sorts of languages. There was a Russian
princess at Baden, quite wild about him."
"Is it possible? These fair barbarians are impressionable, however. I
have met the man you mention years ago. We were at that happy period
when one can relieve the overburdened heart by a stand-up fight, and I
have a delightful recollection of thrashing him."
Miss Saville laughed, and then said, "I hope you will be better friends
when you meet again. I believe he is coming here next week."
"Oh, I promise to keep the peace--unless, indeed, I see him greatly
preferred before me," returned Wilton, with a rather audacious look,
which by no means displeased Miss Saville, who was of the order of young
ladies that prefer a bold wooer.
While the talk flowed glibly at Sir Peter's end of the table, Lady
Fergusson was delicately cross-examining Moncrief as to the social
standing of his friend.
"Try a little melon, Major Moncrief. Pray help yourself. That port is, I
believe, something remarkable. And you were saying Colonel Wilton is
related to that curious old Lord St. George. We met a cousin of his--his
heir, in fact--abroad last year, a very charming young man."
"Not his heir, Lady Fergusson, for my friend Ralph is the heir. I am
quite sure of that."
"Indeed!" returned Lady Fergusson, blandly. "I dare say you are right;"
and her countenance assumed a softer expression while she continued to
bestow most flattering attentions upon the rather obtuse major.
The after-dinner separation seemed very long to Wilton, although he was
a good deal interested by his host's observations upon Eastern matters;
for Sir Peter was a shrewd, intelligent man; but at last they joined the
ladies, and found their numbers augmented by a little girl of twelve or
thirteen, and a rigid lady in gray silk, who was playing a duet with
Miss Gertrude Saville. Wilton betook himself, coffee-cup in hand, to
Miss Saville, who was turning over a book of photographs in a
conspicuously-disengaged position.
"I have had quite an interesting disquisition with your father on the
East and China. He evidently knows his subject."
"Sir Peter is not my father," said the young lady, with a tinge of
haughtiness.
"True. I forgot," apologetically. "Ah! that is your little
artist-sister. I am very fond of children."
"Are you? I am sure I am not, little tiresome, useless animals."
"Human nature in the raw, eh!"
"Yes; I prefer it dressed. Still, to quote an inelegant proverb, 'Too
much cookery spoils the broth!' But some is quite essential. Here,
Isabel, take my cup." The little girl approached and offered to take
Wilton's.
"No, not at any age could I permit such a thing," said he, laughing.
"And so you are the artist in the house of Saville! Are you very fond of
drawing?"
"I used not to be until--" she began to reply, when her sister
interrupted her.
"Look, Isabel, Miss Walker wants you. Miss Walker (Hooky Walker, as my
Cousin Jim calls her, because she has a hooked nose) is the governess. I
think poor Isabel is a little afraid of her. She is awfully clever, and
very slow."
Wilton looked at her in deep disappointment; the mystery was growing
more difficult. Perhaps after all, Ella Rivers did _not_ live at
Brosedale! Now he recalled all she had said, he found she had not
positively asserted that she lived there, or anywhere. Could it be
possible that she had slipped from his grasp--that he would never see
her again--was she only the wraith of a charming, puzzling girl? Pooh!
what was it to him? His business was to enjoy three or four months'
sport and relaxation. He was so far fortunate. His chum, Moncrief, had
pitched on excellent shooting quarters for their joint occupation. His
campaign had proved a very remedial measure, for he was quite clear of
his debts, and the good intentions of Lord St. George formed a pleasing
if uncertain perspective. So Wilton reflected, while Miss Helen Saville
performed a _tarantella_ of marvellous difficulty, where accidentals,
abstruse harmonious discords, and double shakes, appalled the listening
ear. When it was finished, the audience were properly complimentary,
which homage the fair performer disregarded with a cool and lofty
indifference highly creditable to her training in the school of modern
young-ladyism.
"What an amount of study must be required to attain such skill!" said
Wilton, as she returned to her seat near him. "Is it indiscreet to ask
how many hours a day it took to produce all that?"
"Oh, not so very many. When I was in the school-room, I practised four
or five; now much less keeps me in practice. Are you fond of music,
Colonel Wilton?"
"Yes, I am extremely fond of it, in an ignorant way. I like old ballads,
and soft airs, and marches, and all that low style of music suited to
outside barbarians like myself." And Wilton, instinctively conscious
that the brilliant Miss Saville admired him, bestowed a mischievous
glance upon her as he spoke, not sorry, perhaps, to act upon the
well-known principle of counter-irritation, to cure himself of the
absurd impression made upon him by his chance encounter.
"I understand," returned Miss Saville, a little piqued, as he had
intended she should be. "You look upon such compositions as I have just
played as a horrid nuisance."
"Like a certain very bad spirit, I tremble and adore," said Wilton,
laughing. "I have no doubt however, that you could charm my savage
breast, or rouse my martial fire, with 'Auld Robin Gray' or 'Scots wha
hae wi' Wallace bled.'"
"No, I cannot," replied Miss Saville, haughtily. "Gertrude sings a
little, and, I believe, can give you 'Auld Robin Gray,' if you ask her."
"I shall try, at all events," said Wilton, amused at the slight
annoyance of her tone, and rising to execute his purpose, when Helen,
to his surprise, forestalled him by calling her sister to her very
amiably, "Gertrude, will you sing for Colonel Wilton? I will play your
accompaniment." So the desired ballad was sung, very correctly and quite
in tune, but as if performed by some vocal instrument utterly devoid of
human feeling.
There was more music, and a good deal of talk about hunting
arrangements; but Wilton was extremely pleased to be once more in the
dog-cart, cigar in mouth, facing the fresh, brisk breeze, on their
homeward way. The major, on the contrary, was in a far more happy frame
of mind than at starting. He preferred hunting to shooting, and was
highly pleased at the prospect of two days' hunting a week.
"You are right, Moncrief," said Wilton, as they bowled away over the
smooth, hard road; "these country dinners and family parties ought to be
devoutly avoided by all sensible men."
"I do not know," returned the mentor. "I think they are a very tolerable
lot; and I fancy you found amusement enough with that slashing fine
girl--you took very little notice of any one else, by Jove! I sometimes
think I hate the lassies, they are such kittle cattle. Now, a woman
that's 'wooed and married and a'' is safe, and may be just as pleasant."
"I acknowledge the fact, but I object to the morality," returned
Wilton, laughing.
"You do? I was not aware of your regeneration."
"Hallo!" cried Wilton. "There's some one in front there, just under the
shadow of that beech-tree."
"Yes, I thought I saw something. It's a child or a girl."
Wilton, who was driving, did not answer, though he drew up suddenly, and
made a movement as if to throw aside the plaid that wrapped his knees
and spring down.
"What are you about? are you daft, man?"
"Nothing, nothing. I fancied--here, Byrne, look at this trace; it is
loose."
"Sure it's all right, sir."
"Is it? Never mind." And Wilton, after casting an eager look up a
pathway which led from the beech-tree into the grounds of Brosedale,
gathered up the reins and drove rapidly home.
It was about a week after the Brosedale dinner that Wilton had sallied
forth, intending to ride over to Monkscleugh. He had nearly resigned the
idea of ever encountering his fair fellow-traveller again, though he
could not shake off the conviction that the slight dim figure which had
flitted from out the shade of the beech-tree, across the moonlight, and
into the gloom of the Brosedale plantations, was that of Miss Rivers.
Still, it was most strange that she should be there at such an
hour--half-past ten at least--rather too enterprising for a young lady.
Yet, if Moncrief had not been with him, he would certainly have given
chase, and satisfied himself as to the identity of the child or woman
who had crossed their path.
On this particular afternoon, however, Wilton's thoughts were occupied
by the letters he had received that morning, one of which was from Lord
St. George, who wrote to remind him of his promise to call when he
passed through London again. The viscount also mentioned that a former
friend of his, the Earl of D----, would be in his (Wilton's)
neighborhood early in November, and would probably call upon him.
Wilton smiled as he read this, remembering that the earl had three
unmarried daughters. "A young gentleman," the writer continued, "calling
himself St. George Wilton, left a card here some days ago, and was good
enough to say that he would call again, which enabled me to forbid his
admittance. He did repeat the attempt, when he told my valet, whom he
asked to see, that he was going to Scotland, and would probably see
Colonel Wilton, if I had any commands. I imagine my obliging namesake is
a son of Fred Wilton, who was in the navy--but not exactly the type of
an honest, simple sailor. I would advise you not to be on too cousinly
terms. I have heard, even in my cell, of the young gentleman's
diplomatic astuteness."
Pondering on this epistle, and smiling at the sudden interest evinced
toward him by the eccentric peer, Wilton rode leisurely toward
Monkscleugh, enjoying the splendid golden evening tinge in the sky, the
rich and varied hues of wood and moorland, when a sudden turn in the
road brought him face to face with a slight, gray figure, wearing a
wide-brimmed hat, and carrying a small parcel. In an instant all the
half-scorned but potent longings, the vivid picture-like recollections
of tones and glances, that had haunted him even while he laughed at
himself for being pervaded by them--all these absurd fancies he had so
nearly shaken off rushed back in a torrent, and made his pulses leap at
the immediate prospect of solving many mysteries.
He was dismounted and at her side in an instant. "I thought you had
vanished--that I had lost you forever!" he exclaimed, with the sort of
well-bred impetuosity peculiar to his manner; while, seeing that she
made no motion to hold out her hand, he only lifted his hat.
The faint color came to her cheek as she raised her eyes frankly to his,
with a brighter, merrier smile than he had seen upon her lip before.
"Nevertheless, I have not been very far away."
"Have you been at Brosedale all the time--then how is it we have not
met?"
"I cannot tell; but I have been at Brosedale."
Wilton threw the reins over his arm, and walked on beside her. "And are
you all right again--recovered from your fright, and had sleep enough?"
looking at her eagerly as he spoke, and noting the soft lustre of her
eyes, the clear, pale cheek, the ripe red though not full lips, all so
much fairer and fresher than when they parted.
"Yes, I am quite well, and rested." A pause. She was apparently not
inclined to talk more than she could help.
"Do you know I quite expected to see you when I dined at Brosedale the
other day--how was it you did not appear?"
"What! did you expect to see me at dinner? Do you, then, think I am a
much-disguised princess?"
"Not so very much disguised," he replied, rather surprised at her tone.
She raised her eyes fully to his, with a look half amused, half
scornful. "You might dine many times at Brosedale without seeing me. Do
you know that Sir Peter Fergusson was married before, and he has one
son--a poor, crippled, often-suffering boy of thirteen, I think? Well,
this boy can do very little to amuse himself; he does not care for
study, but he loves pictures and drawing, so I was engaged about a year
ago to be, not his governess--I am too ignorant--nor his companion--that
would be a lady-in-waiting--but a _souffre douleur_ and teacher of
drawing. I live with my poor boy, who is never shown to visitors; and we
are not unhappy together."
"I have heard of this son, but thought he was away; and you are always
with him--very fortunate for him, but what a life for you!"
"A far better life than many women have," she replied, softly, looking
away from him and speaking as if to herself.
"Still, it is an awful sacrifice!"
She laughed with real, sweet merriment. "That depends on what has been
sacrificed. And you," she went on, with the odd independence of manner
which, had her voice been less soft and low, her bearing less gentle,
might have seemed audacious, "do you like Glenraven? Have you found many
lovely bits of scenery?"
"I am charmed with the country; and, were I as fortunate as young
Fergusson in a companion, I might even try my 'prentice hand at
sketching."
"If you will not try alone, neither will you even if Claude Lorraine
came to cut your pencils."
"I wish," said Wilton, "I had a chance of cutting yours."
"But you have not," she returned, with a sort of indolent gravity not in
the least coquettish, and a pause ensued. Wilton had seldom felt so
adrift with any woman; perfectly frank and ready to talk, there was yet
a strange half-cold indifference in her manner that did not belong to
her fair youth, and upon which he dared not presume, though he chafed
inwardly at the mask her frankness offered.
"I suppose you are kept very much in the house with your--pupil?" asked
Wilton.
"Sometimes; he has been very unwell since I came back. But he has a
pony-carriage, and he drives about, and I drive it occasionally; but it
pains him to walk, poor fellow! He is interested in some things. He
wished much to see you and hear about the Crimea and India."
"I am sure," cried Wilton, with great readiness, "I should be most happy
to see him or contribute to his amusement--pray tell him so from me."
"No, I cannot," with a shake of the head; "Lady Fergusson is so very
good she thinks everything wrong; and to walk upon a country-road with a
great man like you would be worse than wrong--it would be shocking!"
Wilton could not refrain from laughing at the droll gravity of her
tone, though in some indefinable way it piqued and annoyed him.
"Well, they are all out of the way--they have driven over to A----. Have
they not?"
"Yes, and therefore there was no one to send to Monkscleugh to choose
some prints that Donald wanted very much for a screen we are making, so
I went."
"And so at last I had the pleasure of meeting you. I had begun to fear I
should never have a chance of asking if you had recovered from your
fright; for though no woman could have shown more pluck, you must have
been frightened."
"I was, indeed, and I do not think I am naturally brave; but I must bid
you good-morning--my way lies through the plantations."
"No, no! you must not send me adrift--are we not comrades? We have faced
danger together; and I am sure you are not influenced by Lady
Fergusson's views."
"Lady Fergusson! pooh!"
There was wonderful, airy, becoming grace in the pant which seemed to
blow defiance like a kiss to the immaculate Lady Fergusson.
"Nevertheless, I must say good-by, for your horse could not get through
that."
She pointed to a small swing-gate, which led from the road to a path
across a piece of rough heath-grown ground, between the road and the
woods.
"Do you forbid me to escort you farther?" said Wilton, quickly.
She thought an instant. "Were I going to walk along the road I should
not," the faintest color stealing over her cheek as she spoke; "it is
pleasant to talk with a new person sometimes, but I cannot alter my
route."
Wilton laughed, and, mounting rapidly, rode to the farther side of the
wide waste border, where there was almost a small common; rousing up his
horse he rushed him at the fence separating Sir Peter's land from the
road, and landed safely within the boundary just as his companion passed
through the gate.
She gave a slight suppressed scream, and as he again dismounted and
joined her she looked very pale.
"How could you be so foolish as to do so!" she exclaimed, almost angry.
"You have frightened me."
"I am extremely sorry, but you can know little of country-life; any man
accustomed to hunt, and tolerably mounted, could have done as much."
She shook her head and walked on in silence, most embarrassing to
Wilton. "I hope I have not displeased you," he said, earnestly, trying
to look into her eyes; "but I thought I had your permission to accompany
you a little farther."
"Yes, but who could imagine you would commit such an eccentricity as to
take a leap like that?"
"I do not allow it was an eccentricity, I suppose you absolve me?"
"_Absolvo te!_--and the horse also. What a beautiful horse; how gently
he follows you! I should so much like to sketch him; I fear I do not
sketch animals well; I do not catch their character. Oh! could I sketch
him now!" stopping short, and speaking with great animation. "Ah! I am
too unreasonable--how could I ask you?"
The faint flitting flush that gave so much charm to her countenance, the
sudden lighting up of her dark eyes with childlike eagerness, so unlike
their usual expression of rather sad indifference, fascinated Wilton
strangely; it was an instant before he replied, "Of course you shall
sketch him; I have nothing to do, and am very glad to be of any service
to you."
"Thank you, thank you very much! See," as she hastily unfolded her
parcel, "I had just bought a new sketch-book, and you have provided a
frontispiece." She seated herself on one of the large gray stones that
dotted the piece of ground they were crossing, and quickly pointed a
pencil. "There, turn his head a little toward me--not quite so much;
that will do."
For some time Wilton stood still and silent, watching the small, white,
deft fingers as they firmly and rapidly traced the outline, or put in
the shading with broad, bold strokes; occasionally he quieted the horse
with a word, while he stored his memory with the pretty graceful figure,
from a tiny foot half-buried in the soft, short grass to the well-set,
haughty head and neck. "It is curious," he thought; "here is a girl, in
almost a menial position, with all the attributes of race, and a pair of
eyes a king's daughter might pine to possess. Who can she be? What is
her history? Why did she venture out alone when she ought to have been
going to bed? I shall ask her." These ideas passed through Wilton's
brain, although any clear continuity of thought was considerably impeded
by the intermittent glimpses of a pair of full, deep-blue eyes,
alternately upturned and downcast.
Suddenly Wilton was ordered, "Look away--over your horse's neck;" and
when, having preserved this position for several moments, he attempted
to assume a more agreeable attitude, he was met with an eager "Pray be
still for a little longer."
At last he was released.
"There," said his new acquaintance, "I will keep you no longer; you have
been very kind. See, how have I done it?"
Wilton looked eagerly at the page held out to him.
"It is wonderfully good for so hasty a sketch," he said; "the head and
foreleg are capital, and as far as I can judge, the likeness to the
back of my head first-rate."
"I can generally catch the likeness of people," she returned, looking at
the page and touching it here and there.
"Was that the reason you told me to look away?" asked Wilton, smiling.
"No; I did not wish your face in my book." Then, coloring and looking
up, "Not that I forget your kindness to me. No; but, you understand, if
Lady Fergusson found Mr.--that is, Colonel--Wilton's face in my book it
would be the most shocking--the superlative shocking! Ah, there is no
word enormous enough for such a 'shocking!'" And she laughed low but
merrily. Wilton found it catching and laughed too, though it puzzled him
to reply. She went on, "You would have come in better for the picture
had you had your soldier's dress on, holding the horse and looking thus;
and then, with some bright coloring, it might have been called 'On the
Alert,' or some such thing, and sold for a hundred pence. I have seen
this sort of sketches often in picture-shops." She spoke quickly, as if
to cover a slight embarrassment, as she put away her pencils and book.
"Well, Miss Rivers, both Omar here and myself will be most happy to
sit, or rather stand, for you whenever you like."
"Ah, I shall never have another opportunity," she replied, walking
toward the next fence and swing-gate, which led into the wood.
"You threatened as much when I bade you good-by, that I was never to see
you again, and yet we have met; so I shall not be utterly downcast by
your present prophecy."
She did not reply for a minute, and then exclaimed, "Suppose I were ever
to succeed in making painting my career, would you, when you are a great
nobleman--as Miss Saville says you will be--sit to me for your picture?
And then we should have in the catalogue of the year's exhibition,
'Portrait of the Earl--or Duke--of Blank, by Ella Rivers.'"
"I can only say I will sit to you when and where you will."
"Ah, the possibility of independent work is too charming! But I forget
myself--what o'clock is it?"
"Quarter to three," said Wilton, looking at his watch.
"Then I have been out too long. See how low the sun is! What glorious
sunset hues! But I must not stay. Oh, how I hate to go in! How I love
the liberty of the open air--the free, unwalled space! I feel another
being in the prison of a great house. If you met me there, you would
not know me. I should not dare to look up; I should speak with bated
breath, as if you were a superior. Can you fancy such a thing?"
"No; the wildest stretch of my imagination could not suggest such an
idea. But can you not keep out a little longer?" There was a strained,
yearning look in her eyes that touched Wilton to the heart.
"Impossible! My poor Donald will be cross and wretched. And you--you
must go. I am foolish to have talked so much."
"You must let me come a little farther; that fence up there is
considerably stiffer than the last, but I think Omar will take it."
"No, no, no!" clasping her hands.
"Yet you are not easily frightened. A young lady that can venture on a
moonlight ramble when less adventurous people are going to bed must have
strong nerves."
"Did you recognize me, then?" she interrupted, not in the least
disturbed by his question, but offering no explanation of her appearance
at such an hour. "Yes, I am not cowardly in some things. However, I must
say good morning."
"And you will not permit me come any farther?"
"No!"--He felt her "no" was very earnest.--"Nay, more, I will stay here
until I see you safe at the other side of that fence again."
There was a quaint, unembarrassed decision in her tone that somewhat
lessened the pleasure with which he heard her.
"I assure you, it is not worth your while to watch so insignificant a
feat of horsemanship; that fence is a nothing."
"It does not seem so to me. It is possible an accident might happen, and
then you would have no help. It would not be right to go on, and leave
you to chance."
"If you will, then, I shall not keep you long. But, Miss Rivers, shall
you not want to visit Monkscleugh soon again? Have you abjured the
picturesque braes of Glenraven? Is there no chance of another artistic
talk with you?"
"No! Scarcely any possibility of such a thing. Good-by! I am much
obliged for the sketch you granted me. My good wishes!"--a slight,
proudly-gracious bend of the head--"but go!" She stood with her parcel
tightly held, not the slightest symptom of a shake of the hand; and,
bold man of the world as he was, Wilton felt he must not presume to hold
out his; he therefore sprung into the saddle, and was soon over the
fence and on the road. He raised his hat, and received a wave of the
hand in return.
He remained there until she vanished through the gate, and then,
touching his impatient horse with the heel, rode at speed to
Monkscleugh, whence, having accomplished his errand, he made a
considerable _détour_; so that evening had closed in, and the major was
waiting for dinner when he reached the lodge.
"Where have you been?" demanded his hungry senior. Wilton replied by an
elaborate description of his progress, _minus_ the leading incident. The
care he took to mislead his friend and mask his own movements was
surprising almost to himself. Yet, as he reflected, what was there in
the whole adventure to conceal? No harm, certainly. Nor was Moncrief a
man who would jest coarsely, or draw wicked inferences. Still, it was
impossible that he or any man could understand the sort of impression
Ella (it was extraordinary how readily her name came to his mind) had
made upon him, unless he knew her; and even then, what opinion would a
cool, shrewd, common-sense fellow like Moncrief form? He (Wilton)
himself was, he feared, an impressionable idiot, and, no doubt,
exaggerated effects. Nevertheless, those soft, deep eyes, with their
earnest, yearning expression, haunted him almost painfully. If he could
see them again, perhaps the effect would wear off; and, without thinking
of the consequences, he most resolutely determined to see her as soon as
he could possibly manage to do so, without drawing down any
unpleasantness on that curious, puzzling, _piquante_ girl. Major
Moncrief little imagined the vivid gleams of recollection and conjecture
which ever and anon shot athwart the current of his companion's ideas,
as he took his part in a discussion on the probable future of the army
in India with apparent interest, and even eagerness. The major's
intelligence was keen so far as it went, but that was not far;
therefore, though good comrades and excellent friends, they seldom
agreed in opinion, Wilton's mental views being greatly wider: the result
of the difference being that Moncrief considered Wilton "a fine fellow,
but deucedly visionary--unpractical, in short," except in regimental
matters; while Wilton spoke confidentially of the major as "a capital
old boy, but blind as a bat in some directions."
"Well, I maintain that we will never have such men again as the soldiers
and diplomates trained under the old company. Why, even the officers of
the humbler grade--the Jacobs and Greens, to say nothing of Edwards and
a lot more--have very few equals in the queen's service."
"True enough," replied Wilton, a little absently. "We have too much
pipe-clay and red-tape." So spake he with his lips, while his brain was
striving busily to solve the question, "What could have brought her out
at night through the lonely woods? Was it possible that any motive less
strong than an appointment with a lover could have braced a slight,
nervous girl (for, though plucky, she is nervous) to such an
undertaking? But, if she cared enough for any one to dare it, it would
be worth braving a good deal to meet her." The picture suggested was
rather fascinating, for the major exclaimed, "I say, Wilton, are you
asleep?" and brought their discussion to an end.