Lord Kilgobbin

'You know very little about it,' said she saucily; then, bending over the drawing, she said, 'That middle distance wants a bit of colour: you shall aid me here.'

'How am I to aid you?' asked he, in sheer simplicity.

'I mean that you should be that bit of colour. There, take my scarlet cloak, and perch yourself yonder on that low rock. A few minutes will do.

Was there ever immortality so cheaply purchased! Your biographer shall tell that you were the figure in that famous sketch--what will be called in the cant of art, one of Nina Kostalergi's earliest and happiest efforts. There, now, dear Mr. Donogan, do as you are bid.'

'Do you know the Greek ballad, where a youth remembers that the word "dear"

has been coupled with his name--a pa.s.sing courtesy, if even so much, but enough to light up a whole chamber in his heart?'

'I know nothing of Greek ballads. How does it go?'

'It is a simple melody, in a low key.' And he sang, in a deep but tremulous voice, to a very plaintive air--

'I took her hand within my own, I drew her gently nearer, And whispered almost on her cheek, "Oh, would that I were dearer."

Dearer! No, that's not my prayer: A stranger, e'en the merest, Might chance to have some value there; But I would be the dearest.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'True, there is no tender light there,' muttered he, gazing at her eyes]

'What had he done to merit such a hope?' said she haughtily.

'Loved her--only loved her!'

'What value you men must attach to this gift of your affection, when it can nourish such thoughts as these! Your very wilfulness is to win us--is not that your theory? I expect from the man who offers me his heart that he means to share with me his own power and his own ambition--to make me the partner of a station that is to give me some pre-eminence I had not known before, nor could gain unaided.'

'And you would call that marrying for love?'

'Why not? Who has such a claim upon my life as he who makes the life worth living for? Did you hear that shout?'

'I heard it,' said he, standing still to listen.

'It came from the village. What can it mean?'

'It's the old war-cry of the houseless,' said he mournfully. 'It's a note we are well used to here. I must go down to learn. I'll be back presently.'

'You are

'And if I were, who is to care for it?'

'Have you no mother, sister, sweetheart?'

'No, not one of the three. Good-bye.'

'But if I were to say--stay?'

'I should still go. To have your love, I'd sacrifice even my honour.

Without it--' he threw up his arms despairingly and rushed away.

'These are the men whose tempers compromise us,' said she thoughtfully. 'We come to accept their violence as a reason, and take mere impetuosity for an argument. I am glad that he did not shake my resolution. There, that was another shout, but it seemed in joy. There was a ring of gladness in it.

Now for my sketch.' And she reseated herself before her easel. 'He shall see when he comes back how diligently I have worked, and how small a share anxiety has had in my thoughts. The one thing men are not proof against is our independence of them.' And thus talking in broken sentences to herself, she went on rapidly with her drawing, occasionally stopping to gaze on it, and humming some old Italian ballad to herself. 'His Greek air was pretty.

Not that it was Greek; these fragments of melody were left behind them by the Venetians, who, in all l.u.s.t of power, made songs about contented poverty and humble joys. I feel intensely hungry, and if my dangerous guest does not return soon, I shall have to breakfast alone--another way of showing him how little his fate has interested me. My foreground here does want that bit of colour. Why does he not come back?' As she rose to look at her drawing, the sound of somebody running attracted her attention, and turning, she saw it was her foot-page Larry coming at full speed.

'What is it, Larry? What has happened?' asked she.

'You are to go--as fast as you can,' said he; which being for him a longer speech than usual, seemed to have exhausted him.

'Go where? and why?'

'Yes,' said he, with a stolid look, 'you are.'

'I am to do what? Speak out, boy! Who sent you here?'

'Yes,' said he again.

'Are they in trouble yonder? Is there fighting at the village?'

'No.' And he shook his head, as though he said so regretfully.

'Will you tell me what you mean, boy?'

'The pony is ready?' said he, as he stooped down to pack away the things in the basket.

'Is that gentleman coming back here--that gentleman whom you saw with me?'

'He is gone; he got away.' And here he laughed in a malicious way, that was more puzzling even than his words.

'And am I to go back home at once?'

'Yes,' replied he resolutely.

'Do you know why--for what reason?'

'I do.'

'Come, like a good boy, tell me, and you shall have this.' And she drew a piece of silver from her purse, and held it temptingly before him. 'Why should I go back, now?'

'Because,' muttered he, 'because--' and it was plain, from the glance in his eyes, that the bribe had engaged all his faculties.

'So, then, you will not tell me?' said she, replacing the money in her purse.

'Yes,' said he, in a despondent tone.

'You can have it still, Larry, if you will but say who sent you here.'

'_He_ sent me,' was the answer.

'Who was he? Do you mean the gentleman who came here with me?' A nod a.s.sented to this. 'And what did he tell you to say to me?'

'Yes,' said he, with a puzzled look, as though once more the confusion of his thoughts was mastering him.