Charles Garvice - Wild Margaret

"And how long have you been here?" he asked.

"I came last night, my lord," said Margaret.

"Last night? Yes. And you were on a voyage of discovery – "

"Oh, no, no!" she broke in, quickly. "I was looking for Mrs. Hale, and – opened the wrong door; when I came into the corridor outside I saw the pictures, and" – her color rose – "I was tempted to come in," and, with an inclination of the head, she was moving away.

His voice stopped her.

"Are you fond of pictures?" he asked, as one of his age and attainments would ask a child.

"Yes," said Margaret, simply, refraining even from adding, "very."

His glance grew absent.

"Most of your sex are," he said, musingly. "All life is but a picture to most of them. The surface, the surface only" – he sighed very faintly and wearily, and was pacing on, to Margaret's immense relief, as if he had forgotten her, when he stopped, as if moved by a kindly impulse, and said: "Pray come here when you please. The pictures will be glad of your company; they spend a solitary life too often. Yes, come when you please."

"Thank you, my lord," said Margaret, quietly, and without any fuss.

Perhaps the reserved and quiet response attracted his attention.

"Which was the picture I saw you admiring when I came in?" he asked. "You were admiring it, I think?"

"It was the head by Guido, my lord," she answered.

He looked at her quickly.

"How did you know it was Guido's?" he asked, and he went and stood before the picture, looking from it to her.

Margaret stared. How could it be possible for any intelligent person not to know!

"It is easy to tell a Guido, my lord," she said, with a slight smile. "One has only to see one of them once, and I have seen them in the National Gallery fifty – a hundred times."

He looked at her, not curiously – the Earl of Ferrers, famed for his exquisite courtesy, could not have done that – but with a newly-born interest.

"Yes? Do you recognize other masters here? This, for instance," and he raised his hand; it stood out like snow in front of the violet velvet, and a large amethyst on the forefinger gleamed redly in the downward light.

"That is a Carlo Dolci, my lord; but not a very good one."

"Right in both assertions," he said, with a smile. "And this?"

"A Rubens, and a very fine one," she said, forgetting his presence and grandeur, and approaching the picture. "I have never seen more beautiful coloring in a Rubens – but I have not seen the Continental galleries. It would look better still if it were not hung so near that De la Roche; the two clash. Now, if the other Rubens on the opposite side were placed – " but she remembered herself, and stopped suddenly, confused and shamefaced.

"Pray go on," he said gently. "You would hang them side by side. Yes. You are right! Tell me who painted this!" and he inclined his head toward a heavy battle piece.

"I do not know, my lord," said Margaret.

He smiled.

"It is a pleasant discovery to find that your knowledge is not illimitable," he said. "It is a Wouvermans."

Margaret looked at it, and her brows came together, after a fashion peculiar to her when she was thinking deeply, displeased, or silent under pressure.

"Well?" he said, as if he had read her thoughts; "what would you say?"

"It is not a Wouvermans, my lord," she said.

The earl smiled, and stood with folded hands regarding her.

"No, my lord. That is, I think not. It is not even a copy, but an imitation – oh, forgive me!" she broke off, blushing.

"No, no!" he said, gently; "there is nothing to forgive. Tell me why you think so? But I warn you – " and he smiled with mock gravity – "this picture cost several thousand pounds!"

"I can't help it," said Margaret, desperate on behalf of truth. "It is not a Wouvermans! He never painted a horse like that – never! I have copied dozens of his pictures. I should know a horse of his if I met it in the streets, my lord," and her eyebrows came together again in almost piteous assertion.

He looked at the picture keenly; then, with a slight air of surprise, he said:

"I think you are right! But it is a clever forgery – "

"Oh, clever!" said Margaret, with light scorn.

"Are you an artist?" he asked, after a second's pause.

"Yes, my lord," she said, modestly.

"Yes! Ah, I understand your inability to keep outside the gallery. An artist" – his piercing eyes rested on her downcast face – "my pictures are honored by your attention, Miss Hale. Permit me to repeat my invitation. I hope you will pay the gallery many visits. If you should care to copy any of the pictures, pray do so!"

"Oh, my lord!" said Margaret, and her face lit up as if a ray of sunlight had passed across it.

There was no ill-bred admiration in his gray eyes, only a deep and steady regard.

"Copy any you choose," he said. "As to the De la Roche – "

He paused, for a hurried footstep was heard behind them, and Mrs. Hale's voice anxiously calling "Margaret."

At sight of the earl she stopped short, turned pale, and dropped a profound curtsey.

"Oh, my lord! I – we – beg your pardon! My granddaughter lost her way – " then she seemed unable to go any further.

The earl turned to her with the calm, impassive manner he had worn when Margaret had seen him first.

"Do not apologize, Mrs. Hale," he said. "Your granddaughter is perfectly welcome. She is an artist, I hear?"

"Yes, my lord," faltered the old lady, as if she were confessing some great sin of Margaret's.

"Yes, and a capable one I am sure. She will probably like to copy some of the pictures. Please see that she is not disturbed."

Then, leaving the old lady overwhelmed and bewildered, he inclined his head to Margaret and moved away. But as he raised the heavy curtain at the end of the gallery, he turned and looked aside at her with a grave smile.

"The De la Roche shall be re-hung, and the false Wouvermans removed." Then murmuring "would that it were as easy to depose every other false pretender!" he let the curtain fall and disappeared.

Margaret stood looking after him, her brows drawn together dreamily, and seemed to awake with a start when, with a gasp, the old lady turned to her, exclaiming:

"Well, Margaret! To think that the earl – that his lordship – that – that – When I came in and saw him with you here I felt fit to sink into the ground! Oh, my dear, how ever did you come here?"

"'My wayward feet were wont to stray,'" quoted Margaret, with a laugh.

"What do you say?"

"Oh, it was only a line from a poem, grandmamma. I lost my way, and the earl came in and found me – "

"And – and spoke? And he wasn't angry? My dear, if I had been in your place, I should have longed for the earth to open and swallow me up!"

Margaret laughed softly.

"Of course you mustn't pay any attention to what he said: you mustn't take advantage of his offer about the copying of the pictures. Copy the pictures! Good gracious! as if you'd take such a liberty!"

Margaret opened her eyes.

"I certainly did think of taking it," she said.

"Oh, dear, no; it would never do!" exclaimed the old lady. "It was only politeness on his part to make you feel at your ease, and to show that he wasn't angry. As to his meaning it, why of course he didn't!"

"I had an impression that great noblemen like the earl always meant what they said; but that's only my ignorance, grandma, and, of course, I'll do as you wish. But," with a wistful glance down the gallery, "I had looked forward to painting some of them."

"Well, never mind, my dear," said the old lady soothingly; "you can come and look at them – sometimes, when the earl's out or away from the Court. It would never do for him to find you here again."