Puck — February 27, 1878 — page 17: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

reached out for his crutch and was following the ladies into the adjoining room before Mrs. Marriott had decided how to tell him that he was free to please himself about going or stay- ing. If George had any fears that he would offend his host's prejudices by broaching any startling theories, they were soon dispelled. He steered clear of all dangerous topics, and delighted the squire with his bright tal ind ready interest in everything, from’ magisterial duties and the old ruins at Stevebury to the latest reaping machine and the judicious felling of timber. He had a curious power of adapta- tion, and seemed thoroughly at home in the pursuits and surroundings of the old-fashioned country gentleman, even though, as he frankly avowed, he had never himself owned a square inch of land. Nevertheless he was not sorry when he found himself again in the drawing-room and alone with Gertrude. Mrs. Marriott had retired up- stairs to nurse a headache, and presently the squire and George departed to pay their weekly visit to the stables. “That is part of my father's religion,” ex- plained Gertrude; ‘it is a sort of royal pro- gress. I am sure the horses expect him, and my pretty Sibyl always has her nose over the half door waiting for her Sunday apple.” “And she will wait in vain,” said Lovel. “I suppose I ought to ask you not to stand on ceremony with me.” The girl smiled, he made the suggestion so grudgingly. But she did not adopt it. If he had been well and active she would have left him without any scruple; now she only said lightly that Sibyl would be all the better for practicing patience. “Did you ever see anything so brilliant as that bit of scarlet and yellow foliage yonder ?” exclaimed Lovel rather abruptly. “What a pity it won't last!” The little ruse succeeded, for she came to the window and sat down near him. “Never mind; it will repeat itself next “ But I shall not be here to see. It sounds alarmingly sentimental to say so, but there és something mournful about autumn, at least about such an autumn day as this. A Novem- ber fog is not mournful; it is revolting.” “We don’t often get November fogs up here,” said Gertrude, zealous for the honor of Aston, ‘ though we see them below us in the valley yonder.” “With a pleasant sense of superiority. 1 suppose, now, you care for every stick and stone about this place?” “That Ido. 1 remember when I was a little girl my notion of Paradise was exactly like this home of mine, and I’m not sure that it has altered much since.” “Well, it is a home to care for. I’ve won- dered sometimes,” pursued Lovell reflectively, “ what it would be like to have one’s affections all centred on one spot of earth.” “Isn't there any one spot of earth that is much to you ?” she asked. “No. I've been a vagrant all my days. My father was at/ache at one or two foreign courts, and after his death my mother went from one big city to another. I’m much more at home in Rome or Dresden than in the woods and pastures of my native land.” “I think you have lost something.” “Perhaps; but there’s compensation in most things: at least such is my experience.” There was a short silence. She was wonder- ing whether he had found any compensation for his own bodily misfortune, when he said suddenly: “ How tame those cattle are! Look at that creature yonder rubbing its head against the gardener’s shoulder.” “1 can show you something much more curious than that.” Opening the window, she crossed the terrace bareheaded, and ran down the stone steps to the lawn. In another minute she was leaning against the fence, and there came over the grass her voice singing a slow monotonous bal- lad. The cattle heard it and stopped feeding to lift their heads and listen. Then one or two moved a pace or so nearer, more followed, and soon the whole herd were wending their way, as though drawn by a spell, towards the spot where she was standing. She turned her head to see if Lovel were watching the success of her lure, and he waved his hand in response. Just then George and her father joined her, the squire soon coming on to the house while George lingered behind. Lovel was vexed at the ma? apropos remark which spirited Gertrude from his side, vexed with George for detaining her, vexed most of all with himself for his own vexation. . He sat returning such answers as he might to the squire’s cheery remarks, but chaf- ing inwardly as he saw the cousins caressing the polished horns of the Alderneys and finally strolling away together. Why couldn’t he go too? Why was he kept there like a bird with a broken wing? So he asked himself in an unwonted access of bitterness. ‘The early twilight was just setting in when Gertrude reappeared with a bright color in her cheeks. She held in her hand some of the leaves he had admired, but he hardly looked at her or at them when she showed them to him. “See, there are my spoils, and Sybil has had her apple. I took pity on her, after all.” “Did you?” he returned briefly. He was feeling very savage, and wanted somehow to show it. Her next words, however, went far to dispel his wrath. “Shall I play to you? I often play on these winter afternoons between the lights. My father | likes it; and he glanced at the squire, who newspaper in hand, was dropping into a doze. No one else was in the room. “Do,” he said, as laconically as before, but | in a very different tone. She went away to the | piano in the far corner of the room, and began | to play a requiem from memory, then she passed on into a chant. The dusk drew on fast. | There was only the firelight gleaming fitfully in the lofty room. Presently the dull thud of | Lovel’s crutch sounded on the carpet. Gertrude did not tarn her head or speak, but she knew that he had let himself down on a low settee near her. Once when she paused for a minute, he said softly, “Pray, go on.” She could only see the dark outline of his figure, but the faint crimson glow lighted on her face as she played and he watched her. At last the music stopped, and, still sitting as they were, they fell into a low-voiced talk. How long it lasted neither of them guessed, but they were both startled when the butler, bring- inginthelamps, interrupted them. As Gertrude went off to dress for dinner, Mr. Marriott awoke from his slumber. “I've been bad company, I'm afraid,” he said apologetically. “I've a terrible trick of napping, but I hope Gertrude has taken care of you. Where's George, I wonder?” “In the library wri Miss Marriott has been giving me some music. T had no idea it was so late.” It was much later when the friends drove away from the Bury that night. “Mind you soon come again,” called out Mr. Marriott as he stood in the doorway speed- ing the parting guests, and two voices answered back out of the darkness, “ Yes, yes, we will.” And they kept their word. In one way or another, sometimes in the tumbledown inn-fly, sometimes in the dainty little pony-carriage, Lovel found his way up the hill again and “ Oh, that is nothing,” she returned eagerly. | again. Mr. Marriott plumed himself on keep- | ig letters, I believe. ing open house, and there was no doubt that, as George had said, Lovel was good company, or rather he could be, for he varied much in his moods. Sometimes he was in high spirits, ready for laughter, repartee, or discussion; at others he would ‘sit for a long spell silently musing or turning over some volume culled out of Mr. Marriott’s store. When it happened, as it often did, that George was out hunting or shooting, and’ that he came alone, he would get through some desultory writing in the lib- rary, pleading the great convenience of those wellfilled shelves, and would afterwards beguile Gertrude into criticism on his work. Once or twice he even hunted out some pet book and read aloud to her and to her mother. And if Mrs. Marriott was not especially edified or en- tertained, at least she kept up a fair show of: attention. He was so reading late one after- noon, about three weeks after his coming to the Grange. ‘The dry had been wét and dreary, strangely unlike that first bright Sunday, and now the wind had risen and was sighing and moaning ominously among the leafless trees in the park. Mrs. Marriott, in her own especial corner, was knitting muffetees; and Gertrude, having wound her last skein of worsted in a ball, sat in a low rocking-chair, her hands crossed on her knees, gazing into the fire. Just behind her, George leant over the round centre table deep in the study of the country paper. ‘There was no sound within the room except the crackling of the fresh logs and Lovel’s low distinct voice; even Jack was quiet, lying with shut eyes at his mistress’s feet. Lovel broke off as asudden scud of rain beat against the window-panes. “There is a hurricane coming up,” he said quietly. “I shouldn't wonder if we were wea- ther-bound to-night.” “It sounds stormy,” Mrs. Marriott rejoined rather hastily, “‘ but it may clear; it often does towards evening.”” No one spoke again. Gertrude was softly pulling Jack's drooping ears. George did not raise his head from the paper; he had grown a trifle morose of late. Lovel took up his book again and went on reading. His prophecy came true. Before the evening set in, a fierce tempest of wind and hail was raging round the house. It was not a night to turn a dog out of doors, so the squire pronounced; and yet his wife only faintly seconded his hospitable man- date that both his guests should sleep under his roof. Kind-hearted as she was to one and all, full of pity for Lovel’s infirmity, she would rather in her secret soul that he should have gone back to the Grange that night; she would rather that he spent no more evenings or morn- ings at Aston. But stay he did; and before the next noon came round, the fear that she had hardly owned to herself, and that had seemed too preposterous to whisper even to her husband, had found more than its fulfilment. For Gertrude had learnt from Lovel's lips, with a joy that seemed strange even to herself, that he loved her, and had owned that she re- turned his love. (To be continued.) An exchange asks: ‘ Was Hamlet Mad?” He was. Some fellow threw a vegetable at him in the ghost scene.—Norristown Herald. Tue President of the Commercial Travelers’ Association is missing. Amount not stated.— Oil City Derrick. No use of tendering the Czar a drink ina silver goblet now; he is after the Golden Horn. —Cin. Sat. Night. A Utica doctor is about to run a telephone from his office to the residences of his patients. Death is being made-easier every year.— Utica Observer. +