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THE MASTER OF BERYL HEIGHTS
HE next morning as Lynne knelt
by her window in the early sun
shine, pulling a rose to pieces,
petal by petal, while she murmur
ed, “He loves, loves notthe fra
grance of a cigar floated uo to
her, and she suddenly left off try
ing her fate with a blush at her
own weakness. And none too soon,
T
for Garnet Earl passed at the moment with
a brace of hounds at his heels. He was re
turning from a fruitless hunt, and his clothes
were adorned with conspicuous mud splashes,
and it may be supposed that his mood was
correspondingly unamiable. As he was going
around the corner of the house he saw Lynne
and came back, lifting his hat gallantly, his
good humor restored. “Up already,” and his
voice indicated his delight at this evident
fact, “would it be too much to ask you to
take pity on a poor lonesome fellow and come
down?” Lynne inclined her head with pro
voking archness.
“Certainly not, Mr. Earl.”
He waited to be obeyed, but as she took
up a handful of rose leaves and slowly loos
ened them, one by one, like crimson fire-flies
in the air above his head, he saw the point.
He threw away his cigar, and kneeling with a
grace that was as perfect in one sense, as it
was ludicrous in another, he lifted his arms
and said with musical accent:
“I beseech you, lady fair,
If you’d keep me from despair,
To hear and heed at once my prayer,
And come down, byway of the stair.”
After which he arose, a sudden stateliness
in his manner, as he walked, to all appear
ance, lost in meditation. Lynne looked down
in wondering astonishment and saw Dr. Gor
don superbly mounted, riding out of the back
gate. Garnet’s glance followed her’s as he
explained, “One can afford to amuse a friend
if the occasion happens to be peculiarly
tempting, but I don’t like a Heidelbergian as
principal spectator.” And then he added,
with irresistible dignity, “Miss Lynne, I
would be greatly indebted to you if you would
come.” Lynne blushed softly, and smiled a
little as she left the window, and he threw
a kiss after her vanishing figure. He walked
around then to the front door and stood
watching her as she tripped down the wide
stair case to him. How cool and fair she
looked, in spite of her black dress, with that
dainty, lace-trimmed apron on, which was
fastened on the side of her waist with a huge
muslin bow, while her hair was caught back
in one large glittering plait, and tied at her
neck with ribbon loops.
“Accept my thanks,” Garnet said, as she
stopped on the last step. “Have you any idea
why I was so persistent ? Can you guess what
I wanted with you?”
“To play a game of croquet ?”
“No, but come.” She followed him through
the hall and side back yard, full of pleasant
expectancy, but as she liked walking with
him, she only pulled her hat a little lower
over her eyes so that he might not see into
them at every glance, and asked no questions.
He paused at a set of orchard bars that
guarded just now a world of blossoms and
fruit from desecration. Browsing near them
in a slant of sunshine, was a beautiful horse,
with apple blossoms in his black mane. Lynne
gazed at him in unaffected admiration.
“I wish I was,” she said slowly, “only I
don’t think I do, either—Rosa Bonheur.”
Garnet was puzzled.
“Why did you correct yourself?”
“Because,” she answered, hesitating, “she
has served her apprenticeship to art, and
By Odessa Strickland Payne, Author of the “Mission Girl”, “Esther FerralVs Experiment”, Etc.
CHAPTER XI.
The Golden Age for June 1, 1911.
won the right to be great. She has done what
no other artist has; she has idealized the
brute world, or at least painted animals so
that men admire them on canvas.” She
broke off with a smile “but that is not an
swering you. Well, there is something with
in me which rebels against the idea of wish
ing to be anybody else but myself.”
“And besides,” said Garnet in a pleasant
tone of banter, “you intend to be great your
self, some day, if I remember rightly.”
“Intention can not make me so,” she said
with a half impatient sigh. “And what intel
lect I have may be merely appreciative, and
my ambition and enthusiasm are evidences
of nothing. lam young, and I have read that
‘all birds will sing at dawn; but none mistake
the chaffering swallow for the holy lark.”
He let down one or two bars then, and gave
a shrill whistle. The horse looked up and
neighed, and in a moment was at his mas
ter’s side, rubbing his head against his shoul
der.
“What is his name, Mr. Earl?”
“He is a recent purchase, and hasn’t any.
I should be very much obliged to you if you
would give him a name. Will you?”
“Certainly, if I can think of one that will
please you.”
As they stood together thus by the orchard
bars, in the early morning brightness, they
made, all unconsciously, a charming picture
of youth and happiness. Garnet, with one
hand at rest upon the proud arch of his
horse’s neck, w r as watching Lynne with eyes
of tenderest contemplation; while she, stand
ing a little in front of him, swung her hat by
the strings softly to and fro, thoughtful over
his request. Suddenly she stepped upon the
lowest bar, and leaning over laid her hand
in a light caress on the horse’s head.
“I name you Steelfieet,” she said; “may
you be true and fast, and never fail your
master.”
“Charming!” Garnet ejaculated. “I thank
you. I like the name very much, and its
meaning.” And then patting the horse af
fectionately, he added naively as a school
boy might, “we will never forget Miss Lynne,
will we, Steelfleet; never?”
Lynne laughed as they turned away. “I
know nothing about a horse’s memory, but I
know what Mrs. Browning says of a man’s.”
“What is it?”
She answered him as they reached the back
steps, looking down at him over her shoul
der:
“That they can remember —half a year.”
And with a smile she vanished into his
aunt’s private sitting room, and he picked up
the sun hat she had dropped on the hall floor,
and looked at the soft white muslin lining,
something like any other mortal would have
looked at the discarded crown of an angel.
CHAPTER XII.
One afternoon, when the air was warm
with June sunshine, slanting in golden lines
across the terraces at Beryl Heights, Garnet
came down the wide stairs with a cigar in
his mouth, and a volume of Shakespeare in
his hand. He had evidently been enjoying
some of the royalties peculiar to his sex, and
as a consequence, perhaps, was in a marvel
ous good humor. He went into the sitting
room, where he discoverd Lynne and Floyd
keeping each othqr company by seeming un
conscious of each other’s presence. Garnet
had been a guest for several days at the
mansion, and he doubtless knew that the re
lations existing between the two young la
dies were not altogether agreeable. He toss
ed his cigar out of the window, and wisely
took up a neutral position by the center table.
He appropriated a Japan lily from the silver
salver at his elbow, and proceeded to dissect
it with masculine indifference, anticipating
their expostulation—in vain. The young la
dies seemed devoid of aesthetic sympathies.
He next made several strikingly original crit
icisms upon the government, society and the
church. But his audience sat unmoved. He
was forced at last to accept the inspiration
of an idea which the white gleam of a road
visible through the nearest window sug
gested.
“Couldn’t I tempt you ladies,” he said in
his rich, persuasive voice, “to join me in a
ride to Valombrosa?”
He was so irresistible, at least at that mo
ment, that one of them, smiling a little, look
ed up shyly.
“It is a beautiful old place, if it is mine,”
he went on, encouraged, “and a canter over
there this afternoon would be simply delight
ful. Can I prevail on either or both of you
to go?”
Miss Gordon would have been only too glad
to have gone with the gallant Harvard-man,
if Lynne Heywood had not been included in
the invitation. As it was, he felt that the
emphasis of her refusal would have been in
better taste if it had not been so much em
phasized.
“How preposterous, Mr. Earl; a horseback
ride in this climate at this season. Why, it
is obliged to be simply an exhilirating species
of torture—which I am sure, when you con
sider it, you will forgive me for declining.”
He turned with perfect equanimity to his
cousin’s young ward.
“I hope you will not refuse to go, too, Miss
Lynne? Not so much on my own account, I
assure you, as because I know that you will
be more than compensated for the—shall we
say martyrdom of the ride?”
Garnet walked over to where Lynne sat,
then, and leaning with indolent grace against
the window frame, urged her to go with such
earnestness that Floyd colored and bit her
lip, piqued into a feeling of absolute jealousy
of this girl whom she had mentally charac
terized so unflatteringly on the first day of
her arrival at Beryl Heights. But she almost
doubted the evidence of her own eyes as she
saw him bend down and put a peremptory
hand over her book, while he persisted with
something very like vehement eloquence:
“You must go! It is such a dear old place.
My mother lived her life out within its walls,
and I want you to see it, you who have an
ideal of everything, and tell me what Valom
brosa lacks of being a perfect home.”
“Somebody in it,” Floyd commented bit
terly but softly, while she listened with a
serene air of indifference for Lynne’s reply.
“I would like very much indeed to go, I as
sure you, Mr. Earl. I cannot think of any
thing I would enjoy more; but I am afraid
Mrs. Gordon will not allow me to go horse
back.”
“Bah! trust me to manage my aunt,” and
the handsome young arrogant walked out of
the room and whistled merrily down the hall,
perfectly assured beforehand of his success.
Miss Gordon broke rather brusquely into
Lynne’s cogitations, as she sat waiting with
an eagerness she could not conceal for Gar
net’s return:
“If my aunt should consent for you to go
with Mr. Earl, have you a riding habit?”
“No,” Lynne explained, annoyed, as Floyd
had intended, by the question, “but I have a
long black dress which I made at school to
wear in a tableau, that may possibly answer.”
“Veni, vidi, vici,” Garnet announced jubi
lantly from the threshold. “Miss Lynne,
please get ready as soon as possible; and I
will order out the horses.”
(Continued on Page 16.)
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