"But she don't see him."

"Oh no: it is impossible; but she is so changed. I find her sometimes sitting and thinking, looking straight before her as if she were in a dream. Bring Mr Magnus here more often."

"Here?"

"Well, no; to Lawford. I'll coax papa into asking him. Oh, I say, what a capital idea!" cried Cynthia, clapping her hands. "I have it. Her portrait!"

"Her portrait!" exclaimed Artingale, starting, as he recalled the scene in his friend's studio.

"Yes; the very thing. You take him down to Gatley, and papa shall ask Mr Magnus over to Lawford to paint Julia's portrait, and then there will be such long sittings, Harry; and Mr Magnus will have to look at her so patiently, and move this hand there and that hand here, and get her into quite the correct pose. Oh, Harry, what fun!"

"Why, you cunning little witch," he exclaimed; "if Magnus does not jump at the idea, he deserves to lose her."

Then there came a little more unselfishness and a little disinterested proceeding, which was interrupted by the entrance of Julia herself, looking very pale and sad. There was a far-off, distant aspect about her eyes, as of one who was thinking deeply of some great trouble, but she smiled affectionately when Cynthia spoke, after which the conspirators exchanged glances, and Artingale went away.

PART TWO, CHAPTER SEVEN.

AN OFFER DECLINED.

They were to be busy times at the Rectory that winter, for the servants left in charge heard that there was to be a great deal of company.

The Gatley domestics too had to make preparations, for Lord Artingale intended to entertain that season. A room was set apart for Mr Magnus the great artist. Miss Mallow's brothers were expected to come over from the Rectory to shoot, and Mr Cyril Mallow, it was antic.i.p.ated, would be asked to bring his young wife and stay there at the fine old house--a fact, for Sage was a member now of the Mallow family, and Harry Artingale liked her as much as he disliked her husband.

There was plenty of gossip rife in Lawford, and on the strength of old Michael Ross saying, when he was told that Mr Magnus the painter was coming down, that his son Luke knew him, having met him at a London club, the report ran through the place that Luke Ross was getting to be quite a big man, and had become a friend of Lord Artingale.

"Not that that's much," said Fullerton, at the King's Head, "for the young lord isn't what his father was. Old Lord Artingale wouldn't have married one of Mallow's girls, I know, nor yet made boon companions of those two sons and Luke Ross."

"I don't think you need put them all together," said Tomlinson, with a sly laugh; "Luke Ross wouldn't be very good friends with the man who stole his la.s.s. If he would he's not the Luke Ross that he was when he was down here."

In due time the blinds went up at Gatley and at the Rectory, and the tradespeople who had been ready to discuss the shortcomings of the Rector were obsequious enough in soliciting his orders now the family had returned.

They had made a long stay at Hastings, for the Rector fancied it did Mrs Mallow good. She seemed to smile more, and to look brighter, he told himself, and he would stand and beam at her as he wheeled her couch to the open window when it was fine, and watch her gazing at the sea with the greatest of satisfaction.

Frank had made journeys to and from London, making at the latter place Cyril's house at Kensington his head-quarters, and frequently being his companion away from home.

Julia was no better, in spite of the opinion of the doctor, who said that she had decidedly gained tone, and that the change now to her native air would complete the cure; so the family returned to Lawford as the winter drew near, and, as a matter of course, Lord Artingale soon found his way back to Gatley.

There was some preparation too at Kilby, for Portlock said that it was his turn to have the young folks to stay.

"They may go to the rectory as much as they like, mother,"--a t.i.tle he invariably gave Mrs Portlock, on the _lucus a non lucendo_ principle,--"but I mean to have them stay here; not that I'm particularly fond of Master Cyril; but there, he's the little la.s.sie's husband, and it's all right."

"But you asked John Berry and Rue to come and bring the little ones,"

said Mrs Portlock.

"Well, I know that, old lady. Isn't Kilby big enough to hold the lot?

Let's have the place made a bit cheerful; I like to hear a good hearty shout of laughter now and then, and you've taken to do nothing else lately but grumble softly and scold."

"It's a wicked story, Joseph, and you know it," cried Mrs Portlock, as the Churchwarden turned away from her and winked at the cat; "and as for noise, I'm sure you make enough in the house without wanting more."

"Never mind, let's have more; and Cyril Mallow can shoot down the rabbits, for they're rather getting ahead."

As he spoke he had been filling his pipe, and he now took out a letter, read it, and slowly folded it up for a pipe-light, saying to himself--

"He's no business to want me to lend him a hundred pound after what I so lately did for them as a start."

James Magnus had been invited to take Julia's portrait, the Rector, artfully prompted thereto by Cynthia, accompanying the commission by a very warm invitation to stay at the rectory as much as he could while the portrait was in progress, as he heard that Mr Magnus was coming down to Gatley.

Artingale dropped in at his friends studio on the very day that he received the Rector's letter--of course by accident, based upon a hint from Cynthia; and found Magnus sitting thoughtfully by his easel, pretending to paint, but doing nothing.

"Why, Mag, you look well enough and strong enough now to thrash Hercules himself, in the person of our gipsy friend."

"Yes, I feel myself again," was the reply. "By the way, Harry, I've had an invitation to Lawford."

"Indeed! I'm very glad. I go down to-morrow."

"The Rector wishes me to paint his daughter's portrait."

"Not Cynthia's?"

"No, that of his daughter Julia."

"Why, Magnus," said Artingale, smiling to himself and laying his hand upon his friend's arm, "could you wish for a greater pleasure?"

Magnus looked at him so fixedly for a few moments that Artingale felt that he must be suspected; but it was not so, the artist only shook his head, and there was a bitter look in his face, as he spoke again.

"Pleasure!" he said; "how can it be a pleasure to me? Harry, my boy, how can you be so thoughtless. Do you think I could be guilty of so dishonourable an act?"

"Dishonourable?"

"Yes," cried Magnus pa.s.sionately. "Should I not go there on false pretences to try and win that poor girl from the man to whom she is engaged?"

"But, my dear fellow, it is a folly of her father's invention; she detests this Perry-Morton, as every right-thinking, matter-of-fact girl would. Why, the fellow dances attendance upon every woman of fashion, and deserves to be encountered with any weapon one could seize. Tell me, do you think it right that she should marry such a man?"

"No: certainly not. No more right than that she should be deluded into marrying another man she did not love."

"But she would love you, Mag. My dear fellow, don't refuse to go.

Accept the offer for Julia's sake--for Cynthia's and mine, if you like.

Don't be scrupulous about trifles. I tell you she is a dear, sweet girl, and I know your secret. She is heart-whole now, but if she began to learn that there was some one who really loved her, she would fly to him like a young bird does to her mate."

"Very pretty sophistry, Harry Artingale. When you have bad your fling of life I should advise you to turn Jesuit."

"Don't talk stuff, my dear fellow. Take my advice. Go down with me at once to Gatley, and make your hay while the sun shines. I guarantee the result."

"What, that I shall be kicked out as a scoundrel?"

"Nonsense! kicked out, indeed! That you will win little Julia's heart."