Miss Lyster's stare of admiration was something wonderful to see. "Would you be so n.o.ble, so generous? Oh, Miss Arleigh, you will save my life and his! Would you really see him, and tell him he had better stay? How good you are! Do you know, I could kneel here at your feet to thank you.

If you are willing, I can make all arrangements--I only needed your consent."

The excitement was a pleasant break in the monotony of school life. How little did Marion understand those with whom she had to deal! She had promised to grant this interview as something of a condescension. Miss Lyster managed her so skilfully that before it took place she had learned to long for it.

The farce of Allan's illness was kept up. For two days the pupils were deprived of their lessons through the indisposition of their master.

"I do not know that your kindness will be needed after all," said Adelaide, sadly. "My brother is very ill; he may not recover. Oh, what a fatal day it was when he first saw you, Miss Arleigh!"

Now, Marion had often rehea.r.s.ed this interview. She had pictured herself as taking the part of a very dignified queen; of saying to this interesting subject who was dying for love of her, "Stay." She imagined his delight at her condescension, his sister's grat.i.tude for her kindness; and now, behold, nothing of the kind was wanting--the pretty role she had sketched out for herself required no playing.

"I do not think I need make any arrangement for the little interview you promised my brother," said Miss Lyster to the simple girl. "I have had a note from him this morning. He is in better health, but he is in despair, and he cannot hide it. He absolutely refuses to believe that you have consented to see him. Unless you tell him so yourself, he will never believe it."

"But how can I tell him?" asked the girl.

"Write on a piece of paper, 'Come at the hour and place your sister appoints. I wish to see you.' Then he will come. I am writing tonight, and will enclose the note."

It would rather take from her queenlike att.i.tude, she thought; but as she had promised the kindness, it would not be graceful to dispute as to how it should be granted; so, under the guidance of the woman to whom her innocent youth was entrusted, she sealed her fate with her own hands.

CHAPTER V.

"How am I to thank you?" said Adelaide Lyster to the girl she had betrayed. "I have a letter from Allan, and he says the very thought of seeing you has given him a fresh life--fresh energy. I have never read anything so rapturous in my life. Do you wish to see the letter?"

As Marion Arleigh read the pa.s.sionate, poetical words that had been written expressly for her, her face flushed. How wonderful it was to hold a man's life in her hands--to sway a genius so that her nod meant stay or go, her least words meant happiness or misery! She looked around with something of pity for other girls who had not this new and wonderful sensation.

"A life in her hands!" There came to her, young as she was, a vague idea of woman's power for good or for evil. A cruel or cold word from her, and the artist would go in his misery only to seek death in some far-off land. A kind word, and he would remain--his genius would have its sway, and he would paint pictures that the world should glory in.

"I have arranged it all," said Miss Lyster. "Miss Carleton is going to-day to that grand dinner-party at Macdonald's. She has given orders that the young ladies shall go over to Herrington, and take some refreshments with them--it will be a picnic on a small scale. You can excuse yourself from going. I will volunteer to remain with you, and toward sunset, we will walk through the old orchard. Allan will await us there."

The girl's heart beat; it was a romantic dream after all--that strange, wonderful reality; the interview she had so often imagined was to take place at last.

"I cannot tell an untruth," she said to Miss Lyster; "I could not if I tried. How could I excuse myself from going?"

Adelaide looked slightly shocked.

"I would not ask you to speak untruthfully, not even to save Allan's life, dearly as I love him," she said. "There is no need. Say you are not inclined to go. Miss Carleton will not interfere with the whims of an heiress."

So it was arranged, and everything fell out just as Adelaide Lyster had foreseen. Miss Carleton did not care to interfere with the whims of a great heiress like Marion Arleigh.

"By all means, stay at home, my love, if you wish, and Miss Lyster, too.

She is an admirable young person; so prudent, so discreet. I could not leave you in better hands."

Marion Arleigh lived afterward to be presented at Court, but she never again felt the same diffidence, the same trepidation, as when, with her false friend by her side, she went down the steps that led to the orchard. The hedge was high and thick, tall trees formed a complete barrier between the grounds and the high road, no strangers or pa.s.sersby could be seen. Miss Lyster had chosen her time well. She knew that in the lady superintendent's absence the servants would hold high revels; there was no fear of interruption.

In after life Marion Arleigh remembered every detail of that evening. It was May then, and the hedge was white with hawthorn; there was a gleam of gold from the laburnums, and the scent of the lilacs filled the air; the apple trees were all in blossom, the birds were singing, the sun shining, warmth and fragrance and beauty lay all around her.

Far down the orchard, standing sketching a picturesque old tree, was the artist, Allan Lyster. He looked up as the sound of light footsteps rustled in the gra.s.s. When he saw who was coming he flung down his pencils and advanced, hat in hand.

There was something graceful and poetical, after all, in the way in which he went up to Miss Arleigh and knelt lightly on one knee.

"I would kiss the hem of your robe if I dared," he said. "How am I to thank you?"

Then he sprang up and took his sister's hand in his. He allowed no time for confusion and embarra.s.sment--he was too clever for that.

"How am I to thank you, Miss Arleigh?" he said. "If the sun had fallen from the heavens, I could not have felt, more surprise than your kindness has caused me. My sister tells me you are good enough not to be angry at my presumption."

Miss Lyster laughed.

"I think, Allan," she said, "that I shall leave you to listen to Miss Arleigh's lecture alone. She will be able to say harder words to you if I am not by to listen. I will see if I can finish your picture."

She walked over to the tree where paper and pencils lay, leaving them alone, and though she was a woman, and young--though she knew that she was most foully betraying a girl whose youth and innocence might have pleaded for her, she had not even a pa.s.sing thought of pity. "Let Allan win the fortune if he can. He will make better use of it than she could."

"You are so good to me," murmured the young artist, his dark eyes flashing keenly for one-half a minute over that beautiful face. "I am at a loss for words."

Allan Lyster was gifted with a most musical voice, and he understood perfectly well how to make the most use of it. The pathos with which he said those words was wonderful to hear.

"I am glad to see you," she said. "Your sister tells me you think of going abroad."

"Has she told you why?" he asked eagerly.

Marion's face grew crimson. The beautiful eyes dropped from his. She drew back ever so little, but another keen, sharp glance told him she was not angry; only shy and timid.

"You are so good to me," he continued, with pa.s.sionate eagerness, "that I am not afraid to tell you. I must go; life here is torture to me; it is torture to see you, to hear you speak, to worship you with a heart full of fire, and yet to know that the sun is not farther from me than you, to know that if I laid my life at your feet you would only laugh at me and think me mad. It is torture so great that exile and death seem preferable."

He saw her lips quiver, and her eyes, half raised, had in them no angry light.

"You are a great lady," he said, "rich, n.o.ble, powerful. I am a poor artist. I have but one gift--that is genius. And I have dared, fired by such a beauty as woman never had before, to raise my eyes to you. They are dazzled, blinded, and I must suffer for my rashness; and yet--"

He paused, gave another keen glance, felt perfectly satisfied that what he was saying was well received, then went on:

"Artists before now have loved great ladies, and by their genius have immortalized them. But I am mad to say such things. This is the age of money-worship, and art is no longer valued as in those times."

"I do not value money," she said, in a clear, sweet voice. "I value many things a thousand times more highly."

"You are an angel!" he cried. "Even though my love tortures me, I would not change it for the highest pleasures other men enjoy. The poets learn by suffering what they teach in song; so it will be with me. Sorrow will make me a great artist; whereas, if I had been a happy man, I might never, perhaps, have risen much above the common level. I am resigned to suffer all my life."

"I do not like to hear you speak so," she said. "Life will not be all suffering."

"I have raised my eyes, looked at the sun, and it has dazzled me," he said. "Ah, lady, I have had such dreams, of love that overleaped all barriers, as Art has rendered loveliness immortal for all time. I have dreamed of loves such as Petrarch had for Laura, Dante for Beatrice, and I wake to call myself mad for indulging in such dreams."

She was deeply interested. This was exactly as heros spoke in novels; they always had a lofty contempt for money, and talked as though love was the only and universal good. She looked half shyly at him; he was very handsome, this young artist who loved her so, and very sad. How dearly he loved her, and how strange it was! In all this wide world there was not one who cared for her as he did; the thought seemed to bring her nearer to him. No one had ever talked of loving her before.

Perhaps the beauty of the May evening softened her and inclined her heart to him; for after a few minutes' silence she said to him:

"We are forgetting the very object for which I consented to see you."