The Trespasser, Volume 1.

in hers, Captain Maudsley in his; and so on. Each looks at it from an individual stand-point. But all agree on two matters: that

ith Pogan, the groom, who had at last won Saracen's heart. But one day when the meagre village chemist saw him cracking jokes with Beard, the carpenter, and sidled in with a silly air of equality, which wa

country people, and had dined them; had entered upon the fag-end of the London season with keen, amused enjoyment; and had engrafted every little use of the convention. The art was learned, but the man was always apart from it; using it as a toy, yet not despising it; for, as he said, it had its poi

seventeenth century; he saturated himself with it: to-morrow he would present to his grandfather a scheme for improving the estate and benefiting the cottagers. Or h

is wish, they did not entertain for him in town the previous season-Lady Belward had not lived in town for years. But all had gone so well, if not with ab

seal of their approval.

ness and point all its

ppeal to his naive im

he did not wear a

done their parts. At eleven in the morning Gaston had time on his han

dmothers did for them, and begging them to do their duty "in that state of life," etc. He listened, wondering at the pious

in an easy, quiet voice. He asked them little out-of-the-way questions, he lifted the school-room from their minds, and then he told them a story, showing them on the map where the place was, giving them distances, the kind of climate,

on, blow on d

artist had been in Morocco,-nor had he heard of him save through a note in a newspaper which said that he was giving no powerful

lit a cigar, took down a copy of Matthew Arnold's poems, opening at "Sohrab and Rustum," read it with a quick-beating heart, and then came to "Tristram and Iseult." He knew little of "that Arthur" and his knights of the Round Table, and Iseult of Brittany was a new figure of romance to him.

r thy dogs i

and with

-tassell'd

he glades thy

t rouse no s

hou seest a

those who li

and yea

t to read the poem in a desert, out by the Polar Sea, down on the Amazon, yonder at Nukualofa; that it would fit in with bearding the Spaniards two hundred years ago. Bearding the Spaniards- what did he mean by that? He shut his eyes and saw a picture: A Moorish castle, men firing from the

d behind him: "You have you

ok, and met the other's ey

ory is go

ty years-h'm, n

u are my father's br

uncl

uizzical loftiness in

t he hoped you would get as much out of life as

y like Robert. He loved

pull together; but I was

, and you are the resul

y-his an

nds. The kind of man was new to Gaston: self-indulgent, intelligent, heavily nourished, nonchalant, with a coarse kind of handsomeness. He

ill hurt you longer tha

took the hi

Well, that looks likely just now; but I doubt it al

templation of himself,

ly he

, "where did you

he saw the resemblanc

I am. I am neare

sured his wor

as soils the stre

side the prostrate body of h

ut his ear to the chest. He did it all coolly, though swiftly-he was' born for action and incident. And during that moment of suspense

he found that

undid the collar, got

ton ordered some bran

andy had been given,

lifted

d more brandy, and wh

shoulde

r. But you've certain

alby entered to say that Sir William was not in the house. With a wave of the hand Gas

y,-"fairly in such little things; but a gentleman, your u

nk reply as he sm

blow, sir; but was

question? Faults and m

manners; and that wi

ghted my

had, you should

ts. It is your way, sir. I know

ad manners, after all. You are as rash as he; an

hand now, cooler

cism now, sir, to save future expla

hen done-H'm! Were it not well to pause in time, and go back to your wild Nor

a gesture: "Can I do

but swayed a little, and

alice cross

s much assumed as natural: "You may ring the bell, and tell Falby to come to my room. And because I am to appear at the flare-up to-night-all

roug

and passion remained. For his age he was impossibly young. Well past fifty he looked thirty-five, no more. His luxurious soul loathed the approach of age. Unlike many men of indulgent natures, he loved youth for the sake of his art, and he had sacrificed upon that altar more than most men-sacrificed others. His cruelty

art period. He had long wanted to do a statue of the ill-fated Monmouth, and another greater than that. Here was the very man: with a proud, daring, homeless look, a splendid body, and a kind of cavalier co

shall call you that: you sha

ow

he explained, scanning

g. He had passed the

he questi

hat way. 'Portrait' so

an; but we will call it

pass

e had instincts about art, and he liked pictures; statuary, poetry, romance; but he had no standards. He was

earance,' yes. And

, you were serious. Do not be serious. Assume it sometimes, if you will;

asking mu

this damned headache stops! Then at my studio in London in th

you

und. He had yet to be presented at St. James's, and elected a member of the Trafalgar Club. Certainly he had n

h this romantic figure. He would do two pictures: Monmouth, and an ancient subject-that legend of the ancient c

handle it. It shall be royal, melancholy, devilish: a splendid bastard with creation against him; th

s mind; his face pale, but alive with interest, whic

ance! You've got it all there in you-the immense manner. You, a nineteenth century gentleman, to do this game of Ridley Court, and paddle round the Row? Not you! Yo

in my proper place-in my father's home. But

ow you what half the world never see, and wouldn't appreciate if they did. You'

they had never felt the force of that occasional enthusiasm. He had been in the National Gallery several times, and over and over a

ITOR'S B

enough to ad

w surprise

s long, bu