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What of conscience she had was not yet conscience toward God, which is the guide to freedom, but conscience toward society, which is the slave of a fool. It was no wonder then that Lenorme, believing hoping she loved him, should find her hard to understand. He said hard; but sometimes he meant impossible.
The dark hue of Lenorme's cheek deepened; his brows lowered a little farther over the black wells of his eyes; and he painted on without answer. "By Jove!" he said at length. "Don't swear, Mr Lenorme," said Malcolm. " Besides, that's my Lord Liftore's oath. If you do, you will teach my lady to swear." "What do you mean by that?" asked Lenorme, with offence plain enough in his tone.
"I beg your pardon, marchioness," he replied; "but you pulled up so quickly that we shot past you. I thought you were close behind, and preferred following. Seen his best days, eh, Lenorme?" he concluded, willing to change the subject. "I fancy he doesn't think so," returned the painter. "I bought him out of a butterman's cart, three months ago. He's been coming to himself ever since.
Lenorme winced a little. "He thinks no end of his riding," Florimel continued; "but if it were not so improper to have secrets with another gentleman, I would tell you that he rides just pretty well." Lenorme's great brow gloomed over his eyes like the Eiger in a mist, but he said nothing yet. "He wants to ride Kelpie, and I have told my groom to let him have her. Perhaps she'll break his neck."
Lenorme replied with a look of gratitude; and as they walked their horses along, she told him all concerning Malcolm and Kelpie. "Liftore hates him already," she said, "and I can hardly wonder; but you must not, for you will find him useful. He is one I can depend upon. You should have seen the look Liftore gave him when he told him he could not sit his mare! It would have been worth gold to you."
He handled each with the reverence of a son. Having dressed in them, he drew himself up with not a little of the Celt's pleasure in fine clothes, and walked into the painting room. Lenorme started with admiration of his figure, and wonder at the dignity of his carriage, while, mingled with these feelings, he was aware of an indescribable doubt, something to which he could give no name.
At the usual morning hour, Malcolm had ridden to Chelsea, hoping to find his friend in a less despairing and more companionable mood than when he left him. To his surprise and disappointment he learned that Lenorme had sailed by the packet to Ostend the night before. He asked leave to go into the study.
He thanked her heartily, and said he would be on his guard: he would neither eat nor drink in the house. She crept softly away. He secured his door, lay down, and, trying to think, fell asleep. When he woke his brain was clear. The very next day, whether Lenorme came or not, he would declare himself.
"Mr Lenorme is certainly very clever with his brush." Malcolm saw that she said this not to insult Lenorme, but to blind her groom, and made no answer. "I will ride there with you tomorrow morning," she added in conclusion, and moved on. Malcolm touched his hat, and dropped behind. But the next moment he was by her side again.
Naturally the dishonest takes the honest for a fool. Beyond his understanding, he imagines him beneath it. But Lenorme, although so much more a man of the world, was able in a measure to look into Malcolm and appreciate him. His nature and his art combined in enabling him to do this.
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