“Do you like poetry too?” she said.
CHAPTER VIII.
Margaret went home that evening with her head more full than ever of the new incident which had come into her life. More full of that, but not quite so much occupied, perhaps, by the thought of her new acquaintance. She had all the eagerness of a child to begin her studies, to learn how to make pictures as he did, and this for the moment took everything that was dangerous out of the new conjunction of young man and young woman which was quite unfamiliar to her, but which had vaguely impressed her on their first meeting. She came home this time no longer in a dream of roused and novel feeling, but with definite aims before her; and when she found Bell, as usual, seated outside the door in the little court, Margaret lost no time in opening the attack on the person whom she knew to be the most difficult and unlikely to be convinced.
“Bell!” she cried, running in, breathless with eagerness, “something is going to happen to me. Listen, Bell! I am going to learn to draw.”
“Bless me, bairn!” cried Bell, drawing back her chair in semi-alarm. “Is that a’? I thought you were going to tell me the French were coming. No that the French have ony thought of coming nowadays, puir bodies; they’ve ower muckle to do with themselves.”
“Bell, you don’t take the trouble to think about me, and I am so happy about it. There never was a time that I did not care for pictures. And there’s a view of Earl’s-hall from the Kirkton, and I cannot tell how many more. You know I always was fond of pictures, Bell.”
“No me! I never knew you had seen ony, Miss Margret,” said Bell, placidly; “but for my part, I’m sure I’ve no objection. I would like it far better if it was the piany; but education’s aye a grand thing, however it comes. Can do is easy carried about.”
“And will you speak to papa?” said Margaret. “Bell, I wish you would speak to papa; for he jokes at me, and calls me little Peggy, and you know I am not little, but quite grown up.”
“Oh, ay, as auld as him or me—in your ain conceit,” said Bell; “but whisht, my bonnie doo— I wasna meaning to vex you. And what am I to speak to Sir Ludovic about?”
A slight embarrassment came over Margaret. She began to fidget from one foot to another, and a sudden wave of color flushed over her face. It did not mean anything. Was it not the trouble of her life that she blushed perpetually—blushed for nothing at all, with every fresh thought that rushed upon her, with every new impulse? It was her way of showing every emotion. Nevertheless this time it made her feel uncomfortable, as if it might mean something more.