Guardian of the Green Hill by Laura L. Sullivan Read Free Book Online

children, who as egalitarian Americans did not recognize the British class distinction of gentleman, could tell from Wooster’s tone that he thought the visitor was anything but.
    Phyllida raised her eyebrows. “A tenant? Someone from the village?”
    â€œNo, my lady. An artist.” He paused a moment to let this sink in. “And a goat.”
    James, who had heretofore been busy drinking cream directly from the pitcher, gave a sputtering chortle. “Perfect,” was all he said. “Just perfect.”
    They filed to the stately front door. As a rule, guests were admitted into a special parlor near the entrance hall that served as a receiving room. It was pretty, but not furnished as delicately as the family’s main parlor. After all, Phyllida said, so many of her visitors had mud on their boots. This time, however, she intended to be just polite enough to maintain her reputation for benevolence, then promptly shoo the interloper away. They had enough sketches of their own manse and neighboring ruins. She would probably buy one without even looking at it, on the theory that this would both make her visitor happy and get rid of him all the more quickly. Such business was best performed at the threshold, where a thank you very much could be immediately followed by a firm good-bye and a slam, if need be.
    Meg trailed behind with some trepidation. She didn’t remember her second encounter with the artist, but she was still faintly unnerved by the first, when she had seen him rise like a mummy, or a zombie, dead and not dead, from the hill tomb … for surely it must be the same artist.
    â€œNow, don’t act interested,” Phyllida said under her breath as Wooster was about to open the door. “If he thinks you’re an easy mark, he’ll never go away.”
    Wooster flung open the door, and before he could announce the visitor, the cadaverous man eased his way inside, holding before him a piece of parchment like a shield. To Meg’s surprise, Phyllida said, “Oh, please come in, right this way,” and led him not to the rough reception room but to the rosy, cozy family parlor. Before the front door closed again, she glimpsed a large reddish-brown goat with a dark manelike cape of fur on his shoulders, eating pink foxglove flowers.
    The train snaked behind Phyllida, and they gathered around the man as he set up his wares. Meg could see now why Phyllida let him in. On the creamy piece of paper was Phyllida’s face, looking warm and welcoming. It was obviously a quick sketch, almost eastern in its understatement and fluid simplicity, but it captured Phyllida’s essence. It was more than good enough to work a charm as simple as getting invited inside.
    â€œOh, lovely! How delightful!” Phyllida said, going into raptures over each sketch and watercolor drawing the man laid out. Meg, craning her neck around the shoulders of the others, had to admit there was a certain vim to the paintings, a lifelike quality that was something more than mere realism. There was the ruined church, evidently done the night before in the setting sun’s red haze. Washes of color dominated form—the tumbled stones and crumbling walls themselves were only suggested, while the air around them looked heavy with light. Like the others, it seemed to have been done quickly, capturing a moment, a fleeting impression. She didn’t know if it was good—it was certainly nothing like the Old Masters she’d seen in books or the modern art in New York City—but it made an impression on her. There was an ink drawing of the line of cedars that led to the Rookery and a charming charcoal of the little bridge that arched over the stream. The water rippled exactly as if a pike had brushed the surface with his dorsal fin a moment before.
    There were a few faces she didn’t recognize, and then … oh! An intent little countenance gazing out of an antique carriage