"Which, my dear aunt," Violet said, in conclusion, "is an error in taste not confined to tallow chandlers."
So there they are. Mr. Dodson, the father, a quiet, mild-eyed old gentleman, with a partiality for clear soup; Mrs. Dodson, a smiling, homely looking lady, with a devouring admiration for her son; and the son, Mr. Leicester himself, with no particularly prominent virtues or vices save that of silence.
He had scarcely spoken a word during the soup and the fish, and Violet had almost made up her mind that he was too proud and unforgiving, and was prepared to dislike him, when suddenly he, looking across the table, met her questioning glance, and with a smile dispelled his gravity or ill humor as a mist evaporates before the midday sun, broke out into conversation.
Then Violet understands that he is not only heroic but amusing, that he is handsomer even than she had thought him, and that, above all, his manner, speech, and bearing are those of a perfect gentleman.
Theentréesare passed round and partaken of.
Mr. Leicester is describing the Vicani Pass to Miss Mildmay, and interesting her deeply therein.
Mrs. Dodson is comparing notes with Mrs. Mildmay, and Mr. Dodson is lost in the beauties of a curried fowl, when the butler, a model of solemn propriety, is approached by a footman, with whom he confers in stately, but rather disturbed asides.
"What is it, James?" asks Mrs. Mildmay, who has noticed the conference.
"If you please, ma'am, a gentleman——"
But all explanation is rendered unnecessary by the opening of the door, and the entrance of another servant, who says, with that clear sing-song, proper for the occasion:
"Captain Howard Murpoint!" and, stepping aside, allows a tall, dark gentleman to pass through the doorway.
Conversation immediately ceases.
Dumbly, hostess and guests regard the newcomer; dumbly still, Mrs. Mildmay rises from her chair.
"Captain Murpoint!" she repeats.
"Captain Murpoint!" suddenly echoes Violet, whose quick, thoughtful eyes have been scanning every feature of the dark, pale face from its piercing, black eye to the scar on its left cheek, and its black mustache.
"Captain Murpoint!" she repeats, "my father's dearest friend!"
Captain Murpoint came forward, with a smile evidently struggling against some emotion, and met her halfway, taking her outstretched hands, and, looking with what may well pass for tear-dimmed eyes into her pure, youthful face.
"And you are John Mildmay's daughter!" he exclaims, in a tremulous voice. "Poor Jack, poor Jack!" and evidently overcome by the likeness or some memory of the past, Captain Murpoint, after wringing the girl's slight hand, conveys his own to his eyes and—weeps!
In the few minutes consumed by Captain Murpoint in mastering the emotion which the sight of his old friend's daughter had produced, Mrs. Mildmay had recovered from her astonishment, and, with her well-bred composure still a little shaken, came forward, with outstretched hand.
"And is it, indeed, poor John's old friend, Captain Murpoint?" she said, with a little smile.
"It is, indeed," said the captain, taking her hand, and bending over it with gracefulempressement. "Alas, that I should return to find his place empty! Yet scarcely empty, for here is a beautiful reflection of my dear friend's face and form."
And he turned his eyes with affectionate admiration upon Violet again.
Mrs. Mildmay sighed, then quickly called his attention to her guests.
"We have got half through dinner, Captain Murpoint, as you see, but I am sure my friends will not mind a little extension of the meal, while fresh courses are prepared. Let me introduce you. Mrs. Dodson, this is an old friend of Violet's father, consequently a dear friend of ours, Captain Murpoint."
The captain's quick, black eyes rested for a moment upon her and Mrs. Dodson's physiognomies while the introduction was being made; as quickly passed over Mr. and Mrs. Giles' and the vicar's, but rested a little longer when Mr. Leicester's turn came, and grew more searching in their expression as they met the calm regard of the young man.
But the keenness of the scrutiny—for it was nothing more nor less—was tempered by a smile. Captain Murpoint possessed the rare art of smiling well.
"I beg that you will not delay the meal, nor change a single course. I am a case-hardened traveler, and too used to short fare to think anything of the loss of soup and fish. Indeed, my dear madam, if you will pardon me for a few moments I will exchange these dusty and really disgraceful garments for something more orthodox and suitable."
Mrs. Mildmay bowed graciously, and turned to a footman.
"I have brought my man with me—a faithful fellow, who has been my companion in fair weather and foul all over the globe," said the captain, moving toward the door. "Pray, let me implore you not to spoil your dinner."
So saying, he passed through the doorway, outside which, eying the elegant room with a satisfied and comprehensive gaze, stood the grim-faced, sharp-eyed "faithful fellow," the captain's servant.
Violet had not spoken a single word save those she had addressed to the captain. A sweet, solemn gravity had settled upon her fair, young face, brought there by the memories of her father, which this stranger's arrival had called up.
She sighed when his soft, pleasing voice had died away, and turned almost with a start to her neighbor, Mr. Leicester.
"How strange—is it not?" she said.
"Very," said Mr. Leicester, looking at her, thoughtfully. "Captain Murpoint came unexpectedly?"
"Quite," said Violet.
Leicester Dodson toyed with his fork.
"Do you remember him?" he asked.
"I have never seen him before," replied Violet, quietly. "But he is such an old personal friend. My father never wrote me a letter without mentioning him."
Leicester, with all the interest he felt showing plainly in his face, nodded.
"They met in India, of course. Captain Murpoint must be a younger man than Mr. Mildmay would have been."
"Yes," said Violet, "much younger. Papa told me how much once, but I have forgotten."
Then her aunt spoke to her, and Leicester fell into a muse. Captain Murpoint's advent seemed to have struck all his eloquence dumb.
The rest of the guests were chattering with quite a mild excitement, but he sat turning the fork over and following the pattern of the tablecloth with that grim silence which did not sit ill upon him, though it would have made some men look sullen.
Suddenly the hum died out, and Leicester, looking up, saw that Captain Murpoint's re-entrance was the cause.
If Captain Murpoint had looked gentlemanly in his traveling suit he certainly looked distinguished in the orthodox army dress.
Leicester Dodson's eyes, as they watched him take his place between Violet and her aunt, took in every detail of the well-proportioned figure from its breadth of shoulders to the long stretch of arm with its strength-denoting muscular development.
But when he came to regard the face he was startled.
He had, on the captain's first entrance thought him rather handsome, but now, seeing him sideface, he was surprised to find that there was a sinister look about some feature that had an unpleasant effect.
Suddenly the captain turned full face to address Violet, and the displeasing expression had gone.
Then he turned again, and Leicester understood it.
One side of Mr. Murpoint's face was better looking than the other.
On the right side, in a line with the ear, there was a scar—a small white scar—too small one would have thought to have marred the face, but mar it, it certainly did, for, whether the captain smiled or frowned, looked humorous or sad, that scar remained the same—inflexible, white, repulsive, giving the sinister cast to the right side of the face which had startled Leicester.
Was the captain aware of this blot on his beauty?
Certainly that scarred side of his face was not half so often seen as the other, and Leicester, who was observant as well as quiet, noticed that when he was spoken to, the captain invariably turned his left side with a smile to the speaker, and kept it turned until the speaker's gaze was withdrawn.
But Leicester was not allowed to continue his silent examination of Mr. Murpoint's features long, for that gentleman, having blunted his appetite upon the greater portion of a fowl, with a tact which was remarkable, soon engaged the whole table in conversation.
Then he found that he could not only smile well, but talk well also.
He started a topic, chased and ran it to death in a light, graceful way, then raised another.
The spirits of the party, which had grown somewhat low, rose rapidly.
The captain was humorous, and made Miss Mildmay laugh.
Then, with a graceful ease, he veered round into the pathetic—some little Indian story—and the ladies sighed sympathetically.
As suddenly he managed to engage Mr. Leicester Dodson in a discussion on the catacombs, and proved to that gentleman, who knew the East pretty thoroughly, that Egyptian antiquities were also not quite hidden mysteries to the wonderful captain.
All the time he managed to eat in a noiseless, well-bred way about three times as much as any one else, and contrived to divert to his own plate the nice cuts and choice corners of the poultry and saddle of mutton.
He drank, too, with a quiet enjoyment of the good wine, which met with a hearty sympathy from the butler.
"This wine," he said, lifting his glass and bowing to Miss Mildmay with infinite grace, "this wine, my dear friend brought from India—eh? my dear young lady?" turning to Violet. "Many and many glasses have your father and I drank in the hot sunset. I have a wonderful memory for wine and faces. Do you know," he broke off, suddenly, addressing Leicester, who was regarding him with his quiet, earnest gaze, "I fancy that I have seen you before? Have I?"
"I can't say. 'Tis possible," said Leicester. "Have you any recollection beyond the indistinct surmise?"
"N—o," said the captain, hesitating. "Were you ever in India?"
"No," said Leicester. "I have traveled through the East, and know the Continent and England pretty well."
"There you have the advantage of me," said the captain, setting his wineglass down, and looking round at the attentive faces. "I left my native land when a boy of eighteen, and returned only two days since."
"Ah," said the vicar, in his nervous, jerky style, "then you have much to see, Captain Murpoint. England is small, but precious in beauty. It can compare creditably with any other spot on earth, even in its most unfair and ill features. What is softer and more beautiful than Devonshire? What more grand than the Cornish cliffs? Ay, even in picturesque business it would be difficult to eclipse our little island. We defy you to find in any other part of the globe so weird and grotesque a piece of scenery as the Portland wastes."
The captain, with a smile, had turned his left side to the well-meaning, but rather long-winded cleric, and the butler was filling his glass with the wine which he had so highly praised.
Suddenly, as the vicar's neatly turned sentence came to a close, the captain's face turned and presented the left side, which was as white as the scar itself.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the butler, for the captain, in turning his head, had also moved his hand and spilled some of the wine.
"All right, my good fellow," he said, good-naturedly,and stooped to wipe the wine from his coat. Then, looking up as placid and smiling as before, he added, "Portland! Let me see, that is on the south coast, is it not? A—er—convict station?"
"Yes," said the vicar. "A most interesting place, and well worth a visit. If you think of making an English tour, you should by all means take iten route."
"Thanks," said the captain, with an air of gratitude. "It's a good suggestion." Then he rose to open the door for the ladies, his left side well to the front and the good-tempered, well-bred smile shining placidly upon it.
The vicar, being the oldest friend of Mrs. Mildmay, moved to the head of the table, and did the honors of the good old port and claret with formal exactness, but the gentlemen had evidently taken all the wine they cared for, and, with a nervous, "Er, shall we join the ladies?" the vicar pushed back his chair and led the way into the drawing-room.
Mrs. Giles was seated at the piano. Mrs. Tonson, the vicar's wife, was sipping tea with her sweet, little head on one side like a tomtit, listening to Mrs. Mildmay's explanation of the intricacies of some new needlework, and Violet and Mrs. Dodson were engrossed in conversation, which had for its topic Mr. Leicester's various habits and idiosyncrasies, a topic the fond mother could expatiate uponad infinitum.
The captain's quick glance flashed through the handsome room for a moment, then sank into a quiet gleam of pleasure as he walked to Violet's low chair, and, motioning with his eyes to a small, black-edged portrait of himself that hung in a recess, said:
"No wonder you recognized me so quickly, Miss Mildmay. I had forgotten the portrait."
Violet smiled.
"But for me, who see it so constantly, it seems as impossible for me to forget you, or rather fail to recognize you."
Mrs. Mildmay turned, with a smile and a little nervous flush.
"You notice that it has a black frame, Captain Murpoint?"
The captain nodded, with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Yes, and I can guess the reason. Oh, my dear madam, I must reserve the story of my resuscitation for a more fitting opportunity. I am afraid you will find it tedious. Poor John! would that he could have lived to learn that instead of being among the killed, I was only one of the unfortunate captives."
Here the vicar, who had been vainly endeavoring to engage mild Mr. Dodson in a theological argument, turned, with very awkward interest.
"Ah, Captain Murpoint, that was a most extraordinary mistake. I am curious to hear how it occurred. My old friend mourned for you very deeply—er—er—and caused a tablet to be set upon the left side of the church aisle to your memory."
The captain smiled, then sighed.
"It was a mistake, and an extraordinary one. The facts are very simple, though. My corporal, a worthy man, poor fellow, had, the evening before the skirmish, fallen into a water tank and spoiled his uniform, the only one he had brought with him. He came to my tent at sunset, dripping wet, and I, on the impulse of the moment, lent him one of my spare suits. Poor fellow, he promised to return it before the following morning, but Providence so willed it that the loan should become a gift. Before sunrise the Sepoys were upon us. I was wounded and taken prisoner, the poor corporal was killed and mangled to such an extent as to render his identification by features impossible. The clothes by which they imagined they could ascertain his personality, were, of course, mine, and so Captain Howard Murpoint was returned as dead and buried, and Corporal Mundy was cited as captured."
Violet, who had been listening, with her dark eyes fixed upon the captain's face, drew a long breath.
"And what became of you?" she asked, with that absent, abrupt way peculiar to her.
The captain passed his hand down his thick, dark mustache, and looked at her.
"I will tell you some day," he said, "as I threatened. Suffice it for the present that I was held captive for two years far away beyond the hills—ay, outside the pale of civilization. It was a miserable time; to look back upon iteven now, in this comfortable room and with your interested face, my dear young lady, before me, gives me an unpleasant sensation. The Hindoos are the connecting link between the man and the monster!"
And, with this figurative conclusion, the captain rose and walked to the bureau to turn over the leaves of the Battle of Prague, with which the vicar's wife was about to favor the company.
Leicester Dodson dropped into the vacant seat, Violet drawing her skirts out of the way of his long legs.
"And have you not played yet?" he asked.
Violet woke from her absent fit and shook her head.
"Not yet," she said. "I am not fond of my own music. You will play or sing, will you not?"
"I can do neither," he said. "I have a voice that would shame a crow."
Violet laughed her full, sweet, mirthful laugh.
"I am so sorry, because now you will have to play whist. Look, the vicar is shuffling the cards and looking round for the victims already."
"Shall I hide behind you?" said Leicester, in a low whisper.
"Indeed, no; you shall do your duty!" And, catching the vicar's blinking eyes, she beckoned to him.
"Here is Mr. Leicester for one corner. He doesn't sing or play!"
Leicester looked fierce and nodded at his father.
"You will have enough without me, I think," he said, and the vicar, more nervous than ever, but quite as anxious for his rubber, shuffled over to Mr. Dodson, who, with his benevolent, expressionless face well elevated, was beating time with his first finger to the "Battle."
So the vicar seized upon him, Mrs. Dodson and Mr. Giles, and was soon in his play.
"I've escaped, you see," said Leicester, with his grim smile.
"Only out of one danger into another," said Violet, maliciously. "The 'Battle of Prague' will be fought out directly, and then you will have to go over the large scrapbook of Swiss views and tell Miss Tomson which of the places you have seen."
"Thank you," said Leicester. "If that is a necessarypart of the programme I am prepared to perform it without a change of audience. If you will allow me, Miss Mildmay, I'll go over the scrapbook with you."
With two long strides, he seized the book and opened it.
"I knew you would be very much bored," said Violet. "I told you so before you came."
"And I assure you that you were wrong, which you are. I was never further from being bored in my life. That's a fine view. I climbed that on the coldest day in winter and had to have my fingers thawed in the shed at the top."
"And you learned cliff climbing in Switzerland, of course?" said Violet, naïvely. "Do you know, you frightened me so this morning? I was afraid you would fall over and be killed?"
Leicester's eyes—they were dark and deep and somewhat stern for so young a man—brightened.
"Should you have been so sorry?" he asked.
"Of course. How stupid a question!" laughed Violet, wickedly. "Cannot you surmise the consequences? I might have been accused of throwing you over, tried and condemned."
"But the motive," said Leicester, entering into the jest. "What motive could they have found?"
"Oh," said Violet, "people are always ready to find motives for other people; they would have said I resented your appearance as an interruption to a train of poetic thoughts; in fact, they would have been sure to find a motive."
"That is a pretty plain hint that I am to avoid that favorite walk of yours for the future, and beware how I interrupt your cliff reveries."
Violet flushed.
"Indeed, no. It is not a favorite walk—at least, not particularly so—and I am sure you are welcome to come. What nonsense. It is as much yours as mine, and I seem to be making you a present of it," and she laughed.
Then the "Battle of Prague" came to an end, and the captain led Mrs. Tonson to a seat with profuse compliments upon her style and touch.
"Are you fond of music, Captain Murpoint?" asked Violet.
"I adore it," said the captain, seating himself by herside, and looking, with a smile, at Leicester, who regarded him with his usual grim reserve. "Music is the language of women and angels. Are you not going to sing?"
Violet shook her head at first.
"Will you not?" said Leicester, earnestly, bending the regard of his dark eyes on her.
Then she changed her mind, and, placing her hand upon the captain's arm, allowed him to take her to the piano.
Leicester remained where he was, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, stretched out his long legs, and watched her beneath his dark, heavy eyebrows.
He had seen beautiful women of all countries—Circassians with pearly skin and rosebud lips, Spanish señoras with almond eyes and passionate, low-strung voices, Italians with fire-lit laughter and lithe grace—but none whose beauty touched and warmed him as the pure, sweet, loveliness of this willful English rose did.
Beautiful! The word was poor, tame, commonplace for such a face. Call it loveable, bewitching, which is far better than beautiful, and you were still far from a satisfactory adjective, Leicester thought; and as he sat and listened, his gaze alternating between the fair, young face and the dark, sinister one of the man by her side, he felt her heart slipping away from him.
The song finished, there arose a commotion at the whist table.
The vicar, in nervous, jerky sentences, was calling Mr. Dodson over the coals for bad play.
Mr. Dodson, with a bewildered air, was vainly endeavoring to explain, and at last managed to persuade the captain, who had stood smilingly listening to the dispute, to take his place.
The captain sat down, asserting, with a good-natured shrug of his shoulders, that he had not taken a hand at whist for a twelvemonth—which was indeed solemn truth—and the game commenced, the vicar and Mrs. Giles being partners against the captain and Mrs. Dodson.
"What are the stakes?" said the captain.
"Er—er—" stammered the vicar, in his shrill falsetto, "what you please."
"Half-crown points?" said the captain, carelessly, and the rest agreeing, the captain and Mrs. Dodson lost the first game.
Now the vicar was fond of cards, and was still more fond of winning a little money at them. The captain made one or two gross blunders, and clearly proved that he was out of practice. The vicar was but human and suggested that they should raise the stakes.
Alas, the next game was scored to the captain's side. So, also, was the next, and Mrs. Dodson, with many blushes and exclamations of comic alarm at the amount, shared ten pounds with her lucky partner.
Then the party broke up.
Leicester Dodson, who had been talking to Violet during the whole of the card playing, bowed over her small white hand with his usual gravity, wrapped his mother in her China crèpe shawl, and took her to the carriage.
The vicarage party and the Giles' followed quickly, and the captain was left alone with his old friend's daughter and her aunt.
"Captain Murpoint, I have given you rooms in the south wing. If they are not to your liking I hope you will let me change them," said Mrs. Mildmay.
"They will seem palatial apartments after Indian mud huts, my dear madam, and only too luxurious," said the captain.
"Good-night," said Violet, giving him her hand. "I hope you will sleep soundly and not dream. There are ghosts near you."
The captain laughed.
"You mean in those old ruins at the side," he said.
"Yes," said Violet. "The park was all ruins when papa bought it, but he pulled down all the old walls, excepting the tower and old chapel that adjoins the south wing, and they are fearfully haunted."
"I am not afraid," said the captain, and with another good-night he ascended the broad staircase to the apartments allotted to him.
Captain Murpoint was evidently an honored guest. The suite of rooms was of the best in the house, and beautifully furnished, the small dressing-room or boudoir exquisitely so.
As the captain opened the door of the dainty little nest a sturdy figure rose from the satin-covered couch and saluted him with a grin.
The captain set the candle down upon the unlaid table and walked to the window, which he threw open, then he turned to the sturdy figure and smiled.
"You don't look so ridiculous in your swallow tails as I should have thought, Jem—no, Starling I meant; but I'm afraid appearance is the least important attribute of a gentleman's servant. Help me off with this coat."
Mr. Starling, with a grave face, tugged at the coat rather clumsily.
"Gently," said the captain, "I don't want you to take my arms with it. That will do," and he sank into the chair before the glass and stared at the reflection of his face absorbed in thought.
Starling watched him in silence for a minute or two, then fidgeted restlessly, and at last spoke out:
"Well, captain, ain't you got a word for your humble pal? How's things going? Does the plant look well?"
"Hush!" said the captain, arousing, with a start. "The window is open, doors and walls have ears. You must drop that slang and talk like the character you assume, even when we are alone, for practice. Tell me what you have seen. Is the house large?"
"Enormous!" replied Starling, sinking his voice to a disagreeable hoarseness. "It is a reg'lar palace. Bigger than the pris——"
The captain sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing, and his face white.
"Idiot! keep that word between your teeth! We're working over a powder mine, and such a word as that means destruction. Forget the past; forget that you were ever anything else than my servant—Captain Murpoint's valet. If you don't, that idiot's tongue of yours will blab and spoil the whole."
He sat down again with something of his old coolness, but his hand, as it toyed with an ivory-backed brush, trembled, and his eyes still flashed evilly.
"All right, captain," pleaded Starling, humbly. "It was a slip," he laughed, "but it shan't occur again. Cuss me for an idiot. But I never can play a close game likethis right away at first. It requires genius, and I ain't that, and you are, capt'n; and that's where the difference is——"
"Answer my question," said the captain, interrupting him with a gesture of weariness.
"The place is a regular gold mine," said Starling. "Heaps o' servants and cartloads o' plate. I never see such swag. Great, big plates and basins and ornaments and spoons and forks enough to set us up for life——"
The captain interrupted him with a contemptuous:
"Pshaw! Do you think I am going to steal the plate, idiot?"
"Well, you might do wus," said Starling, scratching his head with a puzzled air. "O' course I don't know what game you're playing, captain; how should I? You're such a deep 'un. But some games want capital, and where are we going to get that?"
"Capital," repeated the captain, more to himself than in answer to the expressed doubt of his companion. "My capital is here," and he knocked his snow-white forehead with his forefinger.
Then, with a short, dry laugh, he pulled the five sovereigns out of his pocket and flung them on the table.
"Capital? You're right, my friend. Five pounds is not much to start a big thing on, but it's enough when Captain Murpoint has the undertaking in hand!"
Mildmay Park—or The Park, as it was more generally called—was peculiarly placed on the slope of a hill climbing toward the cliff.
The lower part of the building was that remnant of the old abbey of which Violet had spoken to Captain Murpoint. The upper part was the modern luxurious mansion in which the wealthy merchant prince, John Mildmay, had lived.
Money can command all things in the way of architecture and luxury, and The Park was a fitting residencefor a marquis, to say nothing of an East Indian merchant.
Having passed so much of his time in the crowded, bustling streets of both hemispheres, it was only natural that Violet's father should choose a quiet resting place.
Penruddie was quiet enough to suit an Anglican monk.
Beside the Cedars there was no other house on the cliff, and the village in the valley was so small as to scarcely be deserving of the name. A few fishermen's cottages, a general shop, and an inn, picturesque and inviting, comprised it.
The fishermen were simple people, who looked upon The Park and its inmates as a place and people to be worshiped from afar; the general shop, a little more elevated in its notions, prided itself upon the custom of the "gentry," and the inn—well, the inn deserves something more than a statistical mention.
It was a pretty little place, midway in the single street, overgrown with ivy, from which its windows peered like so many eyes struggling to catch a glimpse of the glittering sign board through their lids of leaves.
This sign board was a wonder. In Martha Pettingall's opinion there had never been, or ever would be a work of art to compare with it. It bore on its crimson background a lion so blue, so fierce, and in attitude so wickedly and preposterously unnatural that, perhaps, Martha's pride was, after all, excusable. Certainly, there was some truth in her assertion that there was "ne'er a lion in the whole world like it."
Martha Pettingall was a thin old lady, with sharp eyes and a mysterious complaint. This disease—it was painless—attacked her whenever the wind was in the East, her customers troublesome, and her niece, pretty Polly Pettingall, aggravating. It proclaimed itself by sharp tones and a yellow bandanna.
The sharp tones were freely employed to all about her, and the fishermen knew when to expect them by the appearance of the yellow flag tied tightly round Martha's head and face.
At such times it was astonishing how quiet the gruff, hard-voiced men became, and how early they left the littletaproom and departed to their by no means soft couches.
The day after the captain's arrival Martha appeared in the bar with the yellow bandanna and the vinegarish tones in full battle array.
Polly—light-hearted, slippery-fingered Polly—had dropped and broken one of the best jugs, one of that precious set which the late Joe Pettingall had presented to her aunt as a wedding gift, and there was wrath in the hostess' bosom and fierce ire in the bandanna.
Polly was red and flushed about the neighborhood of the eyes, and her pretty lips were fixed in a sullen, tear-threatening pout.
It was a quarter to eleven, the men had just come in from a mackerel haul and were inclined to be jovial.
"Where's the missus?" inquired Willie Sanderson, as, followed by a dozen of his mates, young and old, he trudged into the barroom. "Well, Polly, my lass, thee's as fresh as a herrin' this mornin'! There's a mack'rel for ye, the biggest I've seen this season."
And Willie, a great, strapping giant with a good-natured face and a pair of dark, wide-awake eyes, threw an enormous fish upon the polished counter.
"Thank you, Willie," said Polly, with a dolorous sniggle.
"Why, what's the matter, lass?" exclaimed the brawny fisherman, taking her by the shoulders and swinging her round. "Here, you Bill, and Jim, and Jake, here's the lass piping her eye! Can't ye say a word o' comfort?"
The young fellows, fresh-cheeked, brown-eyed sons of the hamlet, gathered round sympathetically and admiringly, ready with their inquiries and their condolences, but pretty Polly with a pout stepped from among them and ran into the long bar parlor.
"Come along, lads," said Willie, "women's tears are like gurnets—no sooner here than gone again. Jake, where's the mistress?"
At that moment the door was flung open with no gentle hand, and Martha appeared with the yellow bandanna tightly bound round her head.
The young fellows looked at one another and sank intothe seats round the sanded room in grim, expressive silence.
"Well!" said Martha, sharply. "Is the haul in? It's mighty early ye are, Willie Sanderson, and it's no great take, I suppose, as usual."
"Indeed you're wrong, mistress," said big Willie, with a short laugh. "The haul's as good as ye could wish, and we be come up to wet the fish afore they starts on their last journey."
"Ye'd better have sent them off and took to your drinking after," said Martha, sharply.
"That's a matter of opinion, arter all," retorted Willie, who was the only one in Penruddie who dared bandy words with the owner of the "Blue Lion" and the yellow bandanna.
"What's it to be, lads?" he continued, looking round.
"Ye'd get nothing but ale so early as this," declared Martha, decisively, and so, fully aware that any opposite opinion, however firmly delivered, would be of no avail, the "boys" nodded good-naturedly, and the shrewish hostess left the room for the ale.
Four huge tankards were soon foaming at the mouth, and Polly was bearing them into the room on a tray when the low-browed door swung open and the well-built, dapper form of Mr. Starling entered.
"'Eavens, what a sight!" he exclaimed, throwing himself into an elaborate pose of ecstatic admiration and arresting Polly's progress thereby. "It's a study of Michael Hangelo," and he clasped his hands with an artistic enthusiasm.
Pretty Polly threw up her head with a pert smile and a side glance at the stranger.
"Oh, indeed!" she said, "and pray who's Mr. Hangelo? And who's a sight, I should like to know?"
"You're a sight, my dear," retorted Mr. Starling, who, however deferential and meek he might be in his master's presence, was thoroughly at home and at his ease in a public house. "You're a sight beautiful enough to gladden any hartist's eyes."
"Nonsense!" said Polly, tripping into the taproom.
Mr. Starling, with a cast of his sharp eyes in that direction,strolled up to the bar and bowed with proper respect to the landlady.
"Good-morning, ma'am. I hope I see you well. Beautiful morning for the hay——"
"Do you want anything to drink?" sternly interrupted Martha.
Not at all discomposed, Mr. Starling intimated that he should feel obliged if the lady would favor him with a glass of her very best ale, and draw it mild.
Perfectly unmoved by his grand manner and repeated bows, Martha drew the glass of ale and flung the twopence with a clash into the large pocket at her side.
Mr. Starling winked at the ceiling, chuckled noiselessly, and disposed of the ale with a peculiar drawing in of the breath and turn of the little finger.
"That's good tackle," he said.
"Ye asked for the best," said Martha, who was not to be conciliated.
"And I've got it; and I'll have another," said Mr. Starling.
This glass he dealt with more mercifully, and after taking a draught carried the remainder to the taproom door.
The sunburnt faces and bright eyes of the lads were lifted as he appeared, and Willie's sharp gray orbs seemed to take an inventory of his every inch, as Mr. Starling, with a nod and a smile, said:
"Good-morning. Any fish this morning?"
"Ay, lots," said Willie, curtly.
"Ah, glad to hear it," said Mr. Starling, edging a little farther into the room. "I'm very fond of fishing—allus was. Used to catch little bats with a umbrella handle and a bent pin when I was so high," and he put his hand about five inches from the floor.
"Oh, we don't fish with that tackle in these parts," said Willie, quietly. "Won't ye come in?" and he raised his tankard.
Mr. Starling responded candidly, and was soon seated beside the huge fisherman and discussing a fresh tankard, produced at his expense.
Mr. Starling was of a convivial turn, and the little parlor was soon echoing with short, sharp laughter and snatches of rough wit, all of which, however, did notprevent a sharp scrutiny which Big Willie was continually trying to bear upon the stranger.
Once or twice he raised his eyes and glanced significantly at an old man who had entered after Starling and was seated near the door, but the old fisherman shook his head in response to the look of inquiry, and Big Willie grew more silent and serious. At last he said, in one of the pauses of conversation:
"You seem to have traveled a main. Where be ye bound for?"
Mr. Starling nodded up toward the ceiling and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"I'm staying at The Park," he said. "Come along with Captain Murpoint."
"You're his servant," said Willie.
"Yes, I'm his servant," said Mr. Starling, looking into the bottom of his quart pot with one eye closed.
"Oh," said the fisherman, with an air almost of relief. "Oh, that's it, is it?" he said. "I thought perhaps ye were loafing round a bit."
Mr. Starling grinned.
"I can do a bit at that trade," he said, with a wink that elicited a guffaw.
"Noo doubt," said Willie. "An' what sort of a man is the captain?" he asked.
"What sort?" said Mr. Starling. "A good sort, or he wouldn't be my master."
"And where do ye come from?"
"India."
Willie shook his head.
"Ay, that's where Master John coom from."
"Just so," said Mr. Starling. "They were sworn friends—what you may call brothers with two mothers. My guv'nor was Mr. Mildmay's particular pal, thick as thieves, and—come, what do you say to another wet?"
"No more," said Willie, answering for himself and the rest of the company.
"Well, if you won't I'll see about climbing," said Mr. Starling. "It's a rum thing to build a house on a hill; it's awkward for a gentleman after he's took his evening's glass at the pub. Now, if it was me I should 'a' built it down here in the village, just next door to the 'BlueLion,'" and with a wink he stuck his hat well on the side of his head and walked toward the door.
At that moment, however, Martha entered, and, looking round, said, sharply:
"Are you going to sit here all day, Willie Sanderson, with all them fish to send off to Lunnon? Are ye daft, man?"
Willie Sanderson rose and looked at her, raising his hand and scratching first his right, then his left ear.
Mr. Starling, who happened to turn at the doorway to observe how the customers would take such summary ejections, noticed the action, and was somewhat struck to observe Mrs. Martha's sharp tone dropped considerably, and that with a quick pursing of the lips she raised her hand and scratched her own ears, first her right, then her left.
Now, Mr. Starling, who knew something of signs and countersigns, and had had occasion during his rather adventurous life to avail himself of such devices, instantly decided that there was some secret understanding between the hostess of the "Blue Lion" and the burly fisherman, and was confirmed in his suspicions by the silent and immediate obedience of the lads, who, at a toss of the head from their leader, rose quietly and left the house, giving Mr. Starling a gruff good-day as they strolled past.
Mr. Starling looked after them, then turned on his heel, stuck his hands into the mysterious depths of his light trousers, and commenced his climb.
Halfway up the hill, however, he stopped abruptly and swinging round smacked his leg with an emphatic thwack, muttering:
"Hang me if I can make it out. What the Villikins and his Dinah does the landlady of a village inn want a making signs with a wooden-headed fisherman?"
Mr. Starling's wits would have been still farther sharpened could he have followed Willie Sanderson down the village and watched him unseen.
The lads, once clear of the "Blue Lion," turned swiftly to the left and ran down to the beach, where, in a confused heap, were the recently taken fish and the baskets in which they were to be packed.
Willie Sanderson, however, after a word or two withthe old fisherman, turned to the right and walked slowly toward the end of the village.
As he neared the row of cottages he saw, coming toward him on the road that led by many a weary mile to London, a smart tax cart.
Willie's eyes were sharp and though the little white-covered cart apparently differed in nothing from its kindred, he knew it at a glance, and, drawing a little aside, he sat down on a heap of empty baskets to wait patiently.
Presently the cart came up, and the driver, a little, thickset man, dressed in an ordinary guernsey, and thick, white trousers peculiar to the seacoast, and wearing a patch over his left eye, shot a sharp glance from the right one at the recumbent figure of the fisherman, and gruffly gave him "Good-morning."
"Good-morning, Job, lad," replied Willie, and with a smile he repeated the action which had surprised Mr. Starling.
In an instant the old fellow's hand went up to his ears, and, with a reflection of Willie Sanderson's smile, he "tckd" to the horse and passed on.
Beyond the salutation not a word had passed, but Willie Sanderson rose to his feet and set off toward the beach, whistling with the satisfaction of a man who has adroitly accomplished a difficult and dangerous undertaking.
To the unsophisticated inhabitants of the little seacoast village the Mildmays of the Park, and the Dodsons of the Cedars, were very great folk, indeed, but we have now to do with far greater, with no less a personage and family, indeed, than the well-known Earl of Lackland and his children.
A very great man was the Earl of Lackland. His ancestors had fought at Cressy, and at Hastings.
Lackland Hall was an immense place in the Midlands, a grand old house, with famous associations. You could not turn a page of English history without coming directly,or indirectly, upon the deeds and doings of the Lacklands.
It was a question with some politicians whether if by some dreadful chance the house of Lacklands had been extinguished, the history of England could have been written at all!
There were men who, when they wanted to illustrate the grandeur, the nobility, the importance of England, would point the admiring finger at Lacklands and exclaim:
"There is one type! Look at Lacklands and see epitomized the glory of our land!"
Certainly the Earl of Lackland was a most important individual.
Besides the great Lackland Hall there were also the great mansion in Grosvenor Square, the castle in Scotland, the villa on the banks of the Arno, and the fishing boxes in Ireland and Wales.
The present earl and countess was blessed, in addition to the places of residence above enumerated, with a son and daughter.
The former, Lord Fitz Plantagenet Boisdale, was a young man just passed his majority. Fair—insipid he would have been called had he not been heir to Lackland—somewhat simple-minded, certainly not clever, and extremely fond of dress, billiards, his betting-book, and his cigar.
Lady Ethel Boisdale, his sister, presented a marked contrast to him.
She was tall, dark, by no means insipid, and if not positively clever, certainly possessed of the average quantity of brains.
To say in what direction her taste inclined would be perhaps at present rather premature.
It is difficult to analyze the lady's disposition, and probably the reader at some future time might be dissatisfied and inclined to pooh, pooh our opinion of Lady Ethel if we pronounced it thus early. Suffice it to say she was fond of reading, was deeply attached to her brother, and would have been equally so to her parents had they encouraged or even permitted her to be so.
Perhaps such great personages as the Earl and Countessof Lackland were too exalted to possess those emotions of affection and tenderness which fall to the lot of commoner people.
If they did not possess them they managed to conceal them with infinite art, and no one could accuse them of the common folly of wearing their hearts upon their sleeves.
Assuredly Lady Ethel must have had a warm heart and a generous nature or the coldness of her exalted parents would have chilled her and rendered her cold likewise.
That she was not the reader will soon perceive.
Thousands of persons envied my Lord and Lady Lackland. Never did their carriage roll through the streets, or their names appear in the paper among the fashionable intelligence, but hundreds exclaimed:
"I wish I were a Lackland."
But not one of the envious many knew what they were really envying.
There is a skeleton in every house; there was one ever present in all the great and small houses of Lackland. Sometimes he kept discreetly to his cupboard; at others he stepped boldly out and rattled his bones, and grinned in a manner horrible to see.
Oh, yes, reader, other people besides yourself have a skeleton, and there are some persons unfortunate enough to have two.
If we entered the Grosvenor Square mansion, say on the morning after that memorable little dinner party at Mildmay Park far away in Penruddie, we might perhaps have caught a glimpse of that skeleton starting out of the cupboard.
Lord Lackland was seated at the morocco-lined writing table in his own room, with a few newspapers, a decanter of light wine, and a box of biscuits before him.
The door opened, and a young man, no other than Lord Fitz Plantagenet Boisdale, entered.
There was a flush on his fair face, and a look of doubt and distrustful nervousness in his rather simple blue eyes.
"Good-morning, sir," he said, holding out his hand.
"Good-morning, Fitz," said the earl, extending two fingers and glancing coldly at a chair which stood nearthe table ready for any visitor on business. "You are ten minutes behind your time."
"I am very sorry, sir," said the boy, for he was little more in years or appearance, "but I'd promised to ride with Ethel this morning, and I forgot it until after I left you, so I went down to the stable to tell Markham to saddle the two bays, and he kept me to talk about that chestnut——"
The earl interrupted what promised to be a lengthy explanatory excuse with his cold, little bow, and glanced at the ormolu timepiece on the table.
"It is of little consequence to me; I am obliged to leave at the half hour to meet an appointment, therefore I shall only be able to give you the time I promised to give you. You wished to speak to me."
"Yes, sir," said Lord Fitz, looking down at his boots nervously, and then up at the ceiling. "I wanted to ask you if you could let me have a couple of hundred pounds beyond my allowance to—to—pay a few debts, which—which, of course, I could not help running into while I was in Paris."
Lord Lackland walked to the bureau, and took out a bundle—a very small bundle—of banknotes; from this he counted out a hundred pounds' worth, and, holding them in his hand, said:
"Here are a hundred pounds; I cannot give you any more, for a very good reason, I cannot afford to do so."
Lord Fitz looked up with a simple stare which extended his mouth as well as his eyes.
"I cannot afford to do so," said the metallic voice. "It is quite time that you should be placed in possession of the truth as regards my—I may say our—pecuniary position. I ought, perhaps, to have informed you of the condition of my affairs long earlier, but consideration for your feelings deterred me. Fitz, the estates in London, in Italy, in England, are mortgaged to their fullest extent. The revenue is nearly swallowed up by the interest, and there is so little ready money in the house that if the servants were to demand their wages I should not be in a position to pay them."
Lord Fitz stared, pale and aghast.
The skeleton was out grimly walking before him. Forthe first time Lord Boisdale learned that he was heir to a rich crop of embarrassments, and that the great Earl of Lackland, his father, was a poor man.
"Great Heaven!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to say that, sir!" unlike his father, showing his emotion unmistakably.
"I have said it," replied the earl, "and now you know my—our—real position. Credit, Fitz, has kept our heads above water for a great many years—credit alone. How much longer it may do so I cannot say, but I can estimate if your bills for necessaries amount to the sums which they here represent."
"What—what's to be done?" asked Lord Fitz, staring at his calm parent with bewildered horror. "We must sell some of the places, the horses, the diamonds, by jingo!—the—the—everything!"
"We cannot sell what is sold or out of our hands already. You do not understand business matters, unfortunately, or you would at once comprehend that the houses, the land, being mortgaged, and the diamonds at the—ahem—pawnbroker's, it is simply impossible to make further money of them."
The young man jumped up and took three paces up and down.
"But," said he, suddenly, and with incredulity upon his face, "I saw my mother wear the diamonds at the last drawing-room."
"Not exactly," said the earl, "paste imitations only; the real are in the possession of a pawnbroker. But if you have any taste or inclination for an investigation or examination of our finances, you have my permission to examine the documents which you will find in this case——"
"Great Heaven, no!" said young Fitz. "I don't doubt your word, my lord; I'm only stunned, knocked all of a heap as one may say. It seems so incredible! Why, by jingo, the fellows are always asking me to lend them money—and—and saying how rich we are; and you say that——"
"That I cannot afford to let you have the other hundred pounds," said the earl, replacing the bundle in the bureau. "While we are upon the subject, which is too painful to be renewed, I will remind you that you are heir to the estate,and that it is in your power to clear it of the encumbrances."
"In mine!" exclaimed Lord Fitz.
"Exactly," said the earl. "By a judicious marriage. You must marry an heiress, Fitz. There are a number of them to be met with; and a great many are extremely anxious to purchase position with their money. I speak plainly because the matter is too serious for mere insinuation. You must marry well, and—ahem—so, of course, must your sister."
He glanced at the timepiece significantly.
The young lad rose at the hint and took up his hat.
"I won't detain you any longer, sir," he said. "I am very much obliged for—for the money, and, of course, I'm very sorry to hear such a bad account of the estate."
"Exactly," said the earl, with a cold smile, looking out of the window. "You are riding that bay, I see, and I trust you will take care of it. I had to pay a heavy bill for the mare whose knees you cut last month. Let me beg of you to be careful with the bay."
"Certainly, sir," said Lord Boisdale, and with a very uncomfortable air he left the room.
As he passed into the corridor a sweet, clear voice rose from the hall.
"Fitz, are you coming?"
Fitz smothered a sigh, and as cheerfully as he could, replied:
"All right; here I am," and ran down the stairs.
In the hall stood Lady Ethel Boisdale.
"How long you have been!" she said, with a smile. "Are you not ashamed to keep a lady waiting? Well, I think brothers imagine they are privileged to take advantage of a sister."
As she spoke her eyes noted the disappointment and embarrassment on his countenance, and when they were mounted and turning out of the square she said:
"What is the matter, Fitz? Will not papa give you the money?"
"No," said Fitz, with an uncomfortable laugh, "no; and supplies an excellent reason for not complying with my modest request. Oh, dear me, I'm very miserable. There! don't ask me what about, because I shan't tell you.It would only worry you, and you're too good a fellow—I mean girl—to be worried. Let's put these lazy animals into something sharper; I hate this square and those streets."
Lady Ethel touched her horse gently, and in silence they cantered into the Park.
"Look," said Ethel, presently, "who is that lifting his hat?"
"Eh? where?" said Lord Fitz. "Oh, it's Bertie Fairfax and Leicester Dodson—capital fellow, Bertie. Let's pull up a minute, Ethel."
And with a smile of welcome he steered his horse near the rails, upon which the two gentlemen who had raised their hats were leaning.
One of them, Leicester Dodson, we know, the other was a tall, splendidly built fellow, with a frank, genial face, and a noble yet peculiarly free and graceful bearing.
"Hello, Bertie! Good-morning, Mr. Dodson. Delighted to see you. Ethel, you will let me introduce my friends, Mr. Dodson, Mr. Bertie Fairfax. Bertie, Mr. Dodson, this is my sister, Lady Ethel Boisdale."
Both the gentlemen raised their hats; Lady Ethel bent her beautiful head with her rare smile.
She always liked to know any friends of her brother whom he chose to introduce, for with all his simplicity he was too wise to fall into the mistake of showing her any but the most unexceptionable of them.
Bertie Fairfax looked up at the lady and then at the horse. He was a connoisseur of both.
"It is a beautiful day," he said, opening the conversation with the usual weatherwise remark. "Your horse looks as if he enjoyed it."
"Which he does," said Ethel. "I am sure I do. It is delightful—walking or riding."
"I should prefer the latter," said Bertie Fairfax, "but my horse is lamed temporarily and I am compelled to pedestrianize."
"What a pity," said Ethel, adding, with her sweet smile, "Perhaps the change will be good for you."
Bertie Fairfax looked up at her with his frank eyes to see if she was quizzing him, then laughed musically.
"Perhaps he thought so and tumbled down on purpose.It doesn't much matter—I like walking, but not here; I like more room. My friend, Mr. Dodson, however, insisted upon this promenade. He is an observer of human nature—a cynic, I regret to say—and finds material for bitter and scornful reflection in the gay and thoughtless crowd. Are you going to Lady Darefield's ball to-night?"
"Yes," said Ethel. "I presume you, also, by your question, are going?"
"Yes," said Bertie Fairfax, "I am glad to say."
Five minutes before he had sworn to Mr. Leicester Dodson that he wouldn't go to my Lady Darefield's ball for five hundred pounds, and five hundreds pounds were of some consequence to Mr. Bertie Fairfax.
"It is very hot for balls, but one must do his duty. I hope I may be able to persuade you to give me a dance?"
"I don't know," said Ethel, with a smile.
At that moment her horse walked on a little. Mr. Fairfax moved farther up the rail, and then conversation, no more confidential than that we have already given, continued until Lord Fitz was heard to exclaim "Good-by," and then joined his sister.
Both the gentlemen on foot raised their hats, Bertie Fairfax with his cordial, pleasant smile, Leicester Dodson with his grave and also pleasant grace, and after a return of the salutations the four young people parted.
"Well," said Lord Fitz, from whose mind the recent meeting had expunged the unpleasant remembrances of his morning interview, "what do you think of them?"
Ethel was silent for a moment.
"I don't know which was the handsomer," she said, thoughtfully.
"That's just like you women, Eth; you always think of the graces first."
"Well," said Ethel, "there was no time to know anything more about them. I think Mr. Fairfax is very pleasant—he has a nice voice and such frank eyes. There are some men with whom you feel friendly in the first ten minutes; he is one of them."
"You're right," said Lord Fitz. "Bertie's the jolliest and dearest old fellow going. Poor old Bert!"
"Why poor?" said Ethel.
"Because he is poor, deuced poor," said Lord Fitz,muttering under his breath, with a sigh, "Like some more of us."
"How do you mean?" said Ethel.
"Well," said Lord Fitz, "he has to work for his living. He's a barrister or something of that sort. But he writes and draws things for books, you know. I don't quite understand. He can sing like a nightingale and tell a story better than any man I know."
"He looks very happy," said Ethel, "although he is poor."
"Happy!" said Lord Fitz. "He's always happy. He's the best company going."
"And who is his friend? Mr. Dodson, is not his name?" asked Ethel.
"Yes, Leicester Dodson," said Lord Fitz. "He's one of your clever men. You can't understand whether he's serious or joking sometimes, and I've often thought he was making fun of me, only——"
"Only what?" asked his sister.
"Only I didn't think he'd have the impudence," said Lord Fitz, proudly. "It isn't nice to be sneered at by a tallow chandler."
"A what?" said Ethel.
"Well, the son of a tallow chandler. That's what his father was. A nice, quiet old boy. Haven't you heard of 'em? They live at Penruddie, which is about nine miles from that shooting box in Herefordshire—Coombe Lodge."
"So near," said Ethel. "No, I had not heard of him. He looks to be a gentleman, but I did not notice him very much. I like his friend's face best, yes, I am sure I do, though both the faces were nice."
"You don't take into account Leicester Dodson's coin," said Lord Fitz. "His people are immensely rich; tallow turns into gold, you know, if you only melt it long enough."
"That's a joke or a pun, Fitz," laughed Lady Ethel. "And really rather clever for you. And where does Mr. Fairfax live?"
"Oh, in chambers in the Temple—quite the clever bachelor, you know. Very snug they are, too, much more comfortable than any of the places. He gives good dinners sometimes—when he's in luck, as he calls it. Eth,you ought to have been a man, then you could have known some jolly good fellows."
"Thank you, if I were not on horseback I'd curtsey," said Ethel. "Can't I know good fellows as I am?"
"No," said simple Lord Fitz, "you can't! They won't let you; it's dangerous. You must only know men with long handles to their names like ours, and with their pockets full of money—unlike ours. You mustn't know Bertie Fairfax, for instance. The mother wouldn't allow it."
At that moment Ethel's horse started—his rider had, in reality, touched him with a spur—and got in front of Lord Fitz, so that the blush which suddenly crimsoned Ethel's beautiful face was hidden from her brother's light blue eyes.
Now, why should Lady Ethel Boisdale blush at the simple little speech of Lord Fitz? It could be of little consequence to her, surely, if her eyes were fated never to rest on Mr. Bertie Fairfax again. Why did she blush, and why, during the remainder of that park gallop, did she look forward to Lady Darefield's little ball?
"Well," said Leicester, as the two equestrians rode away, and left the pedestrians looking after them, "what do you think of the Lady Ethel Boisdale? You have been wrapped in a silence unusual and remarkable for the last three minutes; unusual because on such occasions as the present you generally indulge in a rhapsody of admiration, or a deluge of candid abuse, extraordinary because silence at any time is extraordinary in you."
"Hold your tongue, you cynical fellow," exclaimed Bertie, still looking after the brother and sister. "So that is the sister of whom simple Fitz is always talking—Lady Ethel! A pretty name, and it suits her. An Ethel should be dark, or at least brown shadowed; an Ethel should have deep, thoughtful eyes, a pleasant, rather dreamy smile, and a touch of hauteur over face, figure, and voice. She has all these——"
"And fifty more virtues, attributes, and peculiarities which your confounded imagination can endow her with! Nonsense! She's a nice-looking girl, with a sensible face, and the pride proper for her station. You can't make anything more of her."
"Can't I?" said his friend; "you can't, you mean. I call her beautiful. She is going to Lady Darefield's ball to-night; I—I shall go, after all, I think, Leicester."
"I thought so," said Leicester Dodson, with a smile of ineffable wisdom and sagacity. "I thought somebody said they wouldn't go to the confounded ball for five hundred pounds, and that the same somebody was pitying me for having promised to grace it with my presence."
"I thought you'd die if I didn't keep you company, and so, as I like to borrow your money, and don't want you to die, I'll go. I say, Leicester, haven't the Lacklands a small place in Herefordshire near you? What do they call it—Coombe Lodge?"
"Perhaps they have," said Mr. Leicester. "I believe that there are few counties which are not honored by the Lacklands in that way. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, merely for idle curiosity."
"H'm! you promised to come and spend a week or two with me," said Mr. Leicester. "Will you come?"
"Oh, chaff away," said Bertie Fairfax, good-temperedly. "But I'll take you seriously; I will come."
"Done," said Leicester, still chaffing as his light-hearted friend called it. "I'm going down next week. Come with me?"
"Thanks," said Bertie, "I'll think it over. I'll come and cut you out with the Mildmay heiress! Hah! hah!"
He laughed as Leicester turned to him with a look of mild surprise.
"You didn't know that I was posted up in that intelligence! I've a dozen little birds who bring me news night and morning, and I've heard——"
"Pshaw!" interrupted Leicester. "I've dined with mamma and papa at Mildmay Park, and that—that's positively all. My dear Bertie. I am not a marrying man; now you are, but, mark me, Lady Ethel Boisdale is not meant for you."
"Thank you," said Bertie, "I'm very much obliged, but who said that she was?"
And with a light laugh the subject was dropped.
That night when Lady Ethel Boisdale entered the magnificent saloons of Lady Darefield's mansion in Park Place she looked round the room with calm, yet expectanteyes, and dropped them very suddenly as they met the also searching and expectant gaze of Mr. Bertie Fairfax.
It is one thing to exchange glances and smiles with a belle in a ballroom, but quite another matter to get a dance with her.