IN DIFFICULTIES.
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 Countess of 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 near the 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. For the 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 expectant eyes, 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.
The saloons were crowded by the best of the land, eligible parties
were in abundance, and Mr. Bertie Fairfax, handsome, sweet-natured and
lovable though he was, found himself somewhat out in the cold.
It was not an unusual position for him, and on other occasions he had
laughed good-naturedly in the smoking-room of his club, saying that
there had been too many iron pitchers going down the stream for such a
fragile, unsatisfactory delf affair as himself to hope for success.
But to-night it was different.
He wanted to dance with Lady Ethel Boisdale; why he could scarcely have
told.
She was very beautiful; but he had seen faces far more lovely even than
hers; she was very graceful, tall and full of a sweet, proud dignity,
but Bertie Fairfax had seen some of the ladies of the Papal court, and
remembered their faces.
She was, as it happened, just the realization of the young fellow's
ideal, and--yet it must be written--he was already half in love with
her.
Round her, forming a sort of bodyguard or watchdog, continually hovered
in majestic grace the Countess of Lackland, her mamma.
Bertie was aware that her ladyship knew all about him, and that it was
utterly vain to hope that he might be allowed to fill a vacant line in
the Lady Ethel's little dancing programme.
He watched her dancing for some time, watched her as she spun round
in two waltzes with Leicester Dodson for her partner, then the
disappointed Bertie made his way out on to the corridor and leaned
against the balustrade, gnawing his tawny mustache and trying to make
up his mind to go to his club.
Just then, as he had almost decided, Leicester Dodson came out, hot and
flushed, but with his usual grave reserve about his mouth and eyes.
"Ah! Bert!" he said. "Taking a cooler; you're wise in your generation.
They ought to keep a weighing machine outside in the lobbies, so that
a man could see how much he'd fined down after each dance. I've lost
pounds since the Lancers. It's hotter than a siesta hour in Madrid. You
look cool."
"I don't feel particularly hot. I haven't been dancing. I feel like the
skeleton at the feast; I think I shall carry my bones to the club. Will
you come?"
"I'm engaged for another turn with Lady Ethel Boisdale," said Leicester
Dodson, leaning over the balustrade and skillfully concealing a yawn.
"Lucky dog," said Bertie, enviously.
"Eh?" said Leicester. "By the way, you said she'd half promised you
a dance; you don't mean to say you haven't called for payment, Bert;
she's the best-looking woman in the room, and the most sensible----"
"Too sensible to dance with Mr. Fairfax, or her mamma has had all her
training trouble for nothing," said Bertie.
"Nonsense! She's looking this way; go and ask her, man. I'll wait until
the waltz is over, then we'll go on to the club, for, between you and
me and that hideous statue, which is all out of drawing, by the way, I
have had pretty well enough; and you seem, to judge by your face, to
have had a great deal too much."
Bertie, without a word left his friend, fought his way through the
crowd, and, after some maneuvering, gained Lady Ethel's side.
"Have you saved me that dance which you half promised me this morning?"
he said.
Lady Ethel turned--she did not know that he was so near--and a smile,
bright, but transient, passed across her face.
"There is one dance--it is only a quadrille," she said; "all the
waltzes are gone."
"I am grateful for the quadrille only, and do not deserve that," he
said.
"I thought you had gone," said Ethel. "My brother was looking for you
just now, and I told him that I had seen you go out."
"I was in the corridor cooling," said Bertie Fairfax.
"Is it cool there?" she asked; "I thought it could not be cool anywhere
to-night."
Then Lord Fitz came up, his simple face all flushed with the heat and
the last dance.
"Hello, Bert, I've been looking for you. I say----"
"You must tell me when the dance is over," said Bertie, "there is no
time."
And he led his partner to her place in a set.
A quadrille has the advantage over its more popular sister, the waltz;
it allows of conversation.
Bertie could talk well; he had always something light and pleasant to
say, and he had a musical voice in which to say it.
He was generally too indolent to talk much, but neither his natural
laziness nor the heat seemed to weigh upon him to-night, and he talked
about this matter and on that until Ethel, who was not only beautiful
but cultivated, was delighted.
Too delighted, perhaps, for my Lady Lackland, from her place of
espionage in a corner, put up her eyeglass and scanned her daughter's
rapt and sometimes smiling face with something that was not altogether
a pleased expression.
"Who is that good-looking young fellow with whom Ethel's dancing?"
she asked of the dowager Lady Barnwell, a noted scandalmonger, and an
authority on every one's position and eligibilities.
"That is young Fairfax. Handsome, is he not? Pity he's so poor."
"Poor, is he?" said the countess, grimly.
"Oh, yes, dreadfully. Works for his living--a writer, artist, or
something of that sort. Really, I don't know exactly. He is in the
Temple. Very amusing companion, evidently. Lady Ethel looks charmed
with her partner."
"Yes," said Lady Lackland, coldly, in her heart of hearts she
determined that her daughter should receive a lecture upon the
imprudence of wasting a dance upon such doubtful and dangerous men as
Bertie Fairfax.
Meanwhile, Ethel was enjoying herself, and when Bertie, whose handsome
face was beaming with quiet satisfaction and pleasure, softly suggested
that they should try the corridor, Lady Ethel, after a moment's
hesitation, on the score of prudence, replied with an affirmative, and
they sought the lobby.
Here there were a seat for the lady and a leaning-post for Mr. Fairfax,
and the conversation which had been interrupted was taken up again.
Bertie was in the midst of an eloquent defense of a favorite artist, of
whom Lady Ethel did not quite approve, when Lord Fitz again appeared.
"What an eel you are, Bert! I've been everywhere for you. I say, we're
going down to Coombe Lodge; it's so beastly hot up here in town, and
we're going to make a little summer picnic party; you know, just a nice
number. Cecil Carlton, Leonard Waltham and his sister, and two or three
more. My sister is going, ain't you, Ethel? Will you come?"
"Thanks," said Bertie, with something like a flush, and certainly a
sparkle in his light eyes. "But I am booked to Leicester Dodson."
"Oh, yes, the Cedars; what a bore for us. Never mind, the Lodge isn't
far off, and, if you go down, we shall all be together."
"Yes," said Bertie, glancing at the fair face beneath him, which was
turned, with a quiet look of interest, to her brother; "yes. When do
you go?"
"Next week, if Ethel can get herself away from this sort of thing."
"I shall be very glad to go," said Ethel; "I am longing for the green
trees and a little country air."
"It's done, then; all the odds taken," said simple Lord Fitz.
At that moment came up Ethel's next partner.
Bertie relinquished her, with a smothered sigh. He knew that he should
not see her again that night, for her programme was full.
"We may meet in a country lane next week," he said, softly.
"We may," she said, with a smile that parted her lips bewitchingly, and
then she was called away.
Bertie looked after her, then slowly descended the broad stairs, got
his crush hat and strolled into the open street.
"That's the most sensible thing you've done for the last two hours,"
said Leicester Dodson's voice, behind him. "I'll follow your example,"
and he took out his cigar case. "Here, my man," he added, as his neat
brougham drove up.
"Let us walk," said Bertie.
And they started slowly for the club.
It was very hot there, however, and the pair were soon in Leicester's
chambers, which were in the same inn and only one floor below Bertie's.
Leicester Dodson was a wealthy man, and quite able to afford luxurious
apartments in the Albany, or at Meurice's, but he preferred a quiet set
of chambers near those of his fast friend, Bertie.
He did not work in them, but he read a great deal, and he enjoyed half
an hour now and then spent in watching his hard-working friend.
He would sit in Bertie's armchair, with his legs extended before him,
watching Bertie engaged on some article or poem or drawing, and, as he
watched, would almost wish that he also had to work for his living.
So Mr. Leicester was somewhat of a philosopher and a cynic, as Bertie
had said, and at times found life rather wearisome.
To-night he drew himself a chair--Bertie was extended upon an ancient,
but comfortable, sofa, and, lighting a fresh cigar, rang for claret and
ice.
"Dreadfully hot, Bert. What on earth makes us hang about this horrible
town, in this terrible weather? Fancy staying in London when all the
green fields are holding out their hands and shouting, 'Come, and roll
on us'! Fashion is a wonderful thing--so are you. Why on earth don't
you speak? I never knew you so silent for so many minutes together, in
my life. Are you asleep?"
"No," said Bertie. "Push the claret across the table with the poker,
will you? When did you say you were going down to the Cedars, Les?"
"When you like," said Leicester Dodson, coloring slightly and turning
his face away from his companion. "To-morrow, if you like; I was going
to say I wish I'd never left it, but I came up this week because----"
"Because what?" asked Bertie, as he stopped.
"Because," said Leicester Dodson, looking hard at the fire, in his
grave, sedate way, "discretion is the better part of valor."
"What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed Bertie Fairfax. "You never mean
to tell me you were afraid of a man?"
"No," said Leicester, with his cynical smile; "of a woman. There, don't
ask me any more. I am not going to make a fool of myself, Bert, but
while we're on the subject, I'll say that it would never do for either
of us to do that."
"No," said Bertie Fairfax, with an unusual bitterness. "We can never
marry, Les. You, because you are too----"
"Selfish," interrupted Mr. Dodson, placidly.
"And I, because I am too poor----"
"You will be rich enough some day, you clever dog," said Mr. Dodson,
sententiously.
"Yes, when I'm an old man, gray-headed and bent double. Never mind."
"I won't. Don't you, either," said Leicester; "and now for the Cedars.
Suppose we say the end of the week?"
"Yes, that will do," said Bertie. "The Lacklands--at least, some of
them--are going down to Coombe Lodge next week."
"Oh," said Leicester, significantly, glancing at the frank, pleasant
face of his friend.
"Yes," retorted Bertie, "and the Mildmays are still at the Park, I
suppose?"
"Yes," said Leicester, shrugging his shoulders with an air of
indifference he was far from feeling. "So that we shall be all
together--like moths round a candle," he added, cynically, as Bertie
rose, with a yawn, to mount to his own chambers.
Yes, all together, and near the meshes of that web which a skillful,
cunning spider was weaving for them.
Captain Murpoint had laid his delicate web ready for his flies.