CHAPTER IV
STRANGE TACKLE
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 residence for 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 little taproom 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 into the 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 not prevent 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 'Blue Lion,'" 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 with the 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.
CHAPTER V
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."