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.
CHAPTER VI
"LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG."
Captain Howard Murpoint had not exaggerated his powers of pleasing when making that important communication and revelation to his accomplice, Jem, under the Portland cliffs.
He had not been in possession of the marvelously comfortable suite of rooms at Mildmay Park many days before young and old, mistress and servants, were ready to pronounce the captain a most agreeable man, and his servant, Jem, a most amusing and obliging fellow.
The morning after his arrival the captain came down to breakfast elegantly attired in a loose velvet shooting-coat, which set off his strong, well-made figure to advantage.
His smooth face was set with a pleasant smile, and his voice was toned to a half-affectionate interest as he shook hands with Mrs. Mildmay.
"I hope you slept well, Captain Murpoint?" she murmured.
The captain declared that he had never slept better, and that his quarters were all that could be wished.
"Violet is not down yet," said Mrs. Mildmay. "She is late, but we were rather later than usual last night, and, I dare say, the excitement of your arrival made her feel tired. Ah, there she is."
And Violet entered at the moment, and came up to give her aunt the morning kiss.
Then she turned to the captain, and once again his bold, watchful eyes shrank for a moment before the clear, calm gaze of her pure ones.
His salutation was a finished piece of acting, so reverential, so paternally affectionate, and so respectful.
Violet shook hands with him, and tripped to her seat.
"And did the ghosts annoy you?" she asked, as the captain spoke of his night's rest.
"No; they were considerate to their guest. Perhaps when we are more familiar they may be more troublesome. You have had a good night's sleep, 'tis evident," he continued, glancing admiringly at her fair, fresh, blooming face.
"I always sleep well," said Violet, simply. "Neither ghosts nor indigestion disturb me."
"I thought perhaps that our little party had tired you, my dear," said Mrs. Mildmay.
"No, aunt," replied Violet. "It was a very pleasant one," she added, musingly.
"Very, the pleasantest I have participated in for some time," said the captain, with some truth. "I must congratulate you upon having some really agreeable neighbors. The vicar was a most delightful man, and Mr. and Mrs. Giles are most amiable."
"And what did you think of the Dodsons?" asked Mrs. Mildmay, with a half sigh.
"Most agreeable people," replied the captain. "So original and unaffected. The young fellow pleased me exceedingly," and he glanced at Violet, under his dark brows.
"They are quite new friends – acquaintances," said Mrs. Mildmay. "Last night was the first time we have had the pleasure of their company.
"Indeed!" said the captain, with interest. "Newcomers, I suppose?"
"No; they have been here some time," answered Mrs. Mildmay. "They live in the large, red house, the Cedars; perhaps you did not notice it? You can see it from the dining-room windows. They are friends of Violet's making and – and though very agreeable people, still – "
"Still, they are – tallow chandlers," put in Violet, wickedly, "and aunt cannot forgive them."
Captain Murpoint smiled a peculiar smile of conciliation for both the ladies.
"Tallow chandlers," he said, "can be very agreeable people; but I understand your aunt's prejudice, my dear Miss Mildmay – "
"And I cannot," said Violet, with quiet gravity. "My father," and her voice lowered softly, "must have bought tallow when he traded with Russia, as I have heard, and I cannot see much difference between buying it in the first instance and melting it in the second."
"There is a difference," said the captain, softly. "But, putting the question aside, I thought the Dodsons extremely nice people, and Mr. Leicester Dodson a well-informed person."
Violet looked at her plate. She did not echo the captain's praise or qualify it, so one could not tell whether she thought Mr. Leicester clever or not.
"Violet made their acquaintance in quite a romantic fashion," said Mrs. Mildmay, harping upon the subject, and she proceeded to recount the adventure of the parasol upon the cliffs.
While they were talking, Violet, who was facing the window which overlooked the lawn, saw the tall, graceful figure of Leicester Dodson sauntering up the path toward the house, in the indolent way which distinguished him.
"There is Mr. Dodson," she said. "I'll tap at the window; he may as well come in this way as walk up to the front."
And so she tapped.
Mr. Leicester looked over the whole of the house, as usual, before settling upon the right window, then, when he did, he lifted his hat, with a grave smile that was also a very pleased one, and came across the lawn.
"Will you consent to make such an undignified entry?" said Violet.
"Yes," said Mr. Leicester, and, stooping, stepped into the room. "I'm afraid I'm too early," he said, shaking hands with Mrs. Mildmay and the captain. "But I thought if I left it till the middle of the day it would be too hot, and if I left it till the evening it would be too near dinner, and that after dinner – "
"We should be all asleep," said Violet, quietly.
"Exactly," assented Mr. Leicester, gravely.
"We are very glad to see you at any time," said Mrs. Mildmay. "And I think it is very kind of you to take the trouble on such a warm day, to come and see Violet's dog; poor fellow! we cannot think what ails his leg."
"We shall perhaps be able to find out," said Mr. Leicester.
"Will you take a cup of coffee?" asked Violet.
"Yes, I will, please," he said. "Coffee is a good antidote to the heat, is it not, Captain Murpoint?"
"Yes," said the captain, who had taken the opportunity to scrutinize the young man's face during the exchange of remarks; "yes, with a little curry powder added. We used to take it with chillies every morning at Madras."
Mr. Leicester sipped his coffee and chatted in his grave way; then, when the coffee had disappeared, Violet rose to conduct him to the stables.
When they reached the stables, where Violet was welcomed by many a groom and stable-help with smiles and hat-touchings, the great mastiff Leo came limping out of his kennel, baying and throwing up its head, with mingled pain and pleasure.
"Poor old fellow," said Violet. "See, isn't it a pity? He is very fierce," she added, as the dog eyed the stranger with suspicious, threatening aspect.
"I'm not afraid of a dog," said Mr. Leicester, quietly, and without hesitation he knelt down and stroked the thick, smooth neck. The dog growled and put its paws on his shoulder.
"Oh, please be careful!" said Violet, apprehensively. "Quiet, Leo! Quiet, sir."
Mr. Dodson, however, did not seem at all nervous and, with a grave, "Poor old man!" took hold of the bad foot and examined it.
"There's a thorn in this foot, or there was, and it is festering. I prescribe a poultice," he said.
"Oh, dear me! who is to put it on?" said Violet.
"I will," said Mr. Leicester, "if you will be kind enough to order some warm water and linseed."
Violet, without any further fuss, sent one of the grooms for the required articles, and Mr. Leicester seated himself on the top of the kennel and talked to the dog until they came.
Then he mixed the poultice, applied it, and washed his hands, all with the same self-composed gravity which half amused Violet and half awed her.
This Mr. Leicester, whom she had once almost despised for being the son of a tallow melter was gradually winning her respect and setting her thinking.
"How kind of you," she said. "I am really very grateful. But I am ashamed that you should have had so much trouble."
"Not at all. I am very fond of dogs," said Mr. Leicester, and the speech, though it seemed ungracious, was pleasantly spoken.
"If you are fond of horses, come and see my ponies," said Violet, in her frank way, and they turned to the stables.
"They are a pretty pair; they'd go well in tandem," said Mr. Leicester, thoughtfully.
"Would they?" said Violet, eagerly. "How I should like to drive them. Is it difficult?"
"No," said Mr. Leicester, "not at all, when you have acquired the knack. If you will allow me, I will show you how to drive the ponies tandem."
"Thank you so much," said Violet, gratefully; "but are you sure that it will not bore you? I know gentlemen dislike being bored."
"No, it will give me great pleasure," he said, simply. "When will you take the first lesson?"
"Oh, you shall say the time."
"This afternoon, at five?"
"Yes," said Violet; "I shall be delighted! Oh, I forgot!" she added, quickly, and with an unmistakable air of disappointment. "I am to drive Captain Murpoint over to the village, and perhaps he would not care to risk his neck."
Captain Murpoint came from the house at that moment to answer the question.
"Will you be present at a little equestrian experiment, Captain Murpoint?" asked Mr. Leicester.
The captain smiled.
"Are you going to ride three of Miss Mildmay's horses a-row?" he said, with his smooth smile.
"No; Mr. Dodson has been kind enough to offer to teach me how to drive tandem," said Violet.
"I shall be only too delighted to make a spectator."
"Will you come into the house again?" she asked, as Mr. Leicester raised his hat and paused at the walk leading to the gate.
"No thank you," he said. "I am going down to the village for my mother. Good-morning. Good-morning, Captain Murpoint." And he sauntered off.
They repaired to the drawing-room, that being the coolest part of the house, and there the captain was most attentive. The conversation got on to the topic of music, and Violet turned over her new songs, and at last, in answer to a question whether he sang or not, the captain offered to sing.
He seated himself at the piano, struck a few chords, and commenced a barcarole in so sweet and yet powerful a voice that Violet was charmed.
The music drew Mrs. Mildmay into the room from another part of the house, and the morning, which Violet had feared would be extremely dull, promised to pass away most pleasantly.
While he was singing, Violet heard her door open.
She was standing at the piano, and she did not turn her head, but raised her eyes to a mirror which hung over the instrument, and which reflected the whole of the room.
As she did so, she saw that the door was opened by the captain's servant, and her gaze was riveted by the picture which the mirror showed her.
The man, thinking himself unobserved was standing, with the door handle in his hand, with such an expression of infinite mockery and sardonic amusement on his evil face that Violet felt herself fascinated and strangely impressed by it.
Suddenly the captain raised his eyes, and she knew by the look of mingled anger, alarm, and suspicion which displaced the smile upon his face that he was conscious of her fixed attention upon the mirror.
He finished the song abruptly, turned his head, and saw Jem Starling, whose face instantly resumed its usual snug demureness.
"Well, James?"
"A letter, captain," said James, "marked 'immediate.'"
The captain took it.
Jem left the room.
"Pray, do not mind us," said Mrs. Mildmay, and, with a bow, the captain took out his letter, which he had thrust into his pocket.
He was almost on the point of returning into the hiding place, for at a glance he saw that it was only a sham one – an old envelope sealed up.
However, with his usual quickness, he decided to open it, and, accordingly, made a slight fuss with the seal, and, taking out a piece of paper, read:
"The pleece inspector's cum down to-day."
Captain Murpoint smiled.
"Business, my dear madam; business men always mark their letters 'immediate,'" and he thrust the letter into his pocket, and commenced talking as if the matter were of no moment.
Violet played a little, and practiced some new song, and Mrs. Mildmay ventured to pass through the French window into the garden, the captain accompanying her.
It was after they had left the room that Violet, happening to glance at the carpet, saw a scrap of paper by her side.
It was the captain's note.
"'The pleece inspector's cum down to-day,'" she said; "why, where can this have come from?"
For the moment she thought that it must be the letter which the captain had received, but the scrap of paper had so little of the appearance of a missive that had come through the post, and the information seemed to have still less connection with the captain, that she dismissed the idea.
"Strange," she said, and, with a laugh, she put the piece of paper in her pocket.
The captain had pulled it from his with his pocket handkerchief.