CHAPTER IX
THE PATH OF THE GHOST
In due course they appeared at the Park, very dusty and rather hot. Mrs. Mildmay was greatly alarmed and distressed at the idea of their walking such a distance in such weather, but it was the captain who so cleverly suggested that a little refreshment might be acceptable.
Mr. Leicester eyed him for the first time with something like amiability.
"I am thirsty, I'll admit," he said, with his curt smile.
Mrs. Mildmay rang the bell.
"Some claret, and hock, and some seltzer water."
Violet, whose eyes were quick, saw a quiet twinkle in Mr. Fairfax's eyes, and said, with a laugh:
"Perhaps you would prefer something else, Mr. Fairfax?"
"No, not I," said wicked Bertie; "but Leicester here has acquired a most degraded taste for bitter beer."
And as Mr. Leicester did not take the trouble to deny the imputation, Violet added, "and some bottles of ale."
The servant brought them, and while the gentlemen – including the captain, who said that he really could not resist the temptation – discussed them, Mrs. Dodson delivered herself of the purport of her visit.
Would Mrs. and Miss Mildmay and the captain come over to the Cedars and eat a friendly dinner with them on the morrow?
Mrs. Mildmay glanced interrogatively at Violet. Violet looked up, smilingly, and accepted.
"I shall be delighted, for my part," she said, "if it is really to be a very friendly, unceremonious evening."
The captain and Mrs. Mildmay echoed, and Mrs. Dodson looked pleased.
"It will be very quiet," she said. "We did expect Lord and Lady Boisdale from Coombe Lodge; but it is not certain whether they have come yet; if they have they have promised to join us."
"I am so glad!" said Mrs. Mildmay, who was secretly quite surprised that the Dodsons should be on dining terms with the Lackland family. "I like Lady Lackland so much. I met them very often in town. Violet does not know them; they have not been to Coombe Lodge since she left school."
"Then you will come, and I hope we shall see them," said Mrs. Dodson, rising. "Seven o'clock. Have you gentlemen finished your ale, and do you mean to ride back?"
"I'll walk, please," said Leicester, rising.
"Then you must rest a little longer, I think," said Mrs. Mildmay.
So it happened that Mr. and Mrs. Dodson were escorted to their carriage and started off, and that Leicester and Bertie spent the afternoon resting in Violet's drawing-room and conservatory, and that, while Bertie was absorbed in conversation with the captain, Leicester was left to exchange notes and opinions with Violet.
Perhaps it did not seem so dull to Miss Mildmay that afternoon, and perhaps Mr. Leicester was not altogether unhappy, stretching his long legs among her ferns and flowers.
At seven o'clock on the following evening the Park carriage dashed up to the door of the Cedars, and the guests alighted.
"Fancy calling upon 'those people, the tallow chandlers,' auntie," whispered Violet, wickedly, as they were ushered through the immense hall to the magnificent drawing-room.
"Hush, my dear! they will hear you," murmured Mrs. Mildmay, warningly, as Mrs. Dodson came forward to greet them.
But Violet was shaking hands with Mr. Leicester and Mr. Fairfax, the latter looking particularly handsome and yellow-haired in his evening dress.
"The Boisdales have not come yet," said Mr. Dodson; "but they are coming."
"And here they are," said Leicester, as another carriage, not quite so well appointed as the wealthy Mildmays', dashed up.
Violet looked toward the door, with some curiosity, which was transformed to pleased interest as Lady Ethel entered.
Violet, whose likes and dislikes were most sudden, and oftentimes unaccountable, liked Ethel at first sight.
The two girls bowed first, and then shook hands. There was no doubting Violet's open, kindly eyes on Ethel's part, and Ethel's gentle, quiet smile on Violet's.
"This is my brother, Fitz," she said, as Violet made room for her on the sofa, and Violet looked up and saw good-natured, simple Lord Boisdale standing looking down at her with his boyish grin.
Violet felt herself superior to him immediately, and bowed quite condescendingly, as she would to a schoolboy. Lord Fitz felt – well, he never could tell how he felt at their first meeting, though he tried to often afterward.
"What a pretty place this is!" said Ethel. "I am so sorry we have not known more of it. It is the prettiest drive possible up the cliff."
"And that house with the green, old buildings on the hill," said Lord Boisdale, "is quite a treat. I wonder who owns it?"
"Miss Violet Mildmay," said Mr. Fairfax, who was standing near, quite silent, for a wonder, and looking out of the corner of his frank, blue eyes at Ethel.
"Eh? Eh? I beg your pardon," said Lord Fitz, coloring.
"You have done nothing to need it," said Violet. "I am quite grateful to you for admiring what I love."
"Well, it is pretty," said Lord Fitz. "By Jove! prettier than this," he added, in a loud whisper, which was fortunately drowned by the announcement of dinner.
Mr. Dodson took in Lady Ethel, Lord Fitz followed up with Mrs. Mildmay, and Violet found herself upon Bertie Fairfax's arm, but Leicester Dodson sat near her at dinner, and, being at home, found it his duty to talk.
It was a pleasant dinner, exquisitely cooked and served by discreet, attentive and noiseless servants.
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room the gentlemen seemed to miss them, and after a very little wine was consumed they followed them.
Somebody proposed whist to Mr. Dodson presently. The captain said it was a good idea, and simple-minded Fitz, Mr. Dodson and Bertie and the captain sat down, just for a rubber, while the ladies gave them a little music.
Leicester could play a good hand at any game of cards, and was fond of whist, but he found himself at Violet's side, by the piano.
The captain was induced to sing, and the audience dropped into silence, for when Captain Murpoint pleased he could still conversation most effectively, and never did he sing more effectively than he did then.
When the carriage came up the party was quite loath to break up.
Coombe Lodge was within such an easy drive, and the Park so near, that, as Mr. Dodson said, they were like a family party.
It was a lovely moonlight night, and Leicester proposed that, if they insisted upon going, they should send the carriages on at a slow pace and walk themselves part of the way.
They started and sauntered on, the moonlight pouring down upon them its soft, placid, fitful light, and bathing sea and land, cliff and hollow, in a silver stream.
The party soon broke up into groups. Fitz and Leicester with Violet, Bertie and Ethel with Mrs. Mildmay, and the captain and Mr. and Mrs. Dodson.
It was certainly a tempting night, and the young people seemed to quietly revel in it. Twice the Lackland carriage was sent on; but at last Ethel decided that they had better get in, and, much to Bertie's inward grief, Fitz consented.
"The day after to-morrow, then," he said, as he closed the carriage door. "You will not forget that as you forgot me."
"No," said Ethel laughing, but with a slight flush, "I will not forget, and I hope we shall all have a nice ride. Good-night."
Bertie bent over her hand and held it until he was in danger of the wheels. Then Leicester declared that he would go on as far as the Park and return with a cigar.
"You may light it now," said Violet, "if you like. I do not mind."
Leicester was very grateful and lit it.
By some means the captain attracted Bertie's attention as they neared the Park, and so, calling him away, left Leicester and Violet alone.
They did not seem to notice it, however, and stopped to look at the ruins of the old abbey clinging to the new house.
"Beautiful!" said Leicester. "Bertie has been in ecstasies over this; he is an author and an artist, you know."
"I like him," said Violet, in her decisive way.
"So do I," said Leicester. "He is my best friend. My rooms and his in the Temple adjoin."
"Do they?" said Violet. "How strange it sounds: 'In the Temple.' What do you do in chambers?"
"He works hard. I – smoke, drink, read, think, and watch him working."
Violet laughed.
"It must be very nice," she said, softly. "Look!" she said, suddenly; "that is the ghost's window."
"That long oriel window?" said Leicester. "You promised to tell me about your pet ghost."
"Don't joke about it," she said, with a short laugh. "Ask the fishermen about it. No man, woman or child would pass that tower after dark."
"What sort of ghost is it?" asked Leicester, with extreme levity. He did not believe in the supernatural.
"Have you never heard the legend?" said Violet. "It is a strange one."
"Tell it me here; it is a fine opportunity, and proper surroundings. Is it a man or a woman?"
"A nun," said Violet, "in white robes, with a skull's face and two gleaming eyes. My old nurse had seen it three times. And after each appearance something dreadful or unfortunate happened either at the Park or at the village. Once the old farm took fire and was burned down, the second time one of the Godolphins, who were then living at the Abbey, was drowned in the bay, and the third time a child fell off the cliff."
"The people of Penruddie should insure their lives after the ghost appears," said Leicester laughing.
"You laugh; but is it not strange?" said Violet gravely. "And, what is more strange to my mind, all the descriptions of the apparition by the different persons who have seen it tally exactly. All say it is a woman in white robes, with a skull's face and gleaming eyes, and that it carries a strange, shaded light, which throws a fearful, dim glare for some distance. Is it not awful?"
Leicester smiled.
"Not very," he said. "I have seen better at Drury Lane. And does your ghost confine herself to that lower and oriel window or does she perambulate?"
"Yes, she has been seen at that small window on the right, you see, which the ivy half covers."
"I see," he said, "and what room is that?"
"A room in the old abbey, which was left standing by my father's directions," said Violet, in a low voice. "He used it as a sort of study or reading-room, and when he died it was closed up."
"It is empty, then?" said Leicester.
"No; we would have nothing removed. There is all the old furniture as it used to be when he lived. It used to be left undisturbed while he was absent on his voyages, and it is undisturbed now."
"It is a room for a ghost," said Leicester.
Violet nodded.
"Yes," she said. "Look, the moon is obscured. How dark it is. Ah! what is that?" she broke off, with a scared, dry voice, clutching Leicester's arm.
"What – where?" he asked, quickly, and laying his hand upon hers.
"There – in the room! at the window!" she breathed. "It has gone!"
"What?" he asked, still keeping the hand, which she seemed too frightened to remove.
"I – I – scarcely know," she said, brokenly, and with a shudder, which Leicester felt. "A something white, with a light, at that little window."
"Oh, are you sure?" he asked, doubtfully, anxious to convince her that it was mere fancy. "Remember, we have just been talking about the ghost."
"No, no; it was not fancy," she said. "I saw it plainly enough. I was not thinking of it as I spoke, and I saw it when the moon got behind the cloud. It was in my father's room."
At that moment she started again. A voice so close behind her that it seemed to spring from the ground said: "Miss Mildmay, where are you? Oh, here you are!"
And Captain Murpoint came up.
"How interested you look! What are you talking about?"
"Ghosts," said Leicester, fixing his dark, scrutinizing eyes upon him. "Did you not hear Miss Mildmay call out?"
"No," said the captain, innocently, "I only just came up."
But he had been close beside them for some minutes, and had not only heard Violet's low cry of terror, but the whole of the conversation.
CHAPTER X
A DISQUIETING RUMOR
Some quiet evenings are more productive of matter for reflection and afterthought than many more exciting and apparently eventful ones. How little there is to talk over a ball! One quadrille is like another and one partner very much like another. Most ballrooms are hot, most partners are unsuitable. But how often a quiet evening with a few friends in a country house is the beginning of some great matter – the mustard seed whence springs the shadowing tree, the bend of the stream which changes its whole course!
So it was with several of the members of Mrs. Dodson's quiet, little dinner.
Five of them at least returned to rest that night very thoughtful.
The captain, when he had reached the little boudoir, or dressing-room, of his luxurious suite, cast off as if it were a mask the careless smile of simple amiability and showed in his countenance some of the subtle working of his brain.
As he walked to the window and looked out upon the scene bathed in the moonlight, his face grave and frowning with deep thought, he looked a very different person to the easy-going gentleman of fortune which he had appeared in the drawing-room a few minutes before.
"Soh!" he muttered, "the room has been closed since John Mildmay's death, and never been opened; the dust must lie thick there. Haunted, too! Did she see anything, or was it only a sentimental girl's fancy? Violet is not sentimental, and is scarcely the girl to be led away by a weak fancy, either. The cry and the start were too natural in their suddenness and reluctance to be affected. Strange! I don't believe in ghosts, but if I did I would believe that Violet Mildmay saw one then.
"The haunted room lies near this – in what direction? Let me see," and he closed his eyes and worked out a mental calculation. "It must lie at the end of my bedroom, for that is in the part of the building nearest the ruins. If I were a nervous man, I might feel qualmish about the near proximity of the haunted chamber. As it is, as I am a man who has to make his fortune, that chamber, with its uncanny character, is a godsend; it is a slice of luck I little looked for, another card in a hand which was not a bad one at any time.
"But I must not overlook my opponents. I play as one against many. First, Leicester Dodson; he is not to be lightly held. His handsome face and long legs carry a brain with them that may be a fitting match for mine. He has coolness and confidence, has Mr. Leicester Dodson, and he is smitten with Mistress Violet. They were close together to-night, in amiable confidence, her hand fell upon his arm. I have known a man's heart fall before one look of such a woman as Violet before now. And the boy, my young Lord Boisdale, is half inclined to lose his wits over the girl's fair face and grace – but he doesn't count. Some men are born fools, and this is one. He is of use, though. I must play one against the other. His sister, too, Lady Ethel, is no fool, and Mr. Bertie Fairfax thinks her an angel. There should be some cards to play there!
"Let me think, let me think. There are the materials of a nice little game of cross-purposes, if I can but manage it. Come in!"
He broke off abruptly as a knock at the door disturbed his cogitations.
Mr. Jem entered with his master's dressing-gown.
The captain threw off his coat, and donned the capacious garment in silence which Jem did not think proper to break.
At last the captain roused from his reverie and turned his attention to his follower.
"Where have you been?"
"Down in the village, captain," said Jem Starling, with a wink. "There's a wery nice little and pretty little creetur in cherry ribbons wot draws a good glass of ale."
The captain nodded, absently.
"Don't be seen there too often, and keep your mouth shut."
"Trust me," said Jem, clicking his tongue against his cheek, with a knowing air. "This old soldier is a very remarkable old soldier, and he's like the parrot – he don't talk much, but he thinks the more."
"You may think as much as you like," said the captain, "but be as moderate in your thinking as your talking, my friend. You had a bad habit, when I knew you in former days, of lifting that elbow of yours too often," and the captain went through the pantomime of a man raising a glass to his lips. "One slip in that direction means ruin, remember, ruin for you as well as me. But, there, I have no wish to worry you. Amuse yourself as you like, so that you keep your mouth shut."
"I amuse myself," said Jem. "There's quite a little game going on down below, which I'm mighty interested in. It's like one o' them Chinese puzzles, little pieces of wood you put together, you know. Lor', you might 'a' lived down Whitechapel in Larry's thieves' kitchen and not see more signs and mysterious nods and winks as you do down here – down here in this little village, which I thought was inhabited by perfect infants. Why, a man has to keep his eyes open every minute to catch all the signs which one simple-looking chap of a fisherman gives to another."
"What do you mean?" asked the captain, absently, and with evident inattention. "What signs should these men have? what mystery? There, I'm tired, go to bed. By the way, there's a sovereign for you."
And he threw one of the coins which he had won that evening on the table.
Jem, who was beginning to understand his master's moods, picked up the donation with a touch of the forehead, and, with a gruff, "Good-night, captain," departed, muttering to himself:
"He's working, he is; he's begun the game, or my name's not Jem. Ah! he's a deep 'un, is the captain!"
In another room of the Park Violet was inclined to be thoughtful, and for some time her maid brushed the long tresses of her mistress' bright hair with inward surprise at her silence, and at last ventured to intrude upon it by the commencement of the little gossip to which Violet was rather partial, so long as it was confined to innocent chat and did not diverge to scandal and tittle-tattle.
So Marie ventured to remark that there were a great many servants at Coombe Lodge, and that the people were very glad that the Lacklands had come down; but they seemed quite as pleased that Mr. Leicester had come, too.
Mr. Leicester's name seemed to rouse her mistress from her reverie, and she looked up, with her bright, clear gaze.
"What did you say about Mr. Leicester Dodson?"
"I said, miss, that the people in the village and the servants up at the Cedars were very glad that Mr. Leicester had come down again, for, though he's so very stern and grave-looking, he seems to be very kind, and everybody gives him a good name. And he's so liberal, miss! He gives a sovereign where others look hard at shillings. Only the last time he was down, miss, he went into Will Sanderson's cottage and sat and talked with little Jemmie, Willie Sanderson's brother, you know, miss, little lame Willie; and he sat and asked questions about his not being able to walk, and then he got up with a start, and in his thoughtful way, which almost makes you think you've done something wrong; but there comes down one o' them little inwalid chairs from London, and Willie says his brother is as well again now that he can be wheeled about. Of course, it came from Mr. Leicester, though when Willie went up to thank him, he sent word down that he was to have a glass of wine, and not to wait. And they say – the servants, you know – miss, that Mr. Leicester is so kind to Mrs. Dodson, and speaks to her quite soft, and when she was ill with the rheumatics he carried her up and downstairs; and so no wonder they likes him; though I did hear the cook say that Mr. Leicester was very particular about the made dishes, and that when he is angry it's something fearful, he's so stern, and what you might call overpowering, miss."
"Oh," said Violet, with her sweet little laugh, "throws the dishes at the butler's head, I suppose you think, Marie?"
"Oh, no, miss, but has the cook up, and talks to him so cold and sternlike, like he talked to Bill Summers, who threw down the horse he was so fond of. But, notwithstanding that way of his, he's very kind to all the servants, and any of 'em would do anything for him. They like Mr. Fairfax, too, miss, and he, I heard 'em say, was an artist or an author, or something clever, miss, in London, and he lives with Mr. Leicester, in the same house, and him and Lord Fitz Boisdale are all great friends. And they do say, miss, though, of course, I can't tell whether it's true, that Mr. Leicester is courting Lady Ethel. Did I hurt you, miss?" she broke off, suspending her operations with the hair brush, for Violet had turned round her head rather suddenly.
"No," said Violet, quietly. "What do you say, that Mr. Leicester is in love with Lady Ethel Boisdale?"
"Well, miss, they say so, and it certainly do look like it, if all accounts be true, for Mr. Leicester's man says that his master is at all the balls and soirées and dinners at the Earl of Lackland's, and that he only came down here so suddenlike because Lady Lackland and Lord Fitz and Lady Ethel were coming down to Coombe Lodge."
"That will do," said Violet, "I will go to bed now."
And Marie braided the heavy mass of hair into thick, silken plaits, rattling on meanwhile with a laughable account of Mr. Starling's sayings and doings in the servants' hall, to which he seemed, by Marie's account, quite an acquisition. Violet smiled with her usual enjoyment of the humorous, of which she had a quick perception, and Marie left her still smiling.
But when the talkative little maid had closed the door behind her, light-hearted Violet felt rather lonely.
Her aunt slept in the next suite of rooms, and by touching a small bell, she could summon her, or by opening a door and passing through a little anteroom she could reach her, but Violet was not nervous or timid, and after a little wrestling with the feeling she conquered it.
But she could not altogether dismiss the small incidents of the evening from her mind.
Had she really seen the White Nun, or had fancy deceived her?
That was a question she could not answer satisfactorily.
Then another one presented itself for consideration. Was Mr. Leicester Dodson a suitor for Lady Ethel's hand?
That also was a question which she could not answer.
It was true he had gone up to town suddenly, and it was true that he had been present at a ball at which Lady Ethel was also present. It was also a singular coincidence that he should return so suddenly to Penruddie at the time of the Lacklands' visit to Coombe Lodge.
"Well, if it was so," thought Violet, humming the air of a song which Captain Murpoint had sung, "it was nothing whatever to do with her."
Then she thought of his manner by the stile that evening – of its quiet sense of power and protection; of the grasp of his firm, strong hand on her trembling arm, of – well, of every word he had spoken, of every gesture he had used, of that act of kindness toward Jemmie Sanderson.
"I wish I were a little sleepier," she said, at last.
But though she went to bed sleep would not come to her sweet, deep eyes, which Mr. Leicester so much admired, and they were wide open watching the moonlight as it fell upon the wall for some time.
Had they possessed the power of looking through the wall they might have seen Mr. Leicester's tall, stalwart figure where he leaned against the garden gate, smoking his before-bed cigar, and ruminating, as wakeful as herself.
As for Lady Ethel, she, too, was thoughtful; but that was nothing unusual for her. But when Lord Fitz himself, who was generally extremely talkative, leaned back in profound silence for at least the time occupied in traversing two of the six miles to Coombe Lodge, Ethel felt rather surprised.
"How quiet you are, Fitz!" she said.
"Eh! am I?" he replied, rousing. "I was thinking. I say, Ethel, what do you think of the Mildmays?"
"I haven't thought very much about them," said Lady Ethel, and indeed she had not. "I think Violet Mildmay is very pretty."
"Isn't she!" exclaimed Lord Fitz, eagerly. "I think her the nicest girl I've seen. She's what you call a 'bluestocking,' isn't she? One of the 'merry and wise sort,' eh, Ethel?"
"Yes, I liked what I have seen of her very much. I am glad we have met."
"Yes, so am I," said Lord Fitz. "I say, I heard Bertie and Leicester arranging a riding party; do you know if Miss Mildmay is coming?"
"I believe so," said Ethel; "yes, I am sure she is."
"Then," said his lordship, "I think I shall go."
"Of course you will, to take care of me," said Ethel, smiling.
There was a short pause, then Lord Fitz roused again with the sudden question:
"Ethel, do you think the Mildmays are well tiled in?"
"Tiled in, you inscrutable boy, what can you mean?" asked Ethel, with laughing bewilderment.
"Tiled in, well off, rich, you know, and all that."
"I should think so," said Lady Ethel, thoughtfully. "They have a very beautiful place and I have heard that her father was a merchant. Oh, yes, I should think she was rich."
Lord Fitz gave a sigh of relief.
"I'm glad of that," he said.
Ethel laughed.
"Why should you be glad?" she said, looking at him curiously.
"Oh, never mind," said Lord Fitz, rather embarrassed. "So her father was a merchant. All those merchant fellows get rich. Look at Leicester's father, he's as rich as Crœsus. I wish my governor was a merchant."
"He would be very much obliged to you for the compliment," said Lady Ethel, with a smile. "For my part I am satisfied with an earldom."
"Oh!" said Lord Fitz, and as he drew a long sigh he murmured inaudibly: "So should I if it had a lot of money with it."
"That's a rum fellow, that captain," said Lord Fitz, after a pause.
"In what way?" asked Ethel. "He seemed very ordinary, very amusing, too."
"Oh, yes, he's amusing enough," assented Lord Fitz. "But I'm half inclined to think he's deuced sharp. He can play whist like a book, and picked up the coin like old Hawksey at the club. But I say, Eth, you're pretty sharp, sharper than I am, and did you notice the rum look of the captain's eyes? They seemed to be watching everybody and everything, and when he caught you looking at him they shifted down the table, and he was sure to make one of those funny speeches of his, as if he didn't want you to think he'd noticed you looking at him. And every time he lifted his wineglass he looked over the top all down the table."
"No, I didn't notice all that," replied Ethel. "You are getting quite a student of human nature and manners, Fitz."
"Oh," said Fitz, nodding his curly head decisively. "You were too much taken up with Mr. Bert. I saw you, Miss Sly Boots, laughing and whispering."
"For shame, Fitz!" retorted Ethel, blushing in the darkness. "Whispering to a stranger?"
"Well, and what then?" said Lord Fitz. "And I don't wonder at any one being taken up with Bert. He knows more stories than any man in all the clubs in London, and he can tell 'em better, too. Pity he's so poor, Ethel. Poor old Bert!"
Lady Ethel looked straight before her.
"He ought to have been a merchant or a tea grocer, or something of that sort," said Lord Fitz. "That's the way to make money."
By this time, or very shortly afterward, the carriage rolled up to the door of Coombe Lodge.
Ethel, who had not spoken since Lord Fitz's assertion that Bertie should have been a tea grocer, went straight up to Lady Lackland's room, where her mother was waiting for her.
Lord Fitz sauntered off to the billiard room, where he lighted a huge cigar and, with half-closed eyes, tried to decide upon the color of Violet's.
"I'm glad she's rich," he muttered, "very glad!"
Lady Lackland had been prevented from accompanying Fitz and Ethel by one of a series of headaches produced by the last balls of the past season, and she was now quite anxious to hear a full account of the party.
Ethel gave her a list of the guests.
Lady Lackland, who was lying on a couch, raised her head with a grave look of displeasure as Ethel mentioned Bertie Fairfax's name.
"Mr. Fairfax there?" she said. "You did not tell me he was to be there, Ethel."
"Did I not, mamma?" said Ethel, calmly. "I had forgotten it, perhaps, or did not think his expected presence of sufficient consequence. Yes, he was there."
"And this Miss Mildmay? I remember Mrs. Mildmay – quite a distingué looking woman. Is her niece like her?"
"She is very pretty and well bred," said Ethel.
Her ladyship mused coldly, eying her daughter at intervals while she sat looking through the window at the moon.
"And how did the Dodsons seem? Do you like them?"
"Yes," said Ethel, "very much. It was a very pleasant party, mamma; and we have arranged another, a riding party this time. I may go, I suppose?"
"Y – es," said Lady Lackland, "if Fitz goes with you – oh, yes, certainly. Mr. Leicester Dodson goes, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Ethel, "we are all going, all the young ones. Shall I stay any longer? I make your head ache more by talking."
"No, don't stay any longer," said Lady Lackland, coldly. "Before you go you will please draw that writing table near to me?"
Ethel did so, kissed her mother, who returned the warm pressure of her soft, sweet lips by a cold touch with her own, and left the room.
Lady Lackland drew the table to a convenient position, and without rising wrote a note to the earl, who was still in London.
"Tell me by return," she wrote, "who and what these Dodsons are, whether they are really as rich as they are supposed to be and if I am right in letting Ethel see so much of the son. She and Fitz dined at their place, the Cedars, this evening, and met a Miss Mildmay, Violet Mildmay, the merchant John Mildmay's daughter. I believe he left an immense fortune behind him, but I am not certain, and perhaps you can ascertain. I have not seen Fitz, but Ethel says the girl is very pretty and well bred. I am sorry to say that odious Mr. Fairfax was there also; he is staying at the Cedars."
Poor Bertie!