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"I will wait until she does," Roxholm answered, and his youthful face was as grave as the hero's own, though if triflers had heard their words, they would have taken their talk for idle persiflage and jest. "'Tis Clo Wildairs, Man All the County Knows the Vixen." A month later he went to Warwickshire at my Lord Dunstanwolde's invitation.
"'Tis not possible to hide a handsome young nobleman under a bushel," the Earl said after but a few days had passed. "The neighbours will have you to dine, and dance, and hunt with them, whether it is your will or not. A strapping young fellow must do his duty by the world." Roxholm performed his duty with propriety and spirit when it was not to be evaded gracefully.
"What is your price?" said my Lord Roxholm to the painter. The man set one and 'twas high though 'twould not have seemed so in an age when art was patronised and well paid for in a country where 'twas more generously encouraged than in England in the days of good Queen Anne.
'Tis only a man who is a hero, and a stately mannered one, who could stay in the same room with her without being put out of countenance. Will she rule in the gallery in town or in the country?" "She will not be framed or hung, but laid away," answered Roxholm.
He should be killed for it he should be killed." His father and mother glanced at each other. "Surely," her Grace said, "he must have heard of the wicked Gloucestershire baronet my Lord Dunstanwolde told us stories of Sir Jeoffry." "Ay, his name was Sir Jeoffry," cried Roxholm, eagerly. "Sir Jeoffry it was they said."
What's a woman for, after she looks like that? If she were not hanging about my neck I could marry some fine strapping girl who would give me an heir before a year was out." If young Roxholm did not hear this special anecdote, he heard others from various sources which were productive in him of many puzzled and somewhat anxious thoughts.
In truth, as Dame Watt had said, he had begun well Gerald Walter John Percy Mertoun, Marquess of Roxholm; and well it seemed he would go on.
She looked up at him staring, and with long, sobbing breaths. "Who are you?" she asked, helplessly. "I am the Marquess of Roxholm," he answered, "and I ride to my father's house at Camylott; but I cannot leave you until I know you are safe." "Safe!" she said. "I safe!" and she clasped her hands about her knees as she sat, wringing her fingers together. "You do not ask me who I am," she added.
This poor thing, unwanted, hated, and cast aside to live or die as if it were the young of some wild creature of the woods this one, they say, has the strength of ten, and will survive. God have mercy on its evil fortunes." Young Roxholm stood with folded arms gazing straight before him again into the driving rain. His brow was knit, and he was biting his boyish red lip.
'Twas while Roxholm lay in bed recovering of his injuries that his kinsman referred to this again, asking him what thoughts he had had of this hero and wherein he had felt them an aid, and the boy's answers and the talk which followed them had been the beginning of many such conversations, his Lordship finding the young mind full of vigour and fine imagination.
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