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Updated: May 31, 2025
In a moment's time he was the centre figure of interest among them, and seemed to dominate them all as if he had been some young potentate instead of a mere handsome lad of twelve. "If they were a band of barbarians and he their boy chief they could pay him no more court nor joy in him more," Roxholm reflected. "Is it his beauty or what means it?"
"The year you were born I was the handsomest man in the army, they used to say but I was no such beauty and giant as you, Marquess. The gods were en veine when they planned you." "When I was younger," said Roxholm, "it angered me to hear my looks praised so much; I was boy enough to feel I must be unmanly.
"A man is the richer for the love of two fathers." "Oxford has not changed you, Roxholm," said the Earl. "Nor have the Court ladies' flatteries spoiled your kindly manners. We shall be happy together, for awhile at least."
"Mate, good Lord!" cried Twemlow, again turning to stare at him. "A master, say I." "'Tis a barbaric fancy," said Roxholm thoughtfully as he turned the stem of his glass, keeping his eyes fixed on it as though solving a problem for himself. "A barbaric fancy that a woman needs a master. She who is strong enough is her own conqueror as a man should be master of himself."
Whether fond of women or not, he was not given to talking of them, and a certain reserve would have prevented his entering upon any discussion of the future Lady Roxholm, whomsoever she might in the future prove to be. He stood in an easy attitude, watching with some vague curiosity the expression of his chief's countenance.
Roxholm sprang up with a smothered oath. "Come!" he said to Warbeck. "Come away, in God's name." Warbeck had been his fellow-soldier abroad and knew well the dangerous spirit which hid itself beneath his calm. He rose hurriedly and followed him outside. In the street he could scarce keep pace with his great stride, and the curses that broke from him brought back hot days of battle.
Roxholm; bravo!" His mother looked at his beautiful little face and, seeing a thing in his eyes which women who are mothers detect in the eyes of their offspring when others observe little, put a hand on each of his shoulders and went upon one knee so that she could be on a level with his face and see deeper.
His lordship paused a moment, and a shadow passed swiftly across his countenance, brought there by a sad memory. Young Roxholm turned towards him and waited with a speaking look for his next words. "Then my lord ?" he broke forth inquiringly. Lord Dunstanwolde passed his hand over his forehead. "He would not go," he answered; "he would not go.
"And you never enter a cottage door, mother," said Roxholm in his young manhood's pride and joy in her, "but it seems that the sun begins to shine through the little window, and if there is a caged bird hanging there it begins to twitter and sing. I cannot find a lady like you" bending his knee and kissing her white fingers in gay caress.
'Twas a visit long promised to the Roman gentleman who had more than once been a guest of their household in England; and but for affairs of his Grace of Marlborough, which Roxholm had bound himself to keep eye on, he also would have been of the party.
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