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Updated: June 30, 2025
When Roxholm first had the honour of being presented to this gentleman 'twas at a time when, after a brief period during which the hero's fortunes had been under a cloud, the tide had turned for him and the sun of royal favour shone forth again.
So it was that the boy turned towards his kinsman with interest, for in some manner the mishaps of this wretched family always moved him. "Of Sir Jeoffry?" he said. "Of Sir Jeoffry," my Lord Dunstanwolde answered; "but not so much of himself as of his poor lady. At last she is dead." "Dead!" Roxholm exclaimed.
Roxholm sat on his horse somewhat apart from this group watching it, his kinsman and a certain Lord Twemlow, who was their host for the day, conversing near him. My Lord Twemlow, who took no note of them, but by the involuntary casting on them of an occasional glance, when some wild outburst attracted his attention, wore a grave and almost affronted look.
Among others, his Lordship was attended on his triumphal way by the already much remarked young Marquess of Roxholm, and it was realized that this fortunate young man went not quite as others did, but as one on whom the chief had fixed his attention, and for whom he had a liking.
Before the fox was found, Roxholm had marked this and observed also that half a dozen more of the best mounted men were the roughest on the field, being no young scapegraces and frolickers, but men past forty, who wore the aspect of reprobate livers and hard drinkers, and who were plainly boon companions and more intimate with each other than with those not of their party.
"But 'twas she who was his own," Roxholm said to himself in pondering it over, "and when their eyes met each knew and when she is fierce and torments him 'tis as if the fire in his own blood spoke, as if his own voice reproached him and he remembers their dear hours together, and forgives, and woos her back to him. If she were not his own if he were not hers, neither could endure it.
His lordship did not look his usual self, seeming, Roxholm thought, worn and sometimes abstracted. He was most kind and affectionate, and there was in his manner a paternal tenderness and sympathy which the young man was deeply touched by.
"'Tis not like thee so to lose thy wits, Roxholm," Warbeck said, his hand on his arm, "but thou hast lost them this once surely. 'Tis no work for the sword of a gentleman pinking foul-mouthed boasters in a coffee-house. Know you who he is?" "Damnation, No!" thundered Roxholm, striding on more fiercely still. "'Tis the new dandy, Sir John Oxon," said Warbeck.
They have been splendid devils, some of them devils who fought, shrieking with ferocious laughter in the face of certain horrible death; devils whose spirit no torture of rack or flame could conquer; beings who could endure in silence horrors almost supernatural; who could bear more, revel more, suffer more, defy more than any other human thing." "And this child is one of them!" said Roxholm.
"'Tis not so yet," remarked my Lord Marlborough, with his inscrutable smile. "'Tis not so yet." "Not yet," said Roxholm. "But let each creature live to make it so men that they may be clean and joyous and strong; women that they may be mates for them. They should be as strong as we, and have as great courage." His Lordship smiled again.
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