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Updated: May 31, 2025
"That I had an errand on hand. A good joke, split me, Roxholm! Come with me; I go to see the picture of a beauty, stole by the painter, who is always drunk, and with his clothes in pawn, and lives in a garret in Rag Lane." He was in the highest spirits over the adventure, and would drag Roxholm with him, telling him the story as they went.
"He did me honour, if 'tis true," Roxholm said, "but I am not vain enough to believe it gracious as he has been." At that moment his volatile companion gave his arm a clutch and stopped their walk as if a sudden thought had seized him. "Where wert thou going, Roxholm?" he asked. "Lord, Lord, I was so glad to see thee, that I forgot." "What didst forget, Tom?" Tom slapt his thigh hilariously.
"Perhaps I am a selfish fellow to ask a young gentleman who is a favourite at Court to come and bury himself with me," he said to Roxholm the night of his arrival, "but you and I have spent many a good quiet hour together, Gerald," laying an affectionate hand upon his broad shoulder. "And if you were my son you would come, I know." "Think of me as your son," said Roxholm with his fine smile.
I should have swooned away at the very sight." She imitated the affected simper of a girl in such a manner that the three sportsmen yelled with delight, and Roxholm himself gnawed his lip to check an involuntary break into laughter. "What didst say to her the day she bridled over it at Knepton, when the young heir was there?" said Crowell, grinning. "I was told thou disgraced thyself, Clo.
It was the pretty woman these young English soldiers had come to do battle with, and hoped to take captive with flying colours and flourish of trumpets. They were in the midst of great laughter when Roxholm entered, and young Tantillion, the ensign, sprang up to meet him in the midst of a gay roar.
'Twas here that Roxholm found himself checking his start, but he had not checked it soon enough to escape the observance of the quickest sighted man in Europe. "What!" he said, "you have heard of her?" "I have seen her, your Grace," Roxholm answered, "on the hunting field in Gloucestershire." "Is she so splendid a young creature as they say?
Was she in boy's attire, as we hear her rascal father lets her ride with him?" "I thought her a boy, and had never seen one like her," said Roxholm, and he was amazed to feel himself disturbed as if he spoke not of a child, but of a beauty of ripe years. "Is she of such height and strength and wondrous development as rumour tells us?" his Grace continued, still observing him as if with interest.
"'Tis my lord Marquess of Roxholm, the great Duke of Osmonde's heir," they would hear it whispered. "He has come back from the wars covered with wounds and now rides to pay his respects to their Graces, his parents, at Camylott Tower."
And Roxholm, suddenly turning cold and pale himself, and seized upon by a horror of he knew not what, saw as in a dream my lord Dunstanwolde advancing towards him, his face ashen with woe, tears on his cheeks, his shaking hands outstretched as if in awful pity. "My poor Gerald," he broke forth, one hand grasping his, one laid on his shoulder.
"I saw her," Roxholm answered and it seemed to him that as he spoke he beheld again the scarlet figure fly over the hedge on its young devil of a horse and felt his heart leap as the horse did. My Lord Dunstanwolde looked grave and pushed his glass back and forth on the mahogany. Glancing at him Roxholm thought his cheek had flushed, as if he did not like the subject.
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