OW, Landlord, I believe this will cover my shot. I'll not trouble you for a reckoning,” said the young man, with a cheeriness perhaps a little forced, placing a guinea upon the table which Mr. Daniells was laying out for breakfast.
The majordomo pocketed the coin, smiling shamefacedly.
“Since you will have your little joke about landlords, sir. I am sure Sir Jasper”
“Mr. Daniells, that will be a point to settle between you and Sir Jasper. It was your hospitality I enjoyed, not his. No doubt you can oblige me further—in the matter of a conveyance. Surely you can find something that will carry me and my bag as far as Blandford or Salisbury—any place where I can get coach for London.”
“Salisbury?” The captain's voice rang hearty and guttural as he put in an appearance in the dining-room. “I am for Salisbury myself—London, too, for that matter, I hope—tonight. My dear sir, why not take your seat with me? Nay, nay, no ceremony! I have drawn blank at my old friend's; let me have in compensation a day in the company of my new one—if you will permit me so to call Mr. Fendall—of whom I have by no means seen as much as I would like. Yes? It must be yes. So—that is pleasant. Pray,” turning to the majordomo, “warn the post boy and my servant to be round at ten with the chaise. That is settled,” he went on, to bear down any remains of hesitation on the Englishman's part.
Thus it came to pass that, an hour later, the two guests of chance were bowling along the white road between the folds of the downs on their way to London together.
The last words of the captain to the majordomo, who, although generously tipped, bowed them disconsolately enough out of Stanton Manor, had been exuberantly optimistic:
“Tell Sir Jasper when he does return, as I trust he will soon, that I shall be in London till the fifteenth and that I hope to hear from him before that. I shall be at Long's Hotel, Bond Street.”
Not content, however,with verbal instructions, he had with Teutonic thoroughness taken the precaution to hand the servant a slip of paper with the address and the date clearly written.
Then he had settled himself down with great show of comfort in his seat and selected a cigar from his traveling-case.
“Well, my dear Mr. Fendall,” he began, between two puffs, “we are”
“One moment, Baron,” interrupted the young man. “Now that we are free of that excellent but rather foolish fellow's presence and that I am, as it seems, to pursue the pleasure of your acquaintance, it is necessary that I should clear myself at once of the discourtesy of sailing in your company under assumed colors.”
The Hanoverian paused in his puffing, the tinder-box still poised in the air, and shot at his companion a smiling, inquisitive glance.
“My name is not Fendall, but Ferrars. The house in which we have spent the night is that of my father.”
“So? Most interesting. Gad, this is indeed charming! Quite picturesque. Romantic—in the style of our Kotzebue's dramas. The wandering heir returning to the deserted ancestral mansion. Do you know, my dear sir, I had something of a vague idea, last night—some glimmering—as I saw you so pensive at the supper-table, gazing with a kind of melancholy abstraction at the old family pictures whilst I was rattling with my yarns. Yes, and again in front of that delicious portrait—but pray, pray go on,” he urged, as the other made a deprecating gesture.
“I have a rooted dislike to talking of myself and my own affairs,” the Englishman resumed gravely. “You will, I am sure, forgive me if I only say just as much as will explain my presence in a house which I thought I would never enter again. And you will, I hope, excuse the deception to which I deemed it advisable to have recourse. You knew, possibly, that Sir Jasper had a son.”
“I knew there was a son somewhere in the world. Yes. And I knew there was an estrangement, for, on making inquiries as to the heir of my friend's beautiful estate such as civility demanded, Sir Jasper gave me to understand it was a subject which he declined to enter upon. I gathered, however, that he knew absolutely nothing of your whereabouts and did not wish to know.”
“Estrangement!” murmured Mr. Ferrars with bitterness. “I will not enter into details; it was one of those horrible tragedies that are only known to the son who has had to protect his mother against the cold cruelty of his father. She died of it at last—that sweet creature you found me gazing at. But enough of that. When she died, there rose between my father and me one of those quarrels which might easily end in murder.