“I believe not, sir.”
“Why, I am sorry,” said Sir Anthony. “I confess I have an ambition to meet the begetter of so worldly wise a youth.”
“No doubt my father would surprise you, sir,” said Prudence, with truth. “It’s a remarkable old gentleman.”
“No doubt he would,” agreed Fanshawe. “I find that life is full of surprises.”
For a moment grey eyes met grey. “The sudden appearance of the lost Viscount, for instance,” said Prudence lightly.
“Precisely. And the no less sudden appearance of the Pretender not so long back.”
So that was the gist of the matter, was it? Prudence drew in her breath.
The lazy voice continued. “And—when one thinks of it—the sudden appearance of the Merriots.”
“Oh, that! Sudden to you, I make no doubt, but believe me it was not sudden to us. My sister was in a fever of anticipation for weeks before.”
The danger point seemed to be past. Sir Anthony preserved a thoughtful silence.
“You did not go down to your house at Wych End after all, sir,” remarked Prudence at length.
“No, little man. I changed my mind since your company was denied me.”
She flushed, and looked up frankly. “I wonder that you should so greatly desire my company, Sir Anthony.”
He stroked the chestnut’s neck with the butt of his whip, and smiled a little. “Do you?” he said, and turned his head. “Now why?”
Faith, when he let one see them the gentleman had most understanding eyes.
“Well, sir”—Prudence looked demure—“I have a notion you think me an escaped rebel.”
“And if you were,” said Sir Anthony, “must I necessarily deny you my friendship?”
“I believe you to be a good Whig, sir.”
“I hope so, little man.”
“I took no part in the late Rebellion, sir.”
“I have not accused you of it, my dear boy.”
The horses dropped to a walk. “But if I had, Sir Anthony … What then?”
“You might still rest assured of my friendship.”
There was a warm feeling about her heart, but he did not know the full sum of it, alack.
“You are very kind, Sir Anthony—to an unknown youth.”
“I believe I remarked to you once that I have an odd liking for you, little man. One of these strange twists in one’s affections for which there is no accounting. If I can serve you at any time I desire you will let me know it.”
“I have to thank you, sir.” She could find no other words.
“You may perhaps have noticed, my dear boy, that my friends call me Tony,” he said.
She bent to fiddle with her stirrup leather, and her reply was somewhat inarticulate. When she sat straight again in the saddle she showed a heightened colour, but it might have been due to the stooping posture.
XIII
Encounter at White’s
Far from exhibiting a disposition to seek any sort of seclusion, such as might be supposed to become a gentleman waiting upon so large a claim, the new Lord Barham showed himself abroad whenever opportunity presented itself. It was quite impossible for anyone living in polite Society to be long ignorant of his lordship’s existence: he was a most prominent gentleman. His stature might lack something in height, for he was after all but a small man, but this was more than compensated for by the overwhelming personality of the man. He had but to enter a room for every eye to turn involuntarily in his direction. It was not in his dress that this distinctiveness lay, though that was always gorgeous; it was not even in his carriage, however haughty that might be. It was thought to lie in the arresting quality of his eyes: if he looked at one, one was straightway conscious of no little magnetism.
Discussion concerning him was rife; his children had to listen to all manner of conjectures and rumours, and derived therefrom some amusement, and some alarm as well.
He had his supporters; in the ranks of the ladies they were numberless. Who, pray, could like that coarse Rensley? The ladies knew nothing of claims, or legal matters, but they were sure this gentleman had all the air of a great man, and was far more fitted to be a Viscount than that odious Rensley.
Amongst the men opinions were varied. There were those who said he had the look of the Tremaines, and there were others who could see no resemblance. Foremost of these was old Mr. Fontenoy, who had some recollection of the lost Tremaine as a boy. He said that the lad he had known was a frank, impetuous youth, and could by no means have developed into the incorrigible actor this fellow showed himself to be.
But opposed to Mr. Fontenoy stood my Lord Clevedale, that jovial peer, who claimed also to have known young Tremaine. He could very easily imagine that the hotheaded boy might easily change into the present figure as the years went by. He claimed old acquaintance with Lord Barham, and was accepted with rapture. To be sure, the Viscount seemed to remember very little of those bygone days, but then my Lord Clevedale’s memory was also a trifle hazy. It was all so many years ago—thirty at least, his lordship believed, for young Tremaine had run off to the Continent when he was scarce a day more than eighteen.
No one set much store by Mr. Rensley’s stout refusal to acknowledge his supposed cousin. Naturally Rensley would fight. The trouble was to know how to address poor Rensley. One could not have two Viscounts of the same name, but until the lawyers had done ferreting out information, and quibbling over documents the new lord had no claim to any title at all, and Rensley might continue to hold it, as he held the estates and the houses. Yet for some reason—it must again lie in that magnetic eye—the newcomer was everywhere addressed as Lord Barham, while his less forceful relative sank back into undistinguished esquiredom.
It was thought to augur well for the authenticity of my lord’s claim that he made no demand on the
