Christopher saw the half-veiled scorn on Milward’s face and fumed inwardly. Roxhythe continued to talk.
And so at length they arrived at Bergen-op-Zoom. Roxhythe was worn out and he excused himself from appearing at the supper-table.
Milward and Christopher dined alone. Christopher thought that he detected a patronizing note in Mr. Milward’s voice when he spoke of Roxhythe. He decided that he no longer liked Mr. Milward. As soon as he could he left him and went upstairs to Roxhythe’s room.
My lord was seated before the fire, wrapped in a gorgeous dressing-gown. The remains of supper stood at his elbow.
“Sir, you cannot ride tomorrow,” said Christopher firmly.
The arched brows rose.
“So!” said Roxhythe politely.
“You may say what you will, sir, but I know you have the fever, and I will not let you ride until you are well.”
“Why, that is very entertaining—Mr. Dart.”
Christopher reddened.
“You think me impertinent, sir, but—”
“No. Overzealous, and—importunate.”
“Nevertheless, sir, you do not travel tomorrow.”
My lord fingered his peruke, his eyes grown hard as steel.
“I see you will have it, Mr. Dart. You force me to remind you that you are here to obey without question.”
Christopher had much ado to choke back his anger.
“But, sir, I cannot see that our hurry is so—”
“I think there is no need to pursue the subject,” said Roxhythe.
Christopher drew himself up.
“You are right, Lord Roxhythe; there is no need. You will not find me oversolicitous again.”
“It is outside your part,” agreed Roxhythe. He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes.
Christopher seethed inwardly.
“Then, if you have no commands for me, sir, I’ll retire.” Nothing could have been colder than that hurt young voice. My lord said nothing.
Christopher was very youthful; it was all he could do to refrain from slamming the door as he went out. He was furious that Roxhythe should treat him thus. He told himself that he had been right when he dubbed his lordship insufferable; not easily would he be won over again.
Relations were strained between them next morning. Christopher treated Roxhythe with punctilious politeness, and addressed all his conversation to Milward. Surreptitiously he watched my lord, and more than once he wondered whether he would last the journey. Roxhythe rode in silence, looking straight between his horse’s ears. They halted very few times upon the way, and dismounted not at all, so Christopher was not surprised when, at Gertruydenberg, which was their destination, Roxhythe, having dismounted, reeled, and would have fallen but for his prompt assistance. He helped him into the inn and gave him into John’s care. When he had arranged for the stabling of the horses, and changed his boots, he visited my lord in bed and spoke with ill-concealed triumph.
“Do you wish me to fetch an apothecary, sir, or shall you ride tomorrow?”
“Neither,” said Roxhythe, his handkerchief to his mouth. “You’ll—make my—apologies to the—amiable Mr. Milward—and say that I shall—hope to meet him—at the Poisson d’Or Inn at the Hague. Odd rot! my head is like to split!”
“I am grieved, sir,” said Christopher primly.
Milward awaited him downstairs.
“My lord is worse?”
Christopher shook his head.
“He’ll not ride tomorrow, nor yet the next day. He is a sick man.”
“Oh!” said Milward uncertainly. His eyes searched Christopher’s face.
“He bids me tell you that he is sorry to break up our party, but he hopes to see you at the Poisson d’Or at the Hague.”
“Oh!” said Milward again. “I hope so too.”
So Mr. Milward departed next day in solitary state, very loth to leave his travelling companions, but looking forward to seeing them at the Hague.
Watching him ride away, Christopher felt suddenly very lonely. He wished that he had not fallen out with Roxhythe. He walked slowly back into the house.
As he passed through the crowded coffee-room, he paused to survey the occupants. For the most part they were dull-looking burghers, and did not interest him, but in one corner, by the window, sat two men who attracted his attention. They were playing dominoes, and at first, Christopher watched out of idle curiosity. Then he studied the men’s faces. It struck him that the one nearest the window was vaguely familiar. He racked his brains in the effort to remember where he had seen him before, but with no success. He concluded that he must be mistaken when the man called an order to the landlord in excellent Dutch.
He went upstairs, feeling very depressed.
Instead of finding Roxhythe in bed as he had expected, he found him in his dressing-gown, writing. He stared in amazement, for Roxhythe had no longer the air of a sick man. His person had lost its languor, his eyes their sleepiness. Roxhythe raised them as he entered, and the boy was startled by their unaccustomed keenness.
“John!” Roxhythe addressed his servant curtly.
The man came forward, holding one of his master’s perukes in his hand. Roxhythe’s head was bent over his work.
“I wish to be private with Mr. Dart.”
Christopher watched John go out, marvelling at this change in Roxhythe.
As the door closed, my lord glanced up quickly.
“Sit down, Christopher.”
So he was restored to favour? Christopher drew up a chair, reflecting that if anyone had the right to be magnanimous over the late contretemps it was himself. However, he was growing accustomed to the ways of Roxhythe, and he was not so indignant as he would once have been.
For a few moments Roxhythe’s hand continued to travel to and fro across the parchment, but he was only a short while finishing. He pushed the paper away, and leaned back in his seat.
“Poor Chris! I owe you an explanation, eh?” The tone was so winning that the remaining shreds of Christopher’s rancour fled.
“I do confess, sir—I am at a loss.”
“Of course you are. Has
