Ambrose, still fired with the hope of becoming a notable shot, spent every morning with the head gamekeeper, a longsuffering individual, who confided to Kit that if he succeeded in teaching Mr Ambrose to hit a barn-door at a range of twelve yards it would be more than he bargained for.
This, since Cosmo spent the better part of the day either perusing the London papers in the library, or prowling about the estate, asking shrewd questions of bailiffs and farmers, and reporting detected extravagance to Kit, left Kit with the charge of entertaining Miss Stavely. On sunny days, they rode together, or played at battledore and shuttlecock; when it rained they played billiards, or sat in comfortable talk; once, at her request, he took her to the long picture-gallery, regaling her with an irreverent history of his ancestors, many of whose portraits lined the walls. She entered into the spirit of this, and capped with aplomb his top-lofty boast of a recusant priest (in the collateral) with an account of the Stavely who had blotted the escutcheon by having journeyed so far into Dun territory that he had seen nothing for it but to take to the High Toby.
Kit, acknowledging the superior distinction of this anecdote, wished to know if this enterprising scion had succeeded in making his fortune; but Miss Stavely informed him, with what he told her was odious pretension, that it was generally believed that her interesting forebear had perished on the scaffold, under the cognomen of Gentleman Dick.
“That’s good,” he admitted. “But take a look at old Ginger-hackle here! One of my great-great-uncles, and said to have murdered his first wife. Here she is, beside him!”
“Well,” said Cressy, subjecting the portrait of a languishing female to a thoughtful scrutiny, “I shouldn’t wonder at it if he did. Anyone can see that she was one of those complaining women, for ever having the vapours, or dissolving into floods of tears. And I have little doubt that that red head of his denotes an uncertain temper.”
But the picture which held Miss Stavely’s interest longest was the Hoppner portrait of the Fancot twins, executed when they were schoolboys. “How very alike you are!” she remarked, studying more closely than Kit appreciated what was held to have been one of Hoppner’s best likenesses. “There is a difference, when one looks more particularly into it. Your hair is brighter, and your brother is a trifle taller than you are. Something in the expressions, too ....”
“Do you think so? The seeming difference in height is merely the way in which we were posed, I fancy. As for the expression, the picture was never thought to be one of Hoppner’s happier works,” said Kit, ruthlessly sacrificing the deceased artist’s reputation, “Come and look at Lawrence’s portrait of my mother!”
She allowed herself to be drawn onward; but she cast another glance at the Hoppner before she left the gallery, and one surreptitious but searching one at Kit’s profile. She said nothing, however, either then, or rather later, when the Dowager delivered herself of the opinion that Lord Brumby had wronged his elder nephew.
The Dowager was inclined to be indignant with his lordship. “Depend upon it, Cressy, he’s getting to be spiteful! It’s often so with old bachelors. He dotes on the other boy, and is jealous of young Denville in consequence!”
“He said nothing to Papa about Denville that was in the least spiteful, ma’am,” Cressy ventured to interpolate. “Indeed, he told Papa that although Denville had been a little wild he believed that nothing more than a—a suitable marriage was wanting to make him—”
“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed the Dowager, her eyes snapping. “Henry Brumby’s an old woman, and so I shall tell him! There’s nothing of the profligate about the boy, and never was! I dare say he’s had his adventures: why not? But I cut my wisdoms long before Brumby cut his, and if he thinks I don’t know the signs of a loose-screw he very much mistakes the matter! There ain’t one to be seen in Denville—and that you may believe, girl! I like him. Do you?”
This sudden question slightly discomposed Cressy, but upon being adjured to answer it, she said, blushing a little: “Yes, I do. Much—much better than I did at the outset. But-’
“But what?” demanded the Dowager, as Cressy hesitated.
Cressy shook her head. “Nothing, ma’am! That is—no, nothing!”
The Dowager looked narrowly at her, but said, after a moment: “Early days yet! I don’t mean to press you, so I’ll say no more. You ain’t a simpering miss, so you won’t underrate the advantages of this match. You know as well as I do that Denville’s a matrimonial prize: time was when I should have thought more of that than I do today. So was his father, and much good did it do silly little Amabel Cliffe when she caught him!” She sat ruminating for a moment, and then abruptly changed the subject, saying: “I collect that Bonamy Ripple is coming to join us tomorrow. What a bag-pudding! However, I shall be glad to see him, for he plays a good game of whist, and knows all the latest on-dits.” She paused again, before adding, with the utmost reluctance: “I’ll say this for Amabel!—to be able to drag Ripple away from Brighton at this season is something indeed!”
But when Sir Bonamy lowered himself, with the assistance of two muscular footmen, from his travelling carriage next day no one would have supposed from his demeanour that the smallest force had been necessary to bring him away from the Pavilion to the seclusion of Ravenhurst. Radiating good-humour, he grasped Kit’s hand with one of his own pudgy ones, and declared that this was “something like!” Wheezing only a very little from the exertion of descending from the carriage, he stood looking about him, a not unimposing, if preposterous figure, in the nattiest of country raiment, with a voluminous drab driving coat hanging open from his shoulders, and a shaggy, low-crowned beaver set rakishly askew over his curled and pomaded locks. “Very agreeable!” he pronounced. “Very pleasing prospect! Do you know, my boy, I’ve never seen it in the summer before? Excellent! just the thing for recruiting nature! I feel as fresh as a nosegay already.”
Kit’s eyes twinkled. “I’m happy to welcome you here, sir!”
Sir Bonamy’s little round eyes stared at him for an unwinking moment. “Much obliged to you! Very prettily said!”
Recalling belatedly that his twin barely tolerated their mama’s most devoted admirer, Kit skated smoothly over this, saying: “But I should warn you that the exigencies of country life may perhaps put you quite out of frame! We dine at six, sir!”
“No need to warn me,” Sir Bonamy said, slowly mounting the shallow steps. “I know the country habit! But you have a very good cook, and if one partakes of only a morsel by way of a nuncheon one is ready for one’s dinner by six o’clock—with a mere snack for supper.”
“Oh, we shall offer you more than a snack!” promised Kit. “You will certainly need a supporting meal after an evening spent in playing whist with the Dowager Lady Stavely!”
“So that’s it, is it?” said Sir Bonamy, pausing at the top of the steps to get his breath back. His large frame was shaken by a chuckle. “Now I know why you’re happy to welcome me! Quite right! quite right! you leave the old lady to me! Ah!”
This last exclamation was evoked by the emergence from the house of his hostess, who gave him both her hands, and an embracing smile, saying: “Dear Bonamy, I knew I might depend upon you! Infamous to have invited you to such a dreadful party, but I needed you!”
Kissing her hands, and continuing to hold them in his, Sir Bonamy said fondly: “Now, my pretty—! You know how happy it makes me to hear that! Ay, and you should know I couldn’t think any party dreadful which you grace! Anything I can do to oblige you I’ll do with alacrity. Just been telling Evelyn to leave Cornelia Stavely to me!”