In such weather my Lord Dunstanwolde and his young kinsman sometimes paced whole mornings away together, and ’twas on such an occasion that there first entered into Roxholm’s life that which later filled and ruled it and was its very self.  But at this time he was scarcely fourteen, and ’twas but the first strange chapter of a story he heard, in no way dreaming that ’twas one of which his own deepest pain and highest raptures would be part.

Often as the years passed, my Lord Dunstanwolde looked back upon this December day and remembered how, as they walked to and fro, he had marked for the hundredth time how beautiful and picturesque a figure the boy made in his suit of rich-coloured brocade, his curling, warm brown hair falling on his shoulders in thick, natural curls such as no perruquier could imitate, the bloom of health and out-door life upon his cheek, his handsome, well-opened eye sparkling or melting in kindly warmth as he conversed.  He was a tall, straight-limbed lad, and had by this time attained such height and so bore himself that there were but few inches between his noble kinsman and himself, though the years between them were so many, and my Lord Dunstanwolde was of no mean stature.

Outside a heavy rain fell, deluging the earth and drenching such grass as the winter had left, covering with its faded tussocks the sweep of the park lands.  The sky was heavy with leaden clouds from which the water fell in sweeping dashes.  Having walked for some time, the two stopped before the wide bay window at the east end of the Long Gallery and watched the deluge for a space, marking how the drops splashed upon the terrace, how the birds flew before it, and how the deer huddled together under the stripped trees as if glad of the small shelter their trunks and bare branches could afford.

“Such a day brings back to a man the gloomiest things he knows,” said Lord Dunstanwolde after a few moments’ silent gazing upon the scene.  “I no sooner paused here to look forth at the greyness than there came back to me a hard tale I heard before I left Gloucestershire.  ’Twas another tale of Wildairs, Gerald.”

“Of Sir Jeoffry?” said Roxholm, with interest.  It had happened that some time before Lord Dunstanwolde had heard of the impression made upon him by the story of the poor lady and her brutal lord and master.  More than once they had spoken together of Wildairs Hall, and those who rioted, and those who suffered, in it, and Roxholm had learned that, year by year the Gloucestershire baronet’s living had grown wilder and more dissolute, until his mad follies had cut him off from the companionship of all reputable persons, and he spent his days in brutal sports, drink, and rough entertainment with a dozen men as little respected as himself.  His money he had squandered and gambled away at dice, his estate fell to greater ruin every year, and no heir had come to him, his poor helpmeet having at length given him eight daughters, but two of whom had lived.  His rage at this had increased even beyond its first fury as he realised that each new blunder of her ladyship was a new jest for the county.  So it was that the boy turned towards his kinsman with interest, for in some manner the mishaps of this wretched family always moved him.