“Thankee, sir; dry weather, this, sir; ’ope yer honor’ll keep yer ’ealth.... Thankee, sir!” he added, deftly catching the coin which Tom tossed to him and spitting upon it before thrusting it in his pocket; “and if ever yer honor wants to be put in the way of as pretty a piece of ’orseflesh....” But by this time Tom was out of earshot; so the ostler winked at the chambermaid, who was looking out of the inn window, and resumed his way across the street, whistling. Tom, meanwhile, after riding quarter of a mile further, turned off to the left, and presently drew rein in front of Mrs. Lockhart’s gate. Marion was fastening some ivy to the side of the door; she turned round on hearing the horse’s hoofs; and Mr. Bendibow, having lifted his hat, descended from the saddle and hitched his bridle to the gate-post. Marion remained standing where she was.
“Good evening, Miss Lockhart,” said Tom, advancing up the path; “don’t know if you remember me—Mr. Bendibow. Hope I see you in good health.”
“Thank you, sir. Have you ridden from London? You choose dusty weather.”
Tom was aware of a lack of cordiality in the young lady’s manner, and, being in a somewhat reckless mood, he answered bluntly, “As for that, I’m not out for my own pleasure, nor on my own business neither; and I ain’t going to keep you long waiting. I’ve a letter here for Mr. Grant—that’s the name the gentleman goes by, I believe; is he at home?”
“I think Mr. Grant is in the city; at all events, he is not here.”
“I’ve a letter for him from Perdita—the Marquise Desmoines, that’s to say,” said Tom, producing the letter and twisting it about in his fingers, as if it were a talisman to cause the appearance of the person to whom it was addressed.
“If you’ll give it to me Mr. Grant shall have it when he returns,” said Marion.
“That won’t do—much obleeged to you all the same; I’m to deliver it into his own hands. You don’t know where I might find him, do you?” inquired Tom, feeling disconsolate at this miscarriage of his only remaining opportunity of usefulness in the world.
“He’ll be back some time to-night; won’t you wait for him here?” said Marion, softening a little from her first frigidity; “mother will be glad to see you, and....”
“Mr. Grant won’t be back till toward midnight, but I can tell you where you’ll find him,” interposed a voice from the air above them—the voice of Mr. Philip Lancaster, who was leaning out of his window on the floor above. “How d’ye do, Mr. Bendibow? He’s dining with your father at his place in Twickenham.”