"I say," called the first man. "Come back. Where are you going?" But Rackham pursued his wrong road untroubled.
"He can make Melton that way, if he likes," said one of those who were looking after him. "I daresay he means to call in on Lady Henrietta. He told me he had a message from her, asking him to come over, but he wasn't going to miss a day's hunting to see what she was up to."
"I thought they were at daggers drawn."
"In a manner of speaking," said the first, dropping his voice a little; "but outwardly they are civil. Of course, she hates him coming in for poor Barnaby's property, and I know he was at the bottom of that row that made Barnaby rush abroad."
"Ah, I remember, Rackham flirted furiously with Julia——"
They edged instinctively nearer to each other, snatching at an enlivening bit of gossip as they jogged on together with the bats swooping overhead.
"No mistake about that. And she let Barnaby see plainly that she was ready to drop her bone for—his cousin. Of course, Rackham is a bigger match. She's one of these women who can't perceive that titles are getting vulgar."
"Rum chap, Rackham. I can't quite make him out. What did he do it for?"
"He owed Barnaby one, perhaps. I don't think he was fond of Julia. Anyhow, he didn't rise to her expectations; and so she relapsed, and repented, and trails about now like a mourning bride. Poor old Barnaby; he'll be missed.... And we'll never hear what wild things he did out there."
"Desperate sort of cure, to disappear in the backwoods, and never call on his bankers. Just like him though.—But he shouldn't have got himself killed in a scuffle in some outlandish quarter, and spoilt the yarn."