She backed away from him, keeping a wary eye on him, but there was, in reality, no need for this. He sat quite still, his hands peacefully crossed on his stomach. Through the small doorway she slipped, her trailing skirts still held high, but her heavy boots now seemed to swagger across the wooden floor.
“And who may this Lord Farquhart be that he should require a whole house and an empty house?” she asked, from the threshold, and even as she spoke she was hurriedly removing the heavily plumed riding hat and replacing it with a jaunty cap fringed with black, curling locks of hair.
“Why, Lord Farquhart is—why, he’s just the new Lord Farquhart that was Mr. Percy Gordon not so long ago, before he came into a title that carried no wealth with it,” the innkeeper’s fat voice answered. “You’ve surely not been deaf to the gossip that’s going about! How my Lord Farquhart’s going to marry his cousin, old Gordon’s daughter, the Lady Barbara Gordon, and with her, old Gordon’s gold. The whole of London’s ringing with it.”
“Ay, perhaps, my good Marmaduke, but I’m not in London much of the time, so London’s stalest gossip is news to me.” The end of this sentence was muffled in the folds of her riding skirt that she was drawing off over her head, and the landlord of The Jolly Grig took occasion to soliloquize:
“Indeed, if it’s not mischief the lad’s bent on, it’s nothing good, I’ll be bound. Whatever he swears, he’s good for naught save mischief. And I’ll swear, too, that it’s less than a fortnight since he was drinking wine here, in this very place. Though, I must say, to his credit, he’s a temperate fellow, and drinks less than any man of his size that comes here.”
“That’s just it! It’s a man of my own size that I’m after.”
Marmaduke’s guest, now a youth in riding coat and breeches, was seated in the deep chair that faced his host. “A man of my own size, and that’s not so far under six feet high, and with a good girth about the chest, and but small paunch under it, and muscles like iron, as you’ve occasion to know; a man of my own size, to drink with me and sup with me and love with me and fight with me, if we happen to love the same girl. Put off your blindman’s kerchief and fetch the wine I spoke for. What’s the best your house affords, my jolly grig? What wine will you offer this Lord Farquhart? What wine have you fit to serve to his lady?”
“I’ faith, I know not my Lord Farquhart’s taste,” answered Marmaduke. “But I’ve a royal port, lately brought over from France. I’ve a Canary Malmsey that his majesty himself’d find hard to despise. And then, why, I’ve a few bottles of Geldino’s sherris that—that I’ll not open save on the rarest occasion. I’ll bring you the port, if you say so, though, to my seeming, port is a heady wine for a lad like you.”
“Well, then, the port let it be,” answered the youth. “I judge my wines by the taste, not by the name.” When the wine was brought, he raised his cup with a swaggering laugh. “To the girls you have loved. To the girls I will love.” He emptied the cup at a single draught. “There are two times when a long throat is a good throat; when you’re wetting it, and when you’re cutting it. I’d have another, but I’m—I’m sleepy, Marmaduke. I’ll—I’ll—I guess I’ll sleep on that one. By your leave, I’ll sleep here until my lord—was it Lord Farquhart—you said was coming?”
The stranger’s booted feet were stretched far in front of him; his relaxed hands lay under the folds of his riding coat, and his head was nodding now this way, now that, in search of a resting place.