OHN RODNEY SHERE was old for his age.
His parents had died whilst he was yet at school, and at fifteen he had become the ward of an old attorney who proceeded to care for the boy according to his lights. These were dry as dust. From that time on, John Rodney Shere was administered, as an estate. He was visited six times a year: he was inspected: he was reported upon: he was maintained: he was improved. At the end of each term he stayed with his guardian for one week—dismal periods, during which old Matthew Fennel suffered more than his ward. The former was desperately anxious to do the right thing by the boy—and perfectly certain that he was doing the wrong. As a matter of hard fact, he did very well: but he knew no more of children than he knew of lug-worms, and he was too old to learn.
No man knew better than the lawyer how to treat his superiors, his equals and those below him in estate: but everyone he met went into one of those compartments, and his ward was no exception to the rule. At the little old house in Curzon Street Rodney was treated as his guardian's compeer. The two dined in state every evening and retired at half-past ten. In the mornings, under escort, Rodney walked in the Park and rode in the Row: in the afternoons he was taken to the tailor, the boot-maker, the Zoological Gardens or the Stores. At the end of the week he was dispatched to a Devonshire farm.
It was at the long, low homestead that the boy passed his happiest days. The farmer had been the bailiff of a great landowner and knew how to keep 'the young gentleman' happy and well. His dame was the kindest of women and the best of farmers' wives. But there were no children at the farm.
All things considered, it is not surprising that at twenty-three John Rodney Shere was old for his age.
It was the tenth of July, and Rodney had just left Oxford for the last time.
His guardian was dead: he was absolute master of six hundred pounds a year: he was staying at his Club in St. James's, and he had no plans at all.
This night there was a dance in Arlington Street, to which Rodney had been bidden by the hostess, whose son he knew. He went reluctantly. He could not dance and was not at his ease with women he did not know. But he had been asked of civility, and of civility he must go. And within the week he must call. Rodney was nothing at all, if not correct.
Behind this precise outlook a keen sense of humour stood him in excellent stead. It was, indeed, the very salt of his life. Few people suspected this. All saw a young man of more than average height, very well built and looking remarkably fit, a young man with thick black hair, grey eyes and an aquiline nose, a young man, curiously solemn, wearing the gravity of a Justice upon his Bench. Only a very few saw the laughter which inhabited his eyes: this was seldom rampant, but it was always there.
Rodney had been at the dance for half an hour, had spoken with no one but his hostess and was wondering how soon he could in decency withdraw, when the son of the house appeared, dragging a girl by the wrist.
"Let me introduce Mr. Shere—Miss Bearskin, commonly called 'Owdareyou'. He'll swear he can't dance, but I've seen him: but, if you don't fit, you can always muck in with the thirsties and tell one another your sins."
The next moment he was gone.
"How d'ye do," said Rodney.
"D'you really mean you can't dance?" said Miss Bearskin.
"I'll convince you—if you like," said Rodney.
They pushed off into the stream....
After the longest minute that Rodney had ever known—
"No, you can't dance," said Miss Bearskin. "What can you do?"
"I can drink," said Rodney.
Miss Bearskin regarded him.
"You don't look as if you could," she said. "Anything else?"
"I can answer questions," said Rodney.
"I shall call you 'Truthful Joseph'," said Miss Bearskin. "And now let's go and coal."
She led the way to a room in which supper was being eaten and drinks were being drunk.
"What may I get you?" said Rodney.
"Some foie gras, a roll, some butter and some champagne."
The champagne was easy, but it was fully two minutes before the requisite viands came Rodney's way.
With a plate in each hand, he struggled back to the corner in which he had left Miss Bearskin sipping champagne.
The lady's glass was empty, and the lady was gone.
Rodney was rather relieved, and, when he was sure that she was not to be seen, rid himself of the plates and returned to the ball-room.