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.

"Of Sir Jeoffry?" he said.

"Of Sir Jeoffry," my Lord Dunstanwolde answered; "but not so much of
himself as of his poor lady. At last she is dead."

"Dead!" Roxholm exclaimed. "Dead!" and his voice fell, and he stood a
moment and watched the driving rain, full of strange thoughts.

"'Tis happier for her, surely," he said. "I--one cannot feel sorrow for
her. How did she die, my lord?"

"As woefully and as neglected as she lived," his lordship answered.
"She had given birth to another female infant, and 'twas plain the poor
thing knew her last hour had come. She was alone with the one ignorant
woman who was all she had to aid her in her hour of trial. The night