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The Black Moth: A Romance of the XVIIIth Century

by Georgette Heyer · English · Gutenberg #38703 · 539,752 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Black Moth: A Romance of the XVIIIth Century

Author: Georgette Heyer


        
Release date: January 29, 2012 [eBook #38703]
                Most recently updated: April 3, 2024

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Clare Graham & Laura McDonald (http://www.girlebooks.com), Marc D'Hooghe


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK MOTH: A ROMANCE OF THE XVIIITH CENTURY ***

THE BLACK MOTH

A ROMANCE OF THE XVIII CENTURY

BY

GEORGETTE HEYER




Contents

  PROLOGUE         CHAPTER XVI
  CHAPTER I        CHAPTER XVII
  CHAPTER II       CHAPTER XVIII
  CHAPTER III      CHAPTER XIX
  CHAPTER IV       CHAPTER XX
  CHAPTER V        CHAPTER XXI
  CHAPTER VI       CHAPTER XXII
  CHAPTER VII      CHAPTER XXIII
  CHAPTER VIII     CHAPTER XXIV
  CHAPTER IX       CHAPTER XXV
  CHAPTER X        CHAPTER XXVI
  CHAPTER XI       CHAPTER XXVII
  CHAPTER XII      CHAPTER XXVIII
  CHAPTER XIII     CHAPTER XXIX
  CHAPTER XIV      EPILOGUE
  CHAPTER XV




PROLOGUE


Clad in his customary black and silver, with raven hair unpowdered and
elaborately dressed, diamonds on his fingers and in his cravat, Hugh
Tracy Clare Belmanoir, Duke of Andover, sat at the escritoire in the
library of his town house, writing.

He wore no rouge on his face, the almost unnatural pallor of which
seemed designedly enhanced by a patch set beneath his right eye. Brows
and lashes were black, the former slanting slightly up at the corners,
but his narrow, heavy-lidded eyes were green and strangely piercing. The
thin lips curled a little, sneering, as one dead-white hand travelled to
and fro across the paper.

... but it seems that the Fair Lady has a Brother, who, finding Me
Enamoured, threw down the Gauntlet. I soundly whipt the presumptuous
Child, and so the Affair ends. Now, as you, My dear Frank, also took
some Interest in the Lady, I write for the Express Purpose of informing
You that at my Hands she has received no Hurt, nor is not like to. This
I in part tell You that You shall not imagine Yr self in Honor bound
again to call Me out, which Purpose, an I mistake not, I yesterday read
in Yr Eyes. I should be Exceeding loth to meet You in a Second Time,
when I should consider it my Duty to teach You an even severer Lesson
than Before. This I am not Wishful of doing for the Liking I bear You.

"So in all Friendship believe me, Frank,

"Your most Obedient, Humble

"DEVIL."

His Grace of Andover paused, pen held in mid-air. A mocking smile dawned
in his eyes, and he wrote again.

"In the event of any Desire on Yr Part to hazard Yr Luck with my late
Paramour, Permit Me to warn You 'gainst the Bantam Brother, who is in
Very Truth a Fire-Eater, and would wish to make of You, as of Me, one
Mouthfull. I shall hope to see You at the Queensberry Rout on Thursday,
when You may Once More strive to direct mine Erring Footsteps on to the
Thorny Path of Virtue."

His Grace read the postscript through with another satisfied, sardonic
smile. Then he folded the letter, and affixing a wafer, peremptorily
struck the hand-bell at his side.

And the Honourable Frank Fortescue, reading the postscript half-an-hour
later, smiled too, but differently. Also he sighed and put the letter
into the fire.

"And so ends another _affaire_. ... I wonder if you'll go insolently to
the very end?" he said softly, watching the paper shrivel and flare up.
"I would to God you might fall honestly in love--and that the lady might
save you from yourself--my poor Devil!"




CHAPTER I

AT THE CHEQUERS INN, FALLOWFIELD


Chadber was the name of the host, florid of countenance, portly of
person, and of manner pompous and urbane. Solely within the walls of the
Chequers lay his world, that inn having been acquired by his
great-grandfather as far back as the year 1667, when the jovial Stuart
King sat on the English throne, and the Hanoverian Electors were not yet
dreamed of.

A Tory was Mr. Chadber to the backbone. None so bitter 'gainst the
little German as he, and surely none had looked forward more eagerly to
the advent of the gallant Charles Edward. If he confined his patriotism
to drinking success to Prince Charlie's campaign, who shall blame him?
And if, when sundry Whig gentlemen halted at the Chequers on their way
to the coast, and, calling for a bottle of Rhenish, bade him toss down a
glass himself with a health to his Majesty, again who shall blame Mr.
Chadber for obeying? What was a health one way or another when you had
rendered active service to two of his Stuart Highness's adherents?

It was Mr. Chadber's boast, uttered only to his admiring Tory
neighbours, that he had, at the risk of his own life, given shelter to
two fugitives of the disastrous 'Forty-five, who had come so far out of
their way as quiet Fallowfield. That no one had set eyes on either of
the men was no reason for doubting an honest landlord's word. But no one
would have thought of doubting any statement that Mr. Chadber might
make. Mine host of the Chequers was a great personage in the town, being
able both to read and to write, and having once, when young, travelled
as far north as London town, staying there for ten days and setting
eyes on no less a person than the great Duke of Marlborough himself when
that gentleman was riding along the Strand on his way to St. James's.

Also, it was a not-to-be-ignored fact that Mr. Chadber's home-brewed ale
was far superior to that sold by the landlord of the rival inn at the
other end of the village.

Altogether he was a most important character, and no one was more aware
of his importance than his worthy self.

To "gentlemen born," whom, he protested, he could distinguish at a
glance, he was almost obsequiously polite, but on clerks and underlings,
and men who bore no signs of affluence about their persons, he wasted
none of his deference.

Thus it was that, when a little green-clad lawyer alighted one day from
the mail coach and entered the coffee-room at the Chequers, he was
received with pomposity and scarce-veiled condescension.

He was nervous, it seemed, and more than a little worried. He offended
Mr. Chadber at the outset, when he insinuated that he was come to meet a
gentleman who might perhaps be rather shabbily clothed, rather short of
purse, and even of rather unsavoury repute. Very severely did Mr.
Chadber give him to understand that guests of that description were
entirely unknown at the Chequers.

There was an air of mystery about the lawyer, and it appeared almost as
though he were striving to probe mine host. Mr. Chadber bridled, a
little, and became aloof and haughty.

When the lawyer dared openly to ask if he had had any dealings with
highwaymen of late, he was properly and thoroughly affronted.

The lawyer became suddenly more at ease. He eyed Mr. Chadber
speculatively, holding a pinch of snuff to one thin nostril.

"Perhaps you have staying here a certain--ah--Sir--Anthony--Ferndale?"
he hazarded.

The gentle air of injury fell from Mr. Chadber. Certainly he had, and
come only yesterday a-purpose to meet his solicitor.

The lawyer nodded.

"I am he. Be so good as to apprise Sir Anthony of my arrival."

Mr. Chadber bowed exceeding low, and implored the lawyer not to remain
in the draughty coffee-room. Sir Anthony would never forgive him an he
allowed his solicitor to await him there. Would he not come to Sir
Anthony's private parlour?

The very faintest of smiles creased the lawyer's thin face as he walked
along the passage in Mr. Chadber's wake.

He was ushered into a low-ceilinged, pleasant chamber looking out on to
the quiet street, and left alone what time Mr. Chadber went in search of
Sir Anthony.

The room was panelled and ceilinged in oak, with blue curtains to the
windows and blue cushions on the high-backed settle by the fire. A table
stood in the centre of the floor, with a white table-cloth thereon and
places laid for two. Another smaller table stood by the fireplace,
together with a chair and a stool.

The lawyer took silent stock of his surroundings, and reflected grimly
on the landlord's sudden change of front. It would appear that Sir
Anthony was a gentleman of some standing at the Chequers.

Yet the little man was plainly unhappy, and fell to pacing to and fro,
his chin sunk low on his breast, and his hands clasped behind his back.
He was come to seek the disgraced son of an Earl, and he was afraid of
what he might find.

Six years ago Lord John Carstares, eldest son of the Earl of Wyncham,
had gone with his brother, the Hon. Richard, to a card party, and had
returned a dishonoured man.

That Jack Carstares should cheat was incredible, ridiculous, and at
first no one had believed the tale that so quickly spread. But he had
confirmed that tale himself, defiantly and without shame, before riding
off, bound, men said, for France and the foreign parts. Brother Richard
was left, so said the countryside, to marry the lady they were both in
love with. Nothing further had been heard of Lord John, and the outraged
Earl forbade his name to be mentioned at Wyncham, swearing to disinherit
the prodigal. Richard espoused the fair Lady Lavinia and brought her to
live at the great house, strangely forlorn now without Lord John's
magnetic presence; but, far from being an elated bridegroom, he seemed
to have brought gloom with him from the honeymoon, so silent and so
unhappy was he.

Six years drifted slowly by without bringing any news of Lord John, and
then, two months ago, journeying from London to Wyncham, Richard's coach
had been waylaid, and by a highwayman who proved to be none other than
the scapegrace peer.

Richard's feelings may be imagined. Lord John had been singularly
unimpressed by anything beyond the humour of the situation. That,
however, had struck him most forcibly, and he had burst out into a fit
of laughter that had brought a lump into Richard's throat, and a fresh
ache into his heart.

Upon pressure John had given his brother the address of the inn, "in
case of accidents," and told him to ask for "Sir Anthony Ferndale" if
ever he should need him. Then with one hearty handshake, he had galloped
off into the darkness....

The lawyer stopped his restless pacing to listen. Down the passage was
coming the tap-tap of high heels on the wooden floor, accompanied by a
slight rustle as of stiff silks.

The little man tugged suddenly at his cravat. Supposing--supposing
debonair Lord John was no longer debonair? Supposing--he dared not
suppose anything. Nervously he drew a roll of parchment from his pocket
and stood fingering it.

A firm hand was laid on the door-handle, turning it cleanly round. The
door opened to admit a veritable apparition, and was closed again with a
snap.

The lawyer found himself gazing at a slight, rather tall gentleman who
swept him a profound bow, gracefully flourishing his smart
three-cornered hat with one hand and delicately clasping cane and
perfumed handkerchief with the other. He was dressed in the height of
the Versailles fashion, with full-skirted coat of palest lilac laced
with silver, small-clothes and stockings of white, and waistcoat of
flowered satin. On his feet he wore shoes with high red heels and silver
buckles, while a wig of the latest mode, marvellously powdered and
curled and smacking greatly of Paris, adorned his shapely head. In the
foaming lace of his cravat reposed a diamond pin, and on the slim hand,
half covered by drooping laces, glowed and flashed a huge emerald.

The lawyer stared and stared again, and it was not until a pair of deep
blue, rather wistful eyes met his in a quizzical glance, that he found
his tongue. Then a look of astonishment came into his face, and he took
a half step forward.

"Master Jack!" he gasped. "Master--_Jack_!"

The elegant gentleman came forward and held up a reproving hand. The
patch at the corner of his mouth quivered, and the blue eyes danced.

"I perceive that you are not acquainted with me, Mr. Warburton," he
said, amusement in his pleasant, slightly drawling voice. "Allow me to
present myself: Sir Anthony Ferndale, _a vous servir_!"

A gleam of humour appeared in the lawyer's own eyes as he clasped the
outstretched hand.

"I think you are perhaps not acquainted with yourself, my lord," he
remarked drily.

Lord John laid his hat and cane on the small table, and looked faintly
intrigued.

"What's your meaning, Mr. Warburton?"

"I am come, my lord, to inform you that the Earl, your father, died a
month since."

The blue eyes widened, grew of a sudden hard, and narrowed again.

"Is that really so? Well, well! Apoplexy, I make no doubt?"

The lawyer's lips twitched uncontrollably.

"No, Master Jack; my lord died of heart failure."

"Say you so? Dear me! But will you not be seated, sir? In a moment my
servant will have induced the _chef_ to serve dinner. You will honour
me, I trust?"

The lawyer murmured his thanks and sat down on the settle, watching the
other with puzzled eyes.

The Earl drew up a chair for himself and stretched his foot to the fire.

"Six years, eh? I protest 'tis prodigious good to see your face again,
Mr. Warburton.... And I'm the Earl? Earl and High Toby, by Gad!" He
laughed softly.

"I have here the documents, my lord...."

Carstares eyed the roll through his quizzing glass.

"I perceive them. Pray return them to your pocket, Mr. Warburton."

"But there are certain legal formalities, my lord--"

"Exactly. Pray do not let us mention them!"

"But, sir!"

Then the Earl smiled, and his smile was singularly sweet and winning.

"At least, not until after dinner, Warburton! Instead, you shall tell me
how you found me?"

"Mr. Richard directed me where to come, sir."

"Ah, of course! I had forgot that I told him my--_pied-à-terre_ when I
waylaid him."

The lawyer nearly shuddered at this cheerful, barefaced mention of his
lordship's disreputable profession.

"Er--indeed, sir. Mr. Richard is eager for you to return."

The handsome young face clouded over. My lord shook his head.

"Impossible, my dear Warburton. I am convinced Dick never voiced so
foolish a suggestion. Come now, confess! 'tis your own fabrication?"

Warburton ignored the bantering tone and spoke very deliberately.

"At all events, my lord, I believe him anxious to make--amends."

Carstares shot an alert, suspicious glance at him.

"Ah!"

"Yes, sir. Amends."

My lord studied his emerald with half-closed eyelids.

"But why--amends, Warburton?" he asked.

"Is not that the word, sir?"

"I confess it strikes me as inapt. Doubtless I am dull of
comprehension."

"You were not wont to be, my lord."

"No? But six years changes a man, Warburton. Pray, is Mr. Carstares
well?"

"I believe so, sir," replied the lawyer, frowning at the deft change of
subject.

"And Lady Lavinia?"

"Ay." Mr. Warburton looked searchingly across at him, seeing which, my
lord's eyes danced afresh, brim full with mischief.

"I am delighted to hear it. Pray present my compliments to Mr. Carstares
and beg him to use Wyncham as he wills."

"Sir! Master Jack! I implore you!" burst from the lawyer, and he sprang
up, moving excitedly away, his hands twitching, his face haggard.

My lord stiffened in his chair. He watched the other's jerky movements
anxiously, but his voice when he spoke was even and cold.

"Well, sir?"

Mr. Warburton wheeled and came back to the fireplace, looking hungrily
down at my lord's impassive countenance. With an effort he seemed to
control himself.

"Master Jack, I had better tell you what you have already guessed. I
know."

Up went one haughty eyebrow.

"You know what, Mr. Warburton?"

"That you are innocent!"

"Of what, Mr. Warburton?"

"Of cheating at cards, sir!"

My lord relaxed, and flicked a speck of dust from his great cuff.

"I regret the necessity of having to disillusion you, Mr. Warburton."

"My lord, do not fence with me, I beg! You can trust me, surely?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Then do not keep up this pretence with me; no, nor look so hard
neither! I've watched you grow up right from the cradle, and Master Dick
too, and I know you both through and through. I _know_ you never cheated
at Colonel Dare's nor anywhere else! I could have sworn it at the
time--ay, when I saw Master Dick's face, I knew at once that he it was
who had played foul, and you had but taken the blame!"

"No!"

"I know better! Can you, Master Jack, look me in the face and truthfully
deny what I have said? Can you? Can you?" My lord sat silent.

With a sigh, Warburton sank on to the settle once more. He was flushed,
and his eyes shone, but he spoke calmly again.

"Of course you cannot. I have never known you lie. You need not fear I
shall betray you. I kept silence all these years for my lord's sake, and
I will not speak now until you give me leave."

"Which I never shall."

"Master Jack, think better of it, I beg of you! Now that my lord is
dead--"

"It makes no difference."

"No difference? 'Twas not for his sake? 'Twas not because you knew how
he loved Master Dick?"

"No."

"Then 'tis Lady Lavinia--"

"No."

"But--"

My lord smiled sadly.

"Ah, Warburton! And you averred you knew us through and through! For
whose sake should it be but his own?"

"I feared it!" The lawyer made a hopeless gesture with his hands. "You
will not come back?"

"No, Warburton, I will not; Dick may manage my estates. I remain on the
road."

Warburton made one last effort.

"My lord!" he cried despairingly, "Will you not at least think of the
disgrace to the name an you be caught?"

The shadows vanished from my lord's eyes.

"Mr. Warburton, I protest you are of a morbid turn of mind! Do you know,
I had not thought of so unpleasant a contingency? I swear I was not born
to be hanged!"

The lawyer would have said more, had not the entrance of a servant,
carrying a loaded tray, put an end to all private conversation. The man
placed dishes upon the table, lighted candles, and arranged two chairs.

"Dinner is served, sir," he said.

My lord nodded, and made a slight gesture toward the windows. Instantly
the man went over to them and drew the heavy curtains across.

My lord turned to Mr. Warburton.

"What say you, sir? Shall it be burgundy or claret, or do you prefer
sack?"

Warburton decided in favour of claret.

"Claret, Jim," ordered Carstares, and rose to his feet.

"I trust the drive has whetted your appetite, Warburton, for honest
Chadber will be monstrous hurt an you do not justice to his capons."

"I shall endeavour to spare his feelings," replied the lawyer with a
twinkle, and seated himself at the table.

Whatever might be Mr. Chadber's failings, he possessed an excellent
cook. Mr. Warburton dined very well, beginning on a fat duck, and
continuing through the many courses that constituted the meal.

When the table was cleared, the servant gone, and the port before them,
he endeavoured to guide the conversation back into the previous
channels. But he reckoned without my lord, and presently found himself
discussing the Pretender's late rebellion. He sat up suddenly.

"There were rumours that you were with the Prince, sir."

Carstares set down his glass in genuine amazement.

"I?"

"Indeed, yes. I do not know whence the rumour came, but it reached
Wyncham. My lord said nought, but I think Mr. Richard hardly credited
it."

"I should hope not! Why should they think me turned rebel, pray?"

Mr. Warburton frowned.

"Rebel, sir?"

"Rebel, Mr. Warburton. I have served under his Majesty."

"The Carstares were ever Tories, Master Jack, true to their rightful
king."

"My dear Warburton, I owe nought to the Stuart princes. I was born in
King George the First's reign, and I protest I am a good Whig."

Warburton shook his head disapprovingly.

"There has never been a Whig in the Wyncham family, sir."

"And you hope there never will be again, eh? What of Dick? Is he
faithful to the Pretender?"

"I think Mr. Richard does not interest himself in politics, sir."

Carstares raised his eyebrows, and there fell a silence.

After a minute or two Mr. Warburton cleared his throat.

"I--I suppose, sir--you have no idea of--er--discontinuing
your--er--profession?"

My lord gave an irrepressible little laugh.

"Faith, Mr. Warburton, I've only just begun!"

"Only--But a year ago, Mr. Richard--"

"I held him up? Ay, but to tell the truth, sir, I've not done much since
then!"

"Then, sir, you are not--er--notorious?"

"Good gad, no! Notorious, forsooth! Confess, Warburton, you thought me
some heroic figure? 'Gentleman Harry', perhaps?"

Warburton blushed.

"Well, sir--I--er--wondered."

"I shall have to disappoint you, I perceive. I doubt Bow Street has
never heard of me--and--to tell the truth--'tis not an occupation which
appeals vastly to my senses."

"Then why, my lord, do you continue?"

"I must have some excuse for roaming the country," pleaded Jack. "I
could not be idle."

"You are not--compelled to--er--rob, my lord?"

Carstares wrinkled his brow inquiringly.

"Compelled? Ah--I take your meaning. No, Warburton, I have enough for my
wants--now; time was--but that is past. I rob for amusement's sake."

Warburton looked steadily across at him.

"I am surprised, my lord, that you, a Carstares, should find
it--amusing."

John was silent for a moment, and when he at length spoke it was
defiantly and with a bitterness most unusual in him.

"The world, Mr. Warburton, has not treated me so kindly that I should
feel any qualms of conscience. But, an it gives you any satisfaction to
know it, I will tell you that my robberies are few and far between. You
spoke a little while ago of my probable--ah--fate--on Tyburn Tree. I
think you need not fear to hear of that."

"I--It gives me great satisfaction, my lord, I confess," stammered the
lawyer, and found nothing more to say. After a long pause he again
produced the bulky roll of parchment and laid it down before the Earl
with the apologetic murmur of:

"Business, my lord!"

Carstares descended from the clouds and eyed the packet with evident
distaste. He proceeded to fill his and his companion's glass very
leisurely. That done, he heaved a lugubrious sigh, caught Mr.
Warburton's eye, laughed in answer to its quizzical gleam, and broke the
seal.

"Since you _will_ have it, sir--business!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Warburton stayed the night at the Chequers and travelled back to
Wyncham next day by the two o'clock coach. He played piquet and ecarte
with my lord all the evening, and then retired to bed, not having found
an opportunity to argue his mission as he had hoped to do. Whenever he
had tried to turn the conversation that way he had been gently but
firmly led into safer channels, and somehow had found it impossible to
get back. My lord was the gayest and most charming of companions, but
talk "business" he would not. He regaled the lawyer with spicy anecdotes
and tales of abroad, but never once allowed Mr. Warburton to speak of
his home or of his brother.

The lawyer retired to rest in a measure reassured by the other's good
spirits, but at the same time dispirited by his failure to induce
Carstares to return to Wyncham.

Next morning, although he was not up until twelve, he was before my
lord, who only appeared in time for lunch, which was served as before in
the oak parlour.

He entered the room in his usual leisurely yet decided fashion and made
Mr. Warburton a marvellous leg. Then he bore him off to inspect his
mare, Jenny, of whom he was inordinately proud. By the time they
returned to the parlour luncheon was served, and Mr. Warburton realised
that he had scarcely any time left in which to plead his cause.

My lord's servant hovered continually about the room, waiting on them,
until his master bade him go to attend to the lawyer's valise. When the
door had closed on his retreating form, Carstares leaned back in his
chair, and, with a rather dreary little smile, turned to his companion.

"You want to reason with me, I know, Mr. Warburton, and, indeed, I will
listen an I must. But I would so much rather that you left the subject
alone, believe me."

Warburton sensed the finality in his voice, and wisely threw away his
last chance.

"I understand 'tis painful, my lord, and I will say no more. Only
remember--and think on it, I beg!"

The concern in his face touched my lord.

"You are too good to me, Mr. Warburton, I vow. I can only say that I
appreciate your kindness--and your forbearance. And I trust that you
will forgive my seeming churlishness and believe that I am indeed
grateful to you."

"I wish I might do more for you, Master Jack!" stammered Warburton, made
miserable by the wistful note in his favourite's voice. There was no
time for more; the coach already awaited him, and his valise had been
hoisted up. As they stood together in the porch, he could only grip my
lord's hand tightly and say good-bye. Then he got hurriedly into the
coach, and the door was slammed behind him.

My lord made his leg, and watched the heavy vehicle move forward and
roll away down the street. Then with a stifled sigh he turned and walked
towards the stables. His servant saw him coming and went at once to meet
him.

"The mare, sir?"

"As you say, Jim--the mare. In an hour."

He turned and would have strolled back.

"Sir--your honour!"

He paused, looking over his shoulder.

"Well?"

"They're on the look-out, sir. Best be careful."

"They always are, Jim. But thanks."

"Ye--ye wouldn't take me with ye, sir?" pleadingly.

"Take you? Faith, no! I've no mind to lead you into danger. And you
serve me best by remaining to carry out my orders."

The man fell back.

"Ay, sir; but--but--"

"There are none, Jim."

"No, sir--but ye _will_ have a care?"

"I will be the most cautious of men." He walked away on the word, and
passed into the house.

In an hour he was a very different being. Gone was the emerald ring, the
foppish cane; the languid air, too, had disappeared, leaving him brisk
and businesslike. He was dressed for riding, with buff coat and buckskin
breeches, and shining top boots. A sober brown wig replaced the powdered
creation, and a black tricorne was set rakishly atop.

He stood in the deserted porch, watching Jim strap his baggage to the
saddle, occasionally giving a curt direction. Presently Mr. Chadber
appeared with the stirrup-cup, which he drained and handed back with a
word of thanks and a guinea at the bottom.

Someone called lustily from within, and the landlord, bowing very low,
murmured apologies and vanished.

Jim cast a last glance at the saddle-girths, and, leaving the mare
quietly standing in the road, came up to his master with gloves and
whip.

Carstares took them silently and fell to tapping his boot, his eyes
thoughtfully on the man's face.

"You will hire a coach, as usual," he said at length, "and take my
baggage to--" (He paused, frowning)--"Lewes. You will engage a room at
the White Hart and order dinner. I shall wear--apricot and--h'm!"

"Blue, sir?" ventured Jim, with an idea of being helpful.

His master's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"You are a humorist, Salter. Apricot and cream. Cream? Yes, 'tis a
pleasing thought--cream. That is all--Jenny!"

The mare turned her head, whinnying as he came towards her.

"Good lass!" He mounted lightly and patted her glossy neck. Then he
leaned sideways in the saddle to speak again to Salter, who stood beside
him, one hand on the bridle.

"The cloak?"

"Behind you, sir."

"My wig?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pistols?"

"Ready primed, sir."

"Good. I shall be in Lewes in time for dinner--with luck."

"Yes, sir. Ye--ye will have a care?" anxiously.

"Have I not told you?" He straightened in the saddle, touched the mare
with his heel, and bestowing a quick smile and a nod on his man, trotted
easily away.




CHAPTER II

MY LORD AT THE WHITE HART


"Sir Anthony Ferndale" sat before the dressing-table in his room at the
White Hart, idly polishing his nails. A gorgeous silk dressing gown lay
over the back of his chair, and, behind him, Jim was attending to his
wig, at the same time hovering anxiously over the coat and waistcoat
that were waiting to be donned.

Carstares left off polishing his nails, yawned, and leaned back in his
chair, a slim, graceful figure in cambric shirt and apricot satin
breeches. He studied his cravat for some moments in the mirror, and
lifted a hand to it. Salter held his breath. With extreme deliberation
the hand moved a diamond and emerald pin the fraction of an inch to one
side, and fell to his side again. Salter drew a relieved breath, which
brought his master's eyes round to himself.

"No trouble, Jim?"

"None at all, sir."

"Neither had I. 'Twas most surprisingly easy. The birds had no more
fight in them than sparrows. Two men in a coach--one a bullying rascal
of a merchant, the other his clerk. Gad! but I was sorry for that little
man!" He paused, his hand on the rouge pot.

Salter looked an inquiry.

"Yes," nodded Carstares. "Very sorry. The fat man would appear to bully
and browbeat him after the manner of his kind; he even blamed him for my
advent, the greasy coward! Yes, Jim, you are right--he did not appeal to
me, _ce M. Fudby_. So--" ingenuously, "I relieved him of his cash-box
and two hundred guineas. A present for the poor of Lewes."

Jim jerked his shoulder, frowning.

"If ye give away all ye get, sir, why do ye rob at all?" he asked
bluntly.

His whimsical little smile played about my lord's mouth.

"'Tis an object for my life, Jim: a noble object. And I believe it
amuses me to play Robin Hood--take from the rich to give to the poor,"
he added, for Salter's benefit. "But to return to my victims--you would
have laughed had you but seen my little man come tumbling out of the
coach when I opened the door!"

"Tumble, sir? Why should he do that?"

"He was at pains to explain the reason. It seems he had been commanded
to hold the door to prevent my entering--so when I jerked it open,
sooner than loose his hold, he fell out on to the road. Of course, I
apologised most abjectly--and we had some conversation. Quite a nice
little man.... It made me laugh to see him sprawling on the road,
though!"

"Wish I could have seen it, your honour. I would ha' liked fine to ha'
been beside ye." He looked down at the lithe form with some pride. "I'd
give something to see ye hold up a coach, sir!"

Haresfoot in hand, Jack met his admiring eyes in the glass, and laughed.

"I make no doubt you would.... I have cultivated a superb voice, a
trifle thick and beery, a little loud, perhaps--ah, something to dream
of o' nights! I doubt they do, too," he added reflectively, and affixed
the patch at the corner of his mouth.

"So? A little low, you think? But 'twill suffice--What's toward?"

Down below in the street there was a great stirring and bustling:
horses' hoofs, shouts from the ostlers, and the sound of wheels on the
cobble-stones. Jim went to the window and looked down, craning his neck
to see over the balcony.

"'Tis a coach arrived, sir."

"That much had I gathered," replied my lord, busy with the powder.

"Yes, sir. O lord, sir!" He was shaken with laughter.

"What now?"

"'Tis the curiousest sight, sir! Two gentlemen, one fat and t'other
small! One's all shrivelled-looking, like a spider, while t'other--"

"Resembles a hippopotamus--particularly in the face?"

"Well yes, sir. He do rather. And he be wearing purple."

"Heavens, yes! Purple, and an orange waistcoat!"

Jim peered afresh.

"So it is, sir! But how did you know?" Even as he put the question,
understanding flashed into Jim's eyes.

"I rather think that I have had the honour of meeting these gentlemen,"
replied my lord placidly. "My buckle, Jim.... Is't a prodigious great
coach with wheels picked out in yellow?"

"Ay, your honour. The gentlemen seem a bit put out, too."

"That is quite probable. Does the smaller gentleman wear
somewhat--ah--muddied garments?"

"I can't see, sir; he stands behind the fat gentleman."

"Mr. Bumble Bee.... Jim!"

"Sir!" Jim turned quickly at the sound of the sharp voice.

He found that my lord had risen, and was holding up a waistcoat of
pea-green pattern on a bilious yellow ground, between a disgusted finger
and thumb. Before his severe frown Jim dropped his eyes and stood
looking for all the world like a schoolboy detected in some crime.

"You put this--this monstrosity--out for _me_ to wear?" in awful tones.

Jim eyed the waistcoat gloomily and nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Did I not specify cream ground?"

"Yes, sir. I thought--I thought that 'twas cream!"

"My good friend, it is--it is--I cannot say what it is. And pea-green!"
he shuddered. "Remove it."

Jim hurried forward and disposed of the offending garment.

"And bring me the broidered satin. Yes, that is it. It is particularly
pleasing to the eye."

"Yes, sir," agreed the abashed Jim.

"You are excused this time," added my lord, with a twinkle in his eye.
"What are our two friends doing?"

Salter went back to the window

"They've gone into the house, sir. No, here's the spider gentleman! He
do seem in a hurry, your honour!"

"Ah!" murmured his lordship. "You may assist me into this coat. Thanks."

With no little difficulty, my lord managed to enter into the fine satin
garment, which, when on, seemed moulded to his back, so excellently did
it fit. He shook out his ruffles and slipped the emerald ring on to his
finger with a slight frown.

"I believe I shall remain here some few days," he remarked presently.
"To--ah--allay suspicion." He looked across at his man as he spoke,
through his lashes.

It was not in Jim's nature to inquire into his master's affairs, much
less to be surprised at anything he might do or say. He was content to
receive and promptly execute his orders, and to worship Carstares with a
dog-like devotion, following blindly in his wake, happy as long as he
might serve him.

Carstares had found him in France, very down upon his luck, having been
discharged from the service of his late master owing to the penniless
condition of that gentleman's pocket. He had engaged him as his own
personal servant, and the man had remained with him ever since, proving
an invaluable acquisition to my Lord John. Despite a singularly wooden
countenance, he was by no means a fool, and he had helped Carstares out
of more than one tight corner during his inglorious and foolhardy career
as highwayman. He probably understood his somewhat erratic master better
than anyone else, and he now divined what was in his mind. He returned
that glance with a significant wink.

"'Twas them gentlemen ye held up to-day, sir?" he asked, jerking an
expressive thumb towards the window.

"M'm. Mr. Bumble Bee and friend. It would almost appear so. I think I do
not fully appreciate Mr. Bumble Bee. I find his conduct rather tiresome.
But it is just possible that he thinks the same of me. I will further my
acquaintance with him."

Jim grunted scornfully, and an inquiring eye was cocked at him.

"You do not admire our friend? Pray, do not judge him by his exterior.
He may possess a beautiful mind. But I do not think so. N-no, I really
do not think so." He chuckled a little. "Do you know, Jim, I believe I
am going to enjoy myself to-night!"

"I don't doubt it, your honour. 'Twere child's play to trick the fat
gentleman."

"Probably. But it is not with the fat gentleman that I shall have to
deal. 'Tis with all the officials of this charming town, an I mistake
not. Do I hear the small spider returning?"

Salter stepped back to the window.

"Ay, sir--with three others."

"Pre-cisely. Be so good as to hand me my snuff-box. And my cane. Thank
you. I feel the time has now come for me to put in an appearance. Pray,
bear in mind that I am new come from France and journey by easy stages
to London. And cultivate a stupid expression. Yes, that will do
excellently."

Jim grinned delightedly; he had assumed no expression of stupidity, and
was consequently much pleased with this pleasantry. He swung open the
door with an air, and watched "Sir Anthony" mince along the passage to
the stairs.

In the coffee-room the city merchant, Mr. Fudby by name, was relating
the story of his wrongs, with many an impressive pause, and much
emphasis, to the mayor, town-clerk, and beadle of Lewes. All three had
been fetched by Mr. Chilter, his clerk, in obedience to his orders, for
the bigger the audience the better pleased was Mr. Fudby. He was now
enjoying himself quite considerably, despite the loss of his precious
cash-box.

So was not Mr. Hedges, the mayor. He was a fussy little man who suffered
from dyspepsia; he was not interested in the affair, and he did not see
what was to be done for Mr. Fudby. Further, he had been haled from his
dinner, and he was hungry; and, above all, he found Mr. Fudby very
unattractive. Still, a highroad robbery was serious matter enough, and
some course of action must be thought out; so he listened to the story
with an assumption of interest, looking exceedingly wise, and, at the
proper moments, uttering sounds betokening concern.

The more he saw and heard of Mr. Fudby, the less he liked him. Neither
did the town-clerk care for him. There was that about Mr. Fudby that did
not endear him to his fellow-men, especially when they chanced to be his
inferiors in the social scale. The beadle did not think much about
anything. Having decided (and rightly) that the affair had nothing
whatever to do with him, he leaned back in his chair and stared stolidly
up at the ceiling.

The tale Mr. Fudby was telling bore surprisingly little resemblance to
the truth. It was a much embellished version, in which he himself had
behaved with quite remarkable gallantry. It had been gradually concocted
during the journey to Lewes.

He was still holding forth when my lord entered the room. Carstares
raised his glass languidly to survey the assembled company, bowed
slightly, and walked over to the fire. He seated himself in an armchair
and took no further notice of anybody.

Mr. Hedges had recognised at a glance that here was some _grand
seigneur_ and wished that Mr. Fudby would not speak in so loud a voice.
But that individual, delighted at having a new auditor, continued his
tale with much relish and in a still louder tone.

My lord yawned delicately and took a pinch of snuff.

"Yes, yes," fussed Mr. Hedges. "But, short of sending to London for the
Runners, I do not see what I can do. If I send to London, it must, of
course, be at your expense, sir."

Mr. Fudby bristled.

"At _my_ expense, sir? Do ye say at _my_ expense? I am surprised! I
repeat--I am surprised!"

"Indeed, sir? I can order the town-crier out, describing the horse,
and--er--offering a reward for the capture of any man on such an
animal. But--" he shrugged and looked across at the town-clerk--"I do
not imagine that 'twould be of much use--eh, Mr. Brand?"

The clerk pursed his lips and spread out his hands.

"I fear not; I very much fear not. I would advise Mr. Fudby to have a
proclamation posted up round the country." He sat back with the air of
one who has contributed his share to the work, and does not intend to
offer any more help.

"Ho!" growled Mr. Fudby. He blew out his cheeks. "'Twill be a grievous
expense, though I suppose it must be done, and I cannot but feel that if
it had not been for your deplorably cowardly conduct, Chilter--yes,
cowardly conduct, I say--I might never have been robbed of my two
hundred!" He snuffled a little, and eyed the flushed but silent Chilter
with mingled reproach and scorn. "However, my coachman assures me he
could swear to the horse again, although he cannot remember much about
the man himself. Chilter! How did he describe the horse?"

"Oh--er--chestnut, Mr. Fudby--chestnut, with a half-moon of white on its
forehead, and one white foreleg."

Jack perceived that it was time he took a hand in the game. He half
turned in his chair and levelled his quizzing-glass at Mr. Chilter.

"I beg your pardon?" he drawled.

Mr. Fudby's eye brightened. The fine gentleman was roused to an
expression of interest at last. He launched forth into his story once
more for my lord's benefit. Carstares eyed him coldly, seeing which, Mr.
Hedges came hurriedly to the rescue.

"Er--yes, Mr. Fudby--quite so! Your pardon, sir, I have not the honour
of knowing your name?"

"Ferndale," supplied Jack, "Sir Anthony Ferndale."

"Er--yes--" Mr. Hedges bowed. "Pray pardon my importuning you with
our--"

"Not at all," said my lord.

"No--quite so--The fact is, these--er--gentlemen have had
the--er--misfortune to be waylaid on their journey here."

Sir Anthony's glass was again levelled at the group. His expression
betokened mild surprise.

"_All_ these gentlemen?" he inquired blandly. "Dear, dear!"

"Oh, no, no, no, sir! Not all--Only Mr.--er--"

"Fudby," said that worthy, and discovered that Sir Anthony was bowing
frigidly. At once he rose, and resting his knuckles on the table before
him, bent his body slowly and painfully. Sir Anthony inclined his head.
Whereupon, to the delight of all the rest, Mr. Fudby bowed again with
even greater stateliness than before. Mr. Hedges observed Sir Anthony's
lips to twitch convulsively. He waited for Mr. Fudby to subside, and
then continued:

"Yes--Mr. Fudby and Mr.--"

"My clerk!" snapped Fudby.

Sir Anthony favoured Mr. Chilter with his peculiarly sweet smile, and
turned again to Mr. Hedges.

"I see. A _daylight_ robbery, you say?"

"Broad daylight!" boomed Mr. Fudby.

"Er--yes, yes," interposed the mayor, fearing a fresh outbreak from that
quarter. "I wonder if you have seen anything of such an animal as
Mr.--er--Chilter--described?"

"'Tis a most extraordinary thing," said Carstares slowly, "but I have
just bought such an one." He glanced round with an inquiring smile and
one eyebrow lifted.

"Well!" ejaculated Mr. Fudby. "Well!"

"Dear me, sir, what a strange coincidence! May I ask where you bought
it, and from whom?"

"She has not been in my possession over two hours. I bought her from an
out-at-elbows ruffian, on my way hither. I thought at one time that
'twas strange that the man should possess such a mare--pure bred, I
vow--and wondered why he was so eager to be rid of her."

"He was eager because he knew he would be recognised by her," explained
Mr. Fudby kindly.

"Without doubt. Perhaps you would like to see her? I will send my man--"

"Oh no, no!" cried the mayor. "We would not dream of so inconveniencing
you--"

"'Twere a pleasure," bowed Jack, devoutly hoping that Mr. Fudby would
not require to see Jenny, who, he felt sure, would betray him by her
very evident affection.

"No, no, Sir Anthony, 'tis quite unnecessary, I assure you, but I thank
you for all that. Mr. Fudby, if you would describe the man himself, I
will see to the proclamation."

"Describe him, Chilter!" ordered Mr. Fudby, who was becoming rather
grumpy.

Mr. Chilter smiled suddenly.

"Certainly, sir!" he said with alacrity. "'Twas a great ruffianly
fellow, monstrous tall--"

"How tall?" interrupted the town-clerk. "Six feet?"

"Oh, quite!" lied Mr. Chilter. "And fat."

Jack's shoulders shook.

"Fat, you say?" he asked gently.

"Very fat," affirmed Mr. Chilter. "And prodigious rough, swearing
dreadfully in his speech."

"You could not see his face, I suppose?"

Mr. Chilter hesitated.

"I could see his mouth and chin," he said, "and I remarked a long scar
running from his under-lip to the--er--bottom of his face."

Involuntarily Carstares' hand caressed his perfectly smooth chin. Either
the little clerk was a born romancer, or for some reason or other he did
not want the highwayman to be taken.

"Well, Sir Anthony?" the mayor was saying. "Does that description fit
your man?"

My lord frowned thoughtfully.

"Tall," he said slowly, "and fat--you said fat, I think, Mr. Chilter?"

Rather anxiously Mr. Chilter reiterated this statement.

"Ah! And with a long scar--yes, that is undoubtedly he. Furthermore," he
added audaciously, "he has a squint in his left eye. 'Tis a most
ill-favoured rogue in all."

"It would appear so, Sir Anthony," remarked the mayor drily. He did not
in the least believe the story of the squint, and imagined that the fine
court gentleman was amusing himself at their expense. Nevertheless, he
had no intention of remonstrating; the sooner he could withdraw from
this very tiresome affair the better. So he gravely took down all the
absurd particulars, remarked that the man should be easy to find, and
made ready to depart.

The town-clerk rose, and tapped the beadle on the shoulder, whereupon
that worthy, with a grunt, abandoned his pose of masterly inactivity and
followed the mayor out of the room.

Mr. Fudby rose.

"I doubt I shall never see my money again," he said pettishly. "If you,
Chilter had not been so--"

"Allow me to offer you some snuff, Mr. Chilter," interposed my lord
gently, extending his jewelled box. "Doubtless, sir, you would wish to
see my mare?"

"I know nought of horses," snorted Mr. Fudby. "'Tis my clerk who appears
to have remarked all the details." He sneered terrifically.

"Then pray, do me the honour of walking as far as the stables, Mr.
Chilter. 'Twere as well to be certain about the mare. Mr.-ah--Fudby,
your servant."

       *       *       *       *       *

"And now, Mr. Chilter, I have a grudge against you," said Carstares, as
they walked across the little garden.

"Me, sir? Oh--er--have you, Sir Anthony?"

He looked up and perceived that the gentleman was laughing.

"Yes, Mr. Chilter, a very serious grudge: you have described me as fat!"

Chilter nearly fainted.

"_You_, sir," he gasped, and stared in amazement.

"Also that I swear dreadfully in my speech, and that I have a scar
running from my mouth to my chin."

Mr. Chilter stood stock-still in the middle of the path.

"It was you, sir, all the time? _You_ held us up? Were _you_ the man who
wrenched open the door?"

"I was that infamous scoundrel. I beg leave once more to apologise for
my carelessness in opening that same door. Now tell me, why did you
take such pains to throw dust in their sleepy eyes?"

They resumed their walk slowly. The little clerk flushed.

"I scarce know, sir, save that I--that I liked you, and--and--"

"I see. 'Twas prodigious good of you, Mr. Chilter. I wonder if there is
anything that I can do to show my gratitude?"

Again the clerk flushed and lifted his head proudly.

"I thank you, sir, but there is nought."

By now they had reached the stable. Carstares opened the door and they
entered.

"Then will you accept this in token of my regard, sir?"

Mr. Chilter gazed at the emerald ring that glowed and winked at him from
the palm of my lord's hand. He looked up into the blue eyes and
stammered a little.

"Indeed, sir--I--I--"

"'Tis honestly come by!" pleadingly. "Come, Mr. Chilter, you'll not hurt
my feelings by refusing? You will keep it in remembrance of a man--a fat
man, Mr. Chilter--who rudely jerked you on to the road?"

The clerk took it with unsteady fingers.

"I thank you most--"

"Nay, I beg of you. 'Tis I thank you for aiding me so kindly.... Come
and see my Jenny! Well, lass?" For the mare at the first sound of his
voice had turned in her loose-box, and was whinnying and pawing the
ground eagerly.

"I do not understand, sir, anything: how it is that you are a
highwayman, or why you have honoured me with your confidence--why you
should trust me. But--thank you."

As he spoke, Mr. Chilter placed his hand in my lord's, and for the
second time in his life, felt the pressure of those firm, kindly
fingers.

"Why, your honour! Ye've lost your emerald!"

"No, Jim. I gave it away."

"Ye--ye _gave_ it away, sir?"

"M'm. To the small spider."

"B-but--"

"And he called me fat, too."

"Called ye fat, sir?" asked the man, bewildered.

"Yes. Very fat. By the way, let me tell you that I bought Jenny at
Fittering to-day from the naughty ruffian who waylaid Mr. Bumble Bee."
He proceeded to give Jim a sketch of what had transpired below. When he
had finished the man shook his head severely.

"I doubt ye'll never learn wisdom, sir," he scolded.

"I? What have I done?"

"What did ye want to tell it all to the spider man for, sir? 'Twas most
incautious of ye. Like as not, he'll split to the fat gentleman, and
we'll have the whole town at our heels."

"Which just shows all you know of the small spider," replied his master
calmly. "Hand me the powder."




CHAPTER III

INTRODUCING THE HON. RICHARD CARSTARES


Wyncham! A stately old house with mullioned windows, standing high on
its stone terraces, half-covered by creepers; a house surrounded by
lawns, rolling down on the one side to a river that rippled and murmured
its way along beneath overhanging trees and a blue sky, over boulders
and rocks, so clear and sparkling that the myriad pebbles could be seen
deep down on its bed.

In the other direction, the velvet lawns stretched away till they met
the orchards and the quiet meadowland.

On two sides the house had its terraces, very white in the sunshine,
with stone steps leading down to a miniature lake where water-lilies
grew, and where the tiny fish darted to and fro unconcernedly.

Flagged walks there were, running between flower beds a riot of colour,
and solemn old trees that had stood there through all the years. Cool
woodland lay beyond the little river, carpeted with dark moss, where in
spring the primroses grew. So thick was the foliage of the trees that
the sun but penetrated in uneven patches.

Up the terrace walls crept roses, yellow and red, pink and white, and
tossed their trailing sprays across the parapet. Over the walls of the
house they climbed, mingling with purple clematis, jasmine, and sickly
honeysuckle. The air was heavy with their united perfumes, while, wafted
from a bed below, came the smoky scent of lavender.

The old house seemed half asleep, basking in the sunlight. Save for a
peacock preening its feathers on the terrace steps, there was no sign of
life....

The old place had harboured generations of Carstares. Earl had succeeded
Earl and reigned supreme, and it was only now that there was no Earl
living there. No one knew where he was. Scarce a month ago one died, but
the eldest son was not there to take his place. For six years he had
been absent, and none dared breathe his name, for he disgraced that
name, and the old Earl cast him off and forbade all mention of him. But
the poor folk of the countryside remembered him. They would tell one
another tales of his reckless courage; his sweet smile and his winning
ways; his light-heartedness and his never-failing kindness and
good-humour. What a rider he was! To see him sit his horse! What a
swordsman! Do ye mind the time he fought young Mr. Welsh over yonder in
the spinney with half the countryside watching? Ah, he was a one, was
Master Jack! Do ye mind how he knocked the sword clean out o' Mr.
Welsh's hand, and then stood waiting for him to pick it up? And do ye
mind the way his eyes sparkled, and how he laughed, just for the sheer
joy o' living?

Endless anecdotes would they tell, and the old gaffers would shake their
heads and sigh, and long for the sight of him again. And they would jerk
their thumbs towards the Manor and shrug their old shoulders
significantly. Who wanted Mr. Richard for squire? Not they, at least.
They knew he was a good squire and a kindly man, but give them Master
John, who would laugh and crack a joke and never wear the glum looks
that Mr. Richard affected.

In the house, Richard Carstares paced to and fro in his library, every
now and again pausing to glance wretchedly up at the portrait of his
brother hanging over his desk. The artist had managed to catch the
expression of those blue eyes, and they smiled down at Richard in just
the way that John was always wont to smile--so gaily, and withal so
wistfully.

Richard was twenty-nine, but already he looked twice his age. He was
very thin, and there were deep lines on his good-looking countenance.
His grey eyes bore a haunted, care-worn look, and his mouth, though
well-shaped, was curiously lacking in determination. He was dressed
soberly, and without that touch of smartness that had characterised him
six years ago. He wore black in memory of his father, and it may have
been that severity, only relieved by the lace at his throat, that made
his face appear so prematurely aged. There was none of his brother's
boyishness about him; even his smile seemed forced and tired, and his
laughter rarely held merriment.

He pulled out his chronometer, comparing it with the clock on the
mantelpiece. His pacing took him to the door, and almost nervously he
pulled it open, listening.

No sound came to his ears. Back again, to and fro across the room,
eagerly awaiting the clanging of a bell. It did not come, but presently
a footfall sounded on the passage without, and someone knocked at the
door.

In two strides Richard was by it, and had flung it wide. Warburton stood
there.

Richard caught his hand.

"Warburton! At last! I have been waiting this hour and more!"

Mr. Warburton disengaged himself, bowing.

"I regret I was not able to come before, sir," he said primly.

"I make no doubt you travelled back as quickly as possible--come in,
sir."

He led the lawyer into the room and shut the door.

"Sit down, Warburton--sit down. You--you found my brother?"

Again Warburton bowed.

"I had the felicity of seeing his lordship, sir."

"He was well? In good spirits? You thought him changed--yes? Aged
perhaps, or--"

"His lordship was not greatly changed, sir."

Richard almost stamped in his impatience.

"Come, Warburton, come! Tell me everything. What did he say? Will he
take the revenues? Will he--"

"His lordship, sir, was reluctant to take anything, but upon maturer
consideration, he--ah--consented to accept his elder son's portion. The
revenues of the estate he begs you will make use of."

"Ah! But you told him that I would touch nought belonging to him?"

"I tried to persuade his lordship, sir. To no avail. He desires you to
use Wyncham as you will."

"I'll not touch his money!"

Warburton gave the faintest of shrugs.

"That is as you please, sir."

Something in the suave voice made Richard, from his stand by the desk,
glance sharply down at the lawyer. Suspicion flashed into his eyes. He
seemed about to speak, when Warburton continued:

"I believe I may set your mind at rest on one score, Mr. Carstares: his
lordship's situation is tolerably comfortable. He has ample means."

"But--but he lives by--robbery!"

Warburton's thin lips curled a little.

"Does he not?" persisted Carstares.

"So he would have us believe, sir."

"'Tis true! He--waylaid me!"

"And robbed you, sir?"

"Rob me? He could not rob his own brother, Warburton!"

"Your pardon, Mr. Carstares--you are right: his lordship could not rob a
brother. Yet have I known a man do such a thing."

For a long minute there was no word spoken. The suspicion that had dwelt
latent in Carstares' eyes sprang up again. Some of the colour drained
from his cheeks, and twice he passed his tongue between his lips. The
fingers of his hand, gripping a chair-back, opened and shut
spasmodically. Rather feverishly his eyes searched the lawyer's face,
questioning.

"John told you--told you--" he started, and floundered hopelessly.

"His lordship told me nothing, sir. He was singularly reticent. But
there was nothing he could tell me that I did not already know."

"What do you mean, Warburton? Why do you look at me like that? Why do
you fence with me? In plain words, what do you mean?"

Warburton rose, clenching his hands.

"I know you, Master Richard, for what you are!"

"Ah!" Carstares flung out his hand as if to ward off a blow.

Another tense silence. With a great effort Warburton controlled himself,
and once more the mask of impassivity seemed to descend upon him. After
that one tortured cry Richard became calm again. He sat down; on his
face a look almost of relief, coming after a great strain.

"You learnt the truth ... from John. He ... will expose me?"

"No, sir. I have not learnt it from him. And he will never expose you."

Richard turned his head. His eyes, filled now with a species of dull
pain, looked full into Warburton's.

"Oh?" he said. "Then you...?"

"Nor I, sir. I have pledged my word to his lordship. I would not speak
all these years for your father's sake--now it is for his." He choked.

"You ... are fond of John?" Still the apathetic, weary voice.

"Fond of him--? Good God, Master Dick, I love him!"

"And I," said Richard, very low.

He received no reply, and looked up.

"You don't believe me?"

"Once, sir, I was certain of it. Now--!" he shrugged.

"Yet 'tis true, Warburton. I would give all in my power to undo that
night's work."

"You cannot expect me to believe that, sir. It rests with you alone
whether his name be cleared or not. And you remain silent."

"Warburton, I--Oh, do you think it means nothing to me that John is
outcast?"

Before the misery in those grey eyes some of Warburton's severity fell
away from him.

"Master Richard, I want to think the best I can of you. Master Jack
would tell me nothing. Will you not--can you not explain how it came
that you allowed him to bear the blame of your cheat?"

Richard shuddered.

"There's no explanation--no excuse. I forced it on him! On Jack, my
brother! Because I was mad for love of Lavinia--Oh, my God, the thought
of it is driving me crazed! I thought I could forget; and then--and
then--I met him! The sight of him brought it all back to me. Ever since
that day I have not known how to live and not shriek the truth to
everyone! And I never shall! I never shall!"

"Tell me, sir," pleaded Warburton, touched in spite of himself.

Richard's head sunk into his hands.

"The whole scene is a nightmare.... I think I must have been mad.... I
scarce knew what I was about. I--"

"Gently, sir. Remember I know hardly anything. What induced you to mark
the cards?"

"That debt to Gundry. My father would not meet it; I had to find the
money. I could not face the scandal--I tell you I was mad for Lavinia! I
could think of nought else. I ceased to care for John because I thought
him in love with her. I could not bear to think of the disgrace which
would take her from me.... Then that night at Dare's. I was losing; I
knew I could not pay. Gad! but I can see my notes of hand under
Milward's elbow, growing... growing.

"Jack had played Milward before me, and he had won. I remember they
laughed at him, saying his luck had turned at last--for he always lost
at cards. Milward and I played with the same pack that they had
used.... There was another table, I think. Dare was dicing with
Fitzgerald; someone was playing faro with Jack behind me. I heard Jack
say his luck was out again--I heard them laugh.... And all the time I
was losing ... losing.

"The pin of my cravat fell out on to my knee. I think no one saw it. As
I picked it up the thought that I should mark the cards seemed to flash
into my mind--oh, it was despicable, I know! I held the ace of clubs in
my hand: I scratched it with that pin--in one corner. It was easily
done. By degrees I marked all four, and three of the kings.

"No one noticed, but I was nervous--I dared do no more. I replaced that
pin. Soon I began to win--not very much. Then Tracy Belmanoir came
across the room to watch our play. From that moment everything seemed to
go awry. It was the beginning of the trouble.

"Tracy stood behind me watching.... I could feel him there, like some
black moth, hovering.... I don't know how long he stayed like that--it
seemed hours. I could feel his eyes.... I could have shrieked--I'll
swear my hands were trembling.

"Suddenly he moved. I had played the ace of hearts. He said: 'One
moment!' in that soft, sinister voice of his.

"Milward was surprised. I tried to tell myself that Devil had noticed
nothing.... The mark on that card was so faint that I could scarce see
it myself. I thought it impossible that he, a mere onlooker, should
discover it. He stepped forward. I remember he brushed my shoulder. I
remember how the light caught the diamonds he was wearing. I think my
brain was numbed. I could only repeat to myself: 'Extravagant Devil!
Extravagant Devil!' and stare at those winking jewels. Then I thought:
'He is Lavinia's brother, but I do not like him; I do not like him...'
--little foolish things like that--and my throat was dry--parched.

"He bent over the table ... stretched out his white, white hand ...
turned over the ace ... lifted his quizzing glass ... and stared down at
the card. Then he dropped the glass and drew out his snuff-box.... It
had Aphrodite enamelled on the lid. I remember it so distinctly.... I
heard Tracy ask Milward to examine the ace. I wanted to spring up and
strangle him.... I could scarce keep my hands still." Richard paused. He
drew his hand across his eyes, shuddering.

"Milward saw the scratch. He cried out that the cards were marked!
Suddenly everyone seemed to be gathered about our table--all talking!
Jack had his hand on my shoulder; he and Dare were running through the
pack. But all the while I could look at no one but Tracy--Andover. He
seemed so sinister, so threatening, in those black clothes of his. His
eyes were almost shut--his face so white. And he was looking at me! He
seemed to be reading my very soul.... For an instant I thought he knew!
I wanted to shout out that he was wrong! I wanted to shriek to him to
take his eyes away! Heaven knows what I should have done!... but he
looked away--at Jack, with that sneering smile on his damned mask of a
face! I could have killed him for that smile! I think Jack understood
it--he dropped the cards, staring at Tracy.

"Everyone was watching them ... no one looked at me. If they had they
must surely have learnt the truth; but they were hanging on Andover's
lips, looking from him to Jack and back again.... I remember Fitzgerald
dropped his handkerchief--I was absurdly interested in that. I was
wondering why he did not pick it up, when Andover spoke again.... 'And
Carstares' luck turned...?' Like that, Warburton! With just that faint,
questioning in his voice.

"Before Jack could speak there was an outcry. Dare cried 'Shame!' to
Andover. They laughed at him, as well they might. But I saw them
exchange glances--they were wondering.... It was suspicious that Jack
should have had that run of luck--and that he should lose as soon as he
left that table.

"Milward--poor, silly Milward--gaped at Tracy and stuttered that surely
'twas another pack we had used. I could hardly breathe! Then Andover
corrected him--How did he _know_? No one else remembered, or thought of
noticing--only he!

"I can see Jack now, standing there so stiffly, with his head thrown up,
and those blue eyes of his flashing.

"'Do I understand you to accuse me, Belmanoir?' he said. Oh, but he was
furious!

"Tracy never said a word. Only his eyes just flickered to my face and
away again.

"Jack's hand was gripping my shoulder hard. I could feel his anger....
Dare called out that the suggestion was preposterous. That John should
cheat!

"Tracy asked him if the cards were his. Gad! I can hear his soft,
mocking voice now!

"Dare went purple--you know his way, Warburton.

"'Opened in your presence on this table!' he cried.

"'By Carstares!' smiled Tracy.

"It was true. But why should Tracy remember it, and none other? They
stared at him, amazed. Dare turned to Jack for corroboration. He nodded.
I think he never looked haughtier....

"You know how fond of Jack Dare was? He tried to bluster it off--tried
to get control over the affair. It was to no avail. We were puppets,
worked by that devil, Belmanoir! One man managing that ghastly scene....
He pointed out that only three of us had used that pack: Jack, Milward
and I.

"Jack laughed.

"'Next you will accuse Dick!' he snapped scornfully.

"'One of you, certainly,' smiled Andover. 'Or Milward.'

"Then everyone realised that one of us three must have marked the cards.
Milward was upset, but no one suspected him. It was Jack--or me.

"As long as I live I shall never forget the horror of those moments. If
I were exposed it meant the end of everything between Lavinia and me. I
tell you, Warburton, I would have committed any sin at that moment!
Nothing would have been too black--I could not bear to lose her. You
don't know what she meant to me!"

"I can guess, sir," said the lawyer, gravely.

"No, no! No one could imagine the depths of my love for her! I think not
even Jack.... I felt his hand leave my shoulder.... The truth had dawned
on him. I heard the way the breath hissed between his teeth as he
realised.... Somehow I got to my feet, clutching at the table, facing
him. I don't excuse myself--I know my conduct was beyond words
dastardly. I looked across at him--just said his name, as though I could
scarce believe my ears. So all those watching thought. But Jack knew
better. He knew I was imploring him to save me. He understood all that I
was trying to convey to him. For an instant he stared at me. I
thought--I thought--God forgive me, I prayed that he might take the
blame on himself. Then he smiled. Coward though I was, when I saw that
hurt, wistful little smile on his lips, I nearly blurted out the whole
truth. Not quite.... I suppose I was too mean-spirited for that.

"Jack bowed to the room and again to Dare. He said: 'I owe you an
apology, sir.'

"Dare sprang forward, catching him by the shoulder--crying out that it
could not be true! When Jack laughed--he fell away from him as from the
plague. And all of them! My God, to see them drawing away--not looking
at Jack! And Jack's face--growing paler and harder ... every moment....
All his friends... turning their backs to him. Davenant--even Jim
Davenant walked away to the fireplace with Evans.

"I could not look at Jack. I dared not. I could not go to him--stand by
him! I had not the right. I had to leave him there--in the middle of the
room--alone. The awful hurt in his eyes made me writhe. The room was
whirling round--I felt sick--I know I fell back into my chair, hiding my
face. I hardly cared whether they suspected me or not. But they did not.
They knew how great was the love between us, and they were not surprised
that I broke down.

"I heard Andover's soft voice ... he was telling some tale to Dare. Oh,
they were well-bred those men! They skimmed over the unpleasant little
episode--ignored Jack!

"Jack spoke again. I could guess how bravely he was keeping a proud
front. I know word for word what he said: 'Mr. Dare, your Grace,
Gentlemen--my apologies for being the cause of so unpleasant an
incident. Pray give me leave.'

"They paid no heed. I heard him walk to the door--heard him open it. I
could not look at him. He--he paused ... and said just one word: 'Dick!'
quite softly. Heaven knows how I got to him! I know I overturned my
chair. That drew Dare's attention. He said: 'You are not going, Dick?' I
shouted 'Yes,' at him, and then Jack took my arm, leading me out.

"And--and all he said was: 'Poor old Dick!'... He--he had no word of
blame for me. He would not allow me to go back and tell the truth--as I
would have done. Ay, Warburton, when Jack called me to him, I could have
cried it aloud--but--he would not have it.... He said: 'For Lavinia's
sake.'..."

Warburton blew his nose violently. His fingers were trembling.

"You know what happened afterwards. You know how my father turned Jack
out penniless--you know how his friends shunned him--you know my poor
mother's grief. And you know that he went away--that we could not find
him when--my mother died.... His last words to me--were: 'Make
Lavinia-happy--and try to forget--all this.' Forget it! Heavens! Try as
I might, I could hear nothing further of him until two months ago, when
he--waylaid me. Then I was half-dazed at the suddenness of it. He--he
grasped my hand--and--laughed! It was so dark, I could scarce see him. I
only had time to demand his address, and then--he was off--galloping
away over the heath. I think--even then--he bore no malice."

"He does not now!" said Warburton sharply. "But, Master Dick, if all
this is true, why do you not even now clear him? Surely--"

Richard turned his head slowly.

"Now I may not drag my wife's name through the mud. By clearing him--I
ruin her."

Warburton could find nothing to say. Only after some time did he clear
his throat and say that he was honoured by Carstares' confidence.

"You--ah--you dwell on the part played by his Grace on that evening.
Surely your--shall we say--overwrought imagination magnified that?"

Richard was disinterested.

"I suppose so. Mayhap 'twas his extraordinary personality dominating me.
He cannot have pulled the wires as I thought he did. Not even Belmanoir
could make me act as I did. But--but at the time I felt that he was
pushing--pushing--compelling me to accuse Jack. Oh, doubtless I was
mad!"

Warburton eyed the dejected figure compassionately. Then he seemed to
harden himself and to regain some of his lost primness of manner.

"You--ah--you are determined not to accept the revenues, sir?"

"I have not yet sunk so low, Mr. Warburton."

"His lordship leaves Wyncham and all appertaining to it at your
disposal. He would be grieved at your refusal."

"I will not touch it."

The lawyer nodded.

"I confess, Mr. Carstares, I am relieved to hear you say that. It will
not be necessary again to communicate with his lordship. I think he does
not desire any intercourse with--his family. He finds it too painful.
But he wished to be remembered to you, sir. Also to her ladyship."

"Thank you.... You could--ascertain nothing of his situation? He did not
confide in you?"

"He was very reticent, sir. I think he is not unhappy."

"And not--embittered?"

"Certainly not that, sir."

Mr. Warburton rose, plainly anxious to be gone.

Reluctantly Richard followed his example.

"You--have nothing further to tell me of him?"

"I regret, sir--nothing."

Richard went slowly to the door, and opened it.

"You must allow me to thank you, sir, for your goodness in undertaking
what I know must have been a painful task. I am very grateful."

Mr. Warburton bowed low.

"I beg you will not mention it, sir. Nothing I might do for the
Carstares could be aught but a pleasure."

Again he bowed, and the next instant was gone.




CHAPTER IV

INTRODUCING THE LADY LAVINIA CARSTARES


Richard went slowly back to his chair. After a moment he sat down,
staring blankly out of the window, his hands loosely clasped on the desk
before him. So he remained for a long while, immobile. At last, with the
faintest of sighs, he moved and picked up a quill. He dipped it in the
ink, and, with his other hand, drew towards him a sheaf of papers.
Presently he was writing steadily.

For perhaps twenty minutes the quill travelled to and fro across the
pages; then it paused, and Richard looked up towards the door.

It opened to admit Lady Lavinia. She came rustling into the room with
her embroidery in her hand. She dropped her husband a mock curtsey and
went over to a high-backed armchair, stretching out a dimpled hand to
draw it forward. But even as her fingers touched it she had changed her
mind, and fluttered over to the couch, there to seat herself with much
swirling of brocades and arrangement of skirts. She then proceeded to
occupy herself with her work, plying her needle hurriedly and jerkily.

Richard watched her in silence, following each turn of the pretty hand
and each movement of her fair head.

The silence was evidently not to my lady's taste, for she presently
began to beat an impatient tattoo on the floor with one slender foot.
Still he said nothing, and she raised her pure china-blue eyes to his
face.

"Why so glum, Dick? Why do you not talk to me?" Her voice was rather
high-pitched and childish, and she had a curious way of ending each
sentence with an upward lilt and a long drawn-out accent, very
fascinating to listen to.

Richard smiled with an obvious effort.

"Am I, my dear? I crave your pardon. Warburton has just been."

Her face clouded over instantly, and the full-lipped mouth drooped
petulantly.

"He has seen him."

"Oh?" She made the word twice its length, and filled it with
disinterest.

"Yes. Jack will have none of it. He asks me to be his steward and to use
Wyncham as I will. He is very generous."

"Yes, oh yes. And you will, Richard?"

He ignored the question.

"He--Warburton--says he is not much changed."

"Oh?" Again the long-drawn monosyllable, accompanied by a tiny yawn.

"He says he does not think--Jack--bears me ill-will--" He paused, as if
expecting her to speak, but she was absorbed in arranging two
flowers--culled from a bowl at her side--at her breast, and took no
notice. Carstares turned his head away wearily.

"If it were not for you, my dear, I would tell the truth. I believe I
shall go crazed an I do not."

"Dick!" ... She dropped the flowers on the floor and thought no more
about them. "Dick!"

"Oh, you need have no fear! I do not suppose," bitterly, "that I have
the courage to face them all now--after six years."

Lavinia moved restlessly, brushing her hand along the couch.

"You will not do it, Richard? Promise! You _will_ not? I could not bear
the disgrace of it; promise me you will never do it?"

"No," he said slowly, not looking at her. "No, I cannot promise that."

She sprang to her feet, flinging her broidery from her carelessly, and
waved fierce, agitated little hands.

"That means you will do it. You _want_ to disgrace me! You do not _care_
how you hurt me by holding this threat over my head so cruelly! You--"

"Lavinia, for heaven's sake!" he implored, pushing back his chair. "Calm
yourself!" He knew she was about to fly into one of her sudden passions,
and frowned with acute vexation.

"I will not! Oh yes, yes! You think me a shrew! I know! I know! But you
need not frown on me, sir, for you are worse! No, I will not hush. I am
a horrid woman, yes, but you are a cheat--a cheat--a cheat!"

Carstares strode over to her.

"Lavinia!"

"No--no! Leave me alone! You make me miserable! You refuse me everything
that I want most, and then you threaten to disgrace me--"

"That is untrue!" cried Richard, goaded into replying. "I will not
promise, that is all. What have I refused you that was within my means
to give you? God knows you try your best to ruin me--"

"There! There! 'Tis _I_ who am to blame! Pray, did you not induce my
lord to leave his money to John when you knew he would have willed it
all to you an you had kept silence? You took no thought to me--"

"For heaven's sake, Lavinia, be still! You do not know what you are
saying!"

She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks.

"No--I am unreasonable! I know it, but don't _tell_ me so, for I cannot
bear it! And don't look reproach at me, Richard! You drive me mad, I
tell you!" She was sweeping up and down the room like some caged animal,
lashing herself to a worse fury.

"Say something, Richard! _Do_ something! Don't stand there so quietly!
Oh, you should never have married me! I displease you, and you make me
worse; and you do not see how 'tis that I cannot live without pleasure,
and money! I am despicable? Yes, yes, but what are you? Oh, why did you
tell me you cheated _after_ you had wedded me?" Angry sobs escaped her;
her handkerchief was in shreds upon the floor.

Carstares turned his back to her, that she might not see how she had
contrived to hurt him, and the movement drove her to fresh fury.

"Don't do that! Don't! Don't! You make me worse by your dreadful
silence! Oh, if you really loved me!"

"You cannot doubt that!" he cried out, wheeling suddenly round. "You
know how I love you! Don't you?" He gripped her by the shoulders and
swung her to face him.

She trembled and gave a sobbing little laugh. As suddenly as it had
come, her anger left her.

"Oh, yes, yes! You do love me, Dicky?" She twined her arms about his
neck and shrank closer.

"God help me, yes!" he groaned, thrusting her away. "And you--you care
for no one save yourself!"

"No! No!" she cried, pressing up to him again. "Do not say that, Dick.
Indeed, I love you, but I cannot live without gaiety--you know I
cannot. Oh, I do not doubt but what I am very selfish, but 'tis the way
I am fashioned, and I cannot change my nature. And now I have hurt you,
and I did not mean to! I did not mean to!"

"My dear, I know you did not; but try to be less a child, I beg of you!
You are so uncontrolled, so--"

"I knew you would say that," she answered in a dead voice. "You do not
understand me. You expect me to be good, and patient, and forbearing,
and I tell you 'tis not in my nature."

"But, Lavinia, you can control your passions," he said gently.

"No! I cannot! We Belmanoirs--as God made us, so we are--and He made us
spendthrift, and pleasure-loving, and mad!" She walked slowly to the
door. "But you do not understand, and you try to make me staid, and
thoughtful, and a good mother, when I am dying for _life_, and
excitement, and care not that for housewifery!" She opened the door
slowly. "And now my head aches, and you look grave and say 'tis my
wicked temper, when I want you to be sorry, and to be ready to do
anything to comfort me. Why can you not take me to London, when you know
how I long to be there, instead of in this gloomy house with nought to
do, save mind my child and my needle? I am so tired of it all! So very
tired of it all!"

She would have left the room then, but he detained her.

"Wait, Lavinia! You say you are unhappy?"

She released the door handle and fluttered her hands expressively.

"Unhappy? No, I am dull. I am ill-tempered. I am discontented. I am
aught you please, so do not be sad, Richard. I cannot bear you to be
solemn. Oh, why do we quarrel?" With one of her impulsive movements she
was again at his side, with her beautiful face upturned. "Love me,
Richard! Take me to London and never mind an I _do_ squander your money.
Say you do not care! Say that nothing matters so long as I am happy! Why
do you not say it? Does anything matter? Don't be prudent, Dicky! Be
wild! Be reckless! Be anything rather than grave and old!" Her arms
crept up to his coaxingly. "Take me to London!"

Carstares smoothed the soft hair back from her forehead, very tenderly,
but his eyes were worried.

"My dear, I will take you, but not just yet. There is so much to be done
here. If you will wait a little longer--"

"Ah, if I will wait! If I will be patient and good! But I cannot! Oh,
you don't understand, Dicky--you don't understand!"

"I am sorry, dear. I promise I will take you as soon as possible, and we
will stay as long as you please."

Her arms fell away.

"I want to go now!"

"Dear--"

"Very well--very well. We will go presently. Only don't reason with me."

He looked at her concernedly.

"You are overwrought, my love--and tired."

"Yes," she agreed listlessly. "Oh yes; I will go now and rest. Forgive
me, Dick!" She kissed her finger-tips and extended them to him. "I will
be good one day." She turned and hurried out of the room and up the
stairs, leaving the door open behind her.

Richard stayed for a moment looking round at the signs of her late
presence. Mechanically he stooped to pick up her embroidery and the
pieces of her handkerchief. The two flowers were broken off short, and
he threw them away. Then he left the room and went out on to the sunny
terrace, gazing across the beautiful gardens into the blue distance.

Across the lawn came a child of four or five, waving a grimy hand.

"Father!"

Richard looked down at him and smiled.

"Well, John?"

The boy climbed up the terrace steps, calling his news all the way.

"'Tis Uncle Andrew, sir. He has rid over to see you, and is coming
through the garden to find you."

"Is he? Has he left his horse at the stables?"

"Ay, sir. So I came to tell you."

"Quite right. Will you come with me to meet him?"

The little rosy face lighted up with pleasure.

"Oh, may I?" he cried and slipped his hand in Richard's.

Together they descended the steps and made their way across the lawn.

"I have run away from Betty," announced John with some pride. "There's
Uncle Andrew, sir!" He bounded away towards the approaching figure.

Lord Andrew Belmanoir was Richard's brother-in-law, brother to the
present Duke. He came up with John in his arms and tumbled him to the
ground.

"Good day, Dick! 'Tis a spoilt child you have here!"

"Ay. He is but now escaped from his nurse."

"Splendid! Come, John, you shall walk with us, and we'll confound fat
Betty!" He slipped his arm through Richard's as he spoke. "Come, Dick!
There's a deal I have to say to you." He grimaced ruefully.

The child ran on ahead towards the woods, a great bull-mastiff at his
heels.

"What's to do now?" asked Richard, looking round into the mobile,
dissipated countenance.

"The devil's in it this time, and no mistake," answered his lordship
with a rueful shake of his head.

"Debts?"

"Lord, yes! I was at Delaby's last night, and the stakes were high.
Altogether I've lost about three thousand--counting what I owe Carew.
And devil take me an I know where 'tis to come from! Here's Tracy turned
saint and swears he'll see me damned before he hands me another penny. I
doubt he means it, too."

Tracy was the Duke. Richard smiled a little cynically; he had already
had to lend his Grace a thousand guineas to pay off some "trifling
debt."

"He means it right enough. I believe it would puzzle him to find it."

"Do you say so? Why, 'tis impossible man! Tracy was in town scarce a
fortnight since, and he had a run of the devil's own luck. I tell you
Dick, I saw him walk off with a cool five thousand one night! And then
he denies me a paltry three! Lord, what a brother! And all with the air
of an angel, as if _he_ had never lost at dice. And a homily thrown in!
Anyone would think I had cheated, instead of--ahem!... Dick, I'm
confoundedly sorry! Damned thoughtless of me--never thought about
Jo--about what I was saying--I'm a fool!" For Richard had winced.

"You cannot help that," he said, forcing a laugh. "Have done with your
apologies, and continue."

They had come to the stream by now, and crossed the little bridge into
the wood.

"Oh, there's not much more. 'Tis only that something must be done, for
Carew won't wait, and stap me if I'd ask him, the lean-faced
scarecrow!--so I came to you, Dick."

He let go Richard's arm and flung himself down on a fallen tree-trunk,
regardless of velvet and laces.

"You're a good fellow, and you don't lecture a man as Tracy does, devil
take him! And you play high yourself, or you did, though 'tis an age
since I saw you win or lose enough to wink at. And, after all, you're
Lavvy's husband, and--oh, damn it all, Dick, 'tis monstrous hard to ask
you!"

Carstares, leaning against a tree, surveyed the youthful rake amusedly.

"'Tush, Andrew!" he reassured him. "You're welcome to ask, but the Lord
knows where I'm to find it! Gad, what a life! Here's Lavinia keeps
buying silks, and I don't know what all, and--"

"She was ever a spendthrift jade," said Andrew with a mighty frown.

Richard laughed at him.

"You're a thrifty fellow yourself, of course!"

Andrew looked round for something to throw at him, and finding nothing,
relapsed once more into deepest despondency.

"You're in the right of't. We're a worthless lot. 'Tis the old man's
blood in us, I doubt not, with a smattering of her Grace. You never knew
my mother, Richard. She was French--Lavvy's the spit of her. There's
Tracy--stap me, but Tracy's the very devil! Have you ever seen a face
like his? No, I'll swear you've not! What with his sneering mouth and
his green eyes--oh, 'tis enough to make a fellow go to the dogs to have
a brother like it, 'pon my soul it is! Ay, you laugh, but I tell you
'tis serious!"

"Ay, go on!"

"Well next there's Bob--damn it all, but I'm sorry for Bob! 'Tis a
beggarly pittance they give one in the army, and he was never one to
pinch and scrape. Well, as I say, there's Bob, and I never see him, but
what it's: 'Lend me a hundred, Andy!' or the like. And all to buy his
mistress some gewgaw. That's what sickens me! Why, Bob's for ever in
some scrape with a petticoat, and as for Tracy! Gad, how they can! Then
there's Lavinia, but I should think you know her by now, and lastly,
there's your humble servant. And I tell you, Dick, what with the racing,
and the cards, and the bottle, I shall be a ruined man before you can
turn round! And the pother is I'll never be any different. 'Tis in the
blood, so where's the use in trying?" He made a rueful grimace, and
rose. "Come on, young rip! We're going back."

John, engaged in the task of hunting for tadpoles in the water some
yards distant, nodded and ran on.

"I fear my lady is indisposed," said Richard hesitatingly. "You wished
to see her?"

Andrew winked knowingly.

"Tantrums, eh? Oh, I know her. No, I do not care an I do not see her;
'tis little enough she cares for me, though she's as thick as thieves
with Tracy--oh, ay, I'll be dumb."

They walked slowly back to the house, Andrew, silent for once, twirling
his gold-mounted cane.

"You shall have the money, of course. When do you want it?" said Richard
presently.

"'Pon honour, you're a devilish good fellow, Dick! But if 'tis like to
put you to any--"

"Nonsense. When do you need it?"

"I should pay Carew as soon as may be. Markham can wait over if--"

"No, no! Wednesday?"

"'Twill do excellently well. Dick, you're a--"

"Oh, pshaw! 'Tis nought. I want your opinion on the bay mare I bought
last week. You'll maybe think her a trifle long in the leg, but she's a
fine animal."

John had run indoors, and the two men proceeded to the stables alone,
Andrew discoursing all the way, recounting for his brother-in-law's
benefit the choicest morsels of scandal that were circulating town at
the moment. That his auditor but attended with half an ear affected him
not at all; he never paused for an answer, and, in any case, was far too
good-natured to care if he received none.

By the time they had duly inspected the mare and walked back to the
house, it was nearly four o'clock, and, not altogether to Carstares'
surprise, Lavinia was awaiting them on the terrace, clad in a totally
different gown, and with her hair freshly arranged and curled.

"'Twould appear that Lavinia has recovered," remarked Andrew as they
mounted the steps. "She was ever thus--not two minutes the same. Well,
Lavvy?"

"Well, Andrew?" She gave him a careless hand to kiss, but smiled sweetly
up at her husband. "My headache is so much better," she told him, "and
they said that Andrew was come to see you. So I came downstairs." She
turned eagerly to her brother. "Tell me, Andrew, is Tracy at home?"

"Lord, yes! He arrived yesterday, devil take him! Do you want him?"

"Oh, yes," she nodded. "I want to see him again. I've not set eyes on
him for an age. I want you to take me back with you."

"Surely, my dear, 'tis a trifle late in the day for such a drive?"
demurred Richard, trying to conceal his annoyance. "Can you not wait
until to-morrow?"

"Faith, you'll have to, Lavvy, for I'll not take you to-day, that's
certain. I'm riding to Fletcher's when I leave here. Tracy can visit you
to-morrow an he chooses."

"Will he?" she asked doubtfully.

Andrew clapped his hand to his vest pocket. "If I had not forgot!" he
exclaimed. "I've a letter from him for you. He intends waiting on you
to-morrow, in any case. Lord, what it is to have a scatter brain like
mine!" He pulled a handful of papers from his pocket and selected one,
sealed, and addressed in a sloping Italian handwriting.

Lavinia pounced upon it joyfully, and tore it open. Andrew restored the
rest of the documents to his pocket with yet another rueful laugh.

"Duns, Richard! Duns!"

"Give them to me," answered the other, holding out his hand.

"Oh, no! But many thanks, Dick. These are quite unimportant."

"Why not pay them all, and start afresh?" urged Carstares.

"Lord, no! Why, I should be so damned elated that before the day was out
there'd be a score of fresh debts staring me in the face!"

"Let me lend you a thousand to begin on? Could you not keep out of
debt?"

"I keep out of debt? Impossible! Don't look so solemn, Dick; I told you
'twas in the blood. We never have a penny to bless ourselves with, but
what's the odds? I shall have a run of luck soon--a man can't always
lose. Then I shall be able to repay you, but, of course, I shan't.
It'll all go at the next table. _I_ know!" He spoke so ingenuously that
Richard could not be angry with him. There was a certain frankness about
him that pleased, and though he might be spendthrift and heedless, and
colossally selfish, Richard felt a genuine affection for him. He would
have liked to argue the point further, but Lavinia came forward,
refolding her letter.

"Tracy is coming to-morrow afternoon," she told her husband. "'Twill be
prodigiously agreeable, will it not?"

He assented, but with a lack of warmth that did not fail to strike her
ears.

"And he will stay to dine with us!" she cried challengingly.

"Certainly, my love."

"Look pleased, Dicky, look pleased! Why don't you like Tracy? He is my
own brother; you _must_ like him!"

"Of course I like him, Lavinia. Pray, do not be foolish."

"Oh, I am not! Don't be cross, Dicky dear!"

"Well, if you like him, I'm surprised," broke in Andrew. "I can't bear
him! Ay, flash your eyes at me, Lavvy; I don't mind."

Lavinia opened her mouth to retaliate, but Richard hastily interposed.
Their bickering was more than he could bear, and he never understood how
Lavinia could stoop to quarrel with the boisterous youth, who tried so
palpably to rouse her.

He bore them both off to the house, feeling much like a nursemaid with
two recalcitrant children.




CHAPTER V

HIS GRACE OF ANDOVER


Lady Lavinia dressed herself with even more than her usual care next
afternoon, and well-nigh drove her maid distracted by her flashes of
temper and impatient, contradictory orders. So lengthy was the toilet
that she was only just in her boudoir when his Grace of Andover was
announced. She had no time to tell the footman that she would receive
his Grace, for almost before the words were out of James' mouth, he
stood bowing in the doorway, sure of his welcome.

He was curiously like his sister, this man, and at the same time
curiously unlike. Hers were the high cheek-bones and pinched,
aristocratic nostrils, but the mouth with its thin lips, and the
heavy-lidded green eyes, were totally different. His Grace's brows
slanted up at the corners, and his eyes, though piercing and bright,
were constantly veiled by the black-lashed lids. He wore his own black
hair, unpowdered, and that, together with the black and silver garments
that he always affected, greatly enhanced the natural pallor of his
countenance. Altogether it was a very striking figure that stood just
before the closed white door and bowed to my lady.

Lavinia took an eager step towards him, swinging her pearl-grey
brocades.

"Oh, Tracy!" she cooed, holding out both hands.

His Grace advanced into the room and bent low over them.

"I rejoice to find you within, Lavinia," he said, a faint tinge of
sarcasm running through his smooth tones. "As you perceive, I rode
over." He made a gesture towards his high boots with their
wicked-looking spurs. "No doubt Andrew forgot to give you my letter?"

"No," she said, slipping her hand in his arm. "He remembered in time,
and--oh, Tracy, I was so vastly delighted to have it!"

"I am indeed honoured," he replied. "I am come on a sufficiently
important matter."

"Oh!" She pulled her hand away disappointedly. "Money!"

"You are really wonderful, my dear. As you so crudely remark--money!
Will you not be seated?"

She sank down on the couch dejectedly and watched him take a chair
opposite her.

"Your most noble lord and master lent me a trifling sum the other day,
but very trifling. I am, as usual, hard-pressed. And that young fool
Andrew must needs fall into debt."

My lady opened wide her eyes in surprise.

"Do you tell me you need money from Richard to pay Andrew's debts?" she
asked, frankly incredulous.

"I do not. Is it likely? The remark was purely by the way."

"Well, in any case, Andrew borrowed three thousand from poor Dick only
yesterday. I know, because I heard him speak of it."

His Grace raised his black brows in patient exasperation.

"How unnecessary of Andrew! And how typical! So 'poor Dick' has been
squeezed already?"

"Don't speak like that, Tracy!" she cried. "Dicky is good to me!" She
met his piercing look unflinchingly.

"Now this becomes interesting," drawled the Duke. "Since when have you
come to that conclusion? And why this sudden loyalty?"

"I have _always_ been loyal to him, Tracy! You know I have! I worry
him--and indeed he is very forbearing."

"But how charming of him!"

"No, do not sneer, Tracy! He has promised to take me to London for the
whole winter--"

His Grace leant back in his chair again.

"Now I understand," he said placidly. "I was at a loss before."

"'Tis not that, Tracy! Indeed I realise how kind he is to me. And we
have quarrelled again. We are always quarrelling, and I know 'tis all my
fault."

"What a comfortable conviction, my dear!"

"No, no! 'Tis not comfortable, Tracy! For somehow I cannot change my
disposition, though I _mean_ to be patient and sweet. Tracy, I hate
Wyncham!"

"You hate Wyncham? There was a time--"

"I know, I know! But I never meant to live here always like this! I want
to go to London!"

"I thought you said you were going?"

"Yes, I am! But I want to go with someone who is gay-not--not--"

"In fact, you want distraction, and not with the amiable Richard? Well,
I can conceive that life with him might prove uninspiring. Safe, my
dear, but not exciting."

"I knew you would understand! You see, he does not like me to play at
cards, because I cannot stop! And he cannot see how 'tis that I care
nought for what he calls 'home-life' when there are routs, and the play,
and _real_ life. He--he is so--so--so _staid,_ Tracy, and careful!"

"A good trait in a husband, Lavinia," replied his Grace cynically. "'Tis
because I do not possess it that I am single now."

Her lips curled scornfully at this, for well she knew her brother.

"No, Tracy, that is not so! It is because you are a devil! No woman
would marry you!"

"That is most interesting, my dear," purred his Grace. "But pray strive
to be a little more original. Continue your analysis of Richard's
sterling character."

"'Tis only that we are so different," she sighed. "I always desire to do
things quickly--if I think of something, I want it at once--at once! You
know, Tracy! And he likes to wait and think on it, and--oh, 'tis so
tiresome, and it puts me in a bad humour, and I behave like a hysterical
bourgeoise!" She got up swiftly, clasping her nervous little hands.
"When he speaks to me in that gentle, reasoning way, I could scream,
Tracy! Do you think I am mad?" She laughed unmusically.

"No," he replied, "but the next thing to it: a Belmanoir. Perhaps it was
a pity you ever married Richard. But there is always the money."

"There is not," she cried out sharply.

"Not? What mean you?"

"Tracy, 'tis of this that I wanted to speak! You think my lord left his
money to Dick?"

"Certainly. He should be stupendously wealthy."

"He is not!"

"But, my good girl, the revenue must be enormous. He has the land,
surely?"

"No! No! He has not the land! Oh, but I am angry whenever I think on it!
He induced my lord to leave it to John. _He_ has but his younger son's
portion!"

"I still fail to understand. You informed me that the Earl left all to
Richard?"

"He changed his will, Tracy!"

"He--changed--his--will! Then, my dear, must you have played your cards
very badly!"

"'Twas not my fault, Tracy--indeed 'twas not! I knew nought until the
will was read. Richard never spoke a word to me about it! And now we are
comparatively poor!" Her voice trembled with indignation, but his Grace
only whistled beneath his breath.

"I always knew, of course, that Dick was a fool, but I never guessed how
much so till now!"

At that she flared up.

"He is not a fool! He is an honest man, and 'tis we_--we_, I tell
you--who are mean and despicable and mercenary!"

"Undoubtedly, Lavinia, but pray do not excite yourself over it. I
suppose he is still devoted to that young hothead?"

"Yes, yes--'tis all Jack, Jack, Jack, until I am sick to death of the
sound of his name--and--" She broke off, biting her lip.

"And what?"

"Oh, nought! But 'tis all so disagreeable, Tracy!"

"It certainly is slightly disturbing. You had better have chosen John,
in spite of all, it seems."

She stamped angrily.

"Oh, where's the good in being flippant?"

"My dear Lavinia, where's the good in being anything else? The situation
strikes me as rather amusing. To think of the worthy Richard so neatly
overturning all my plans!"

"If it had not been for you, I might never have married him. Why did you
throw them both in my way? Why did I ever set eyes on either?"

"It should have been a good match, my dear, and, if I remember rightly,
no one was more alive to that fact than yourself."

She pouted angrily and turned her shoulder to him.

"Still," he continued reflectively, "I admit that for the smart lot we
are, we do seem rather to have bungled the affair."

Lavinia swept round upon him.

"Oh, do you care no more than that? How can you be so casual! Does it
affect you not at all?"

He wrinkled his thin nose expressively.

"I shall not weep over it, Lavinia, but 'tis a plaguey nuisance. But we
must see what can be done. And that brings me back to the original
subject. Despite these upsetting revelations, I still require that
money."

"Oh, dear! How much must you have, Tracy?"

"Five hundred might suffice."

"Tracy, do not the estates bring in anything?" she asked petulantly.
"And Andrew told us you had a run of marvellous luck not a fortnight
since?"

"Since then, my dear, I have had three runs of marvellous ill-luck. As
to the estates, they are mortgaged up to the hilt, as you very well
know. What little there is is between three. And Robert is extravagant."

"I hate Robert!"

"I am not partial to him myself, but it makes no odds."

"I wish he might die!--oh no, no! Now I am become ill-natured again--I
don't wish it--only I am so tired of everything. You shall have that
money as soon as possible; but be careful, Tracy--please be careful!
'Tis not easy to get money from Dick!"

"No, I should imagine not. However, we have managed rather well up to
the present, take it all in all."

"Up to the present he has had all the money he wanted. My lord denied
him nought!"

"Well, 'tis unfortunate, as I said before, but it must be endured. Where
is Dick?"

"I know not. You will stay to dinner, Tracy?"

"Thank you. I shall be charmed."

"Yes, yes--oh, how prodigiously pleasant it is to see you again! Soon I
shall come to Andover. Will you let me stay a few days?"

"The question is, will Richard allow you to stay so long in my
contaminating presence?"

"Richard would never keep me away, Tracy!" she replied proudly. "He
_could_ not. Oh, why is it that I don't love him more? Why do I not care
for him as much as I care for you even?"

"My dear Lavinia, like all Belmanoirs, you care first for yourself and
secondly for the man who masters you. That, alas! Richard has not yet
succeeded in doing."

"But I _do_ love Richard. I do, I do, yet--"

"Exactly. 'Yet!' The 'grand passion' has not yet touched you, my dear,
and you are quite self-absorbed."

"Self-absorbed! Those are hard words."

"But not too hard for the case. You think solely of yourself, your own
pleasure, your own character, your own feelings. If you could cast
yourself into the background a little, you would be less excitable and
considerably less discontented."

"How dare you, Tracy! Pray, what of you? Are you so selfless?"

"Not at all. I am precisely the same. I was merely suggesting that you
might be happier an you could depose 'self.'"

"You had best do the same yourself!"

"My dear Lavinia, when I feel the need of greater happiness, I most
undoubtedly shall. At present I am quite content."

"You are unkind!" she protested. "And you sneer at me."

"Pray, accept my heartfelt apologies! You shall come to Andover if the
worthy Richard permits."

Her face cleared as by magic.

"Oh, Tracy! Oh, I am so desirous to be gay once more! I cannot even
receive now, on account of this mourning! But when I am at Andover--oh,
we will not worry over anything, and I can be bad-tempered without
feeling that someone is being hurt by me! Oh, come to Dicky at once--at
once!"

He rose leisurely.

"I can imagine that you try Richard's patience somewhat," he remarked.
"Happily, your impetuosity in no way disturbs me. We will go in search
of Richard."

Half-way down the great staircase she perceived her husband, and flew to
meet him.

"Richard, I was coming in search of you! Tracy has invited me to Andover
for a week--he purposes to ask several people to stay, and there will be
parties--and entertainment! You will let me go? Say yes, Dicky--say yes,
quickly!"

Carstares bowed to his Grace, who stood watching them from the stairs.
The bow was returned with exaggerated flourish. Carstares looked down at
his wife.

"So soon, Lavinia?" he remonstrated, and indicated her mourning. She
shook his hand off impatiently.

"Oh, Dicky, does it matter? What can it signify? I do not ask you to
come--"

"No," he said half-sadly, half-amusedly. "I notice that, my dear."

"No, no! I did not mean to be unkind--you must not think that! You
_don't_ think it, do you, Dick?"

"Oh, no," he sighed.

"Good Dicky!" She patted his cheek coaxingly. "Then you will allow me to
go--ah, but yes, yes, you must listen! You know how dull I am, and how
silly--'tis because I need a change, and I _want_ to go to Andover. I
_want_ to go!"

"Yes, dear, I know. But my father is not yet dead six weeks, and I
cannot think it seemly--"

"Please, Dick, please! Please do not say no! 'Twill make me so unhappy!
Oh, you will not be so unkind? You will not forbid me to go?"

"I ask you not to, Lavinia. If you need a change, I will take you
quietly to Bath, or where you will. Do not pain me by going to Andover
just now."

"Bath! Bath! What do I want with Bath at this time of the year? Oh, 'tis
kind in you to offer, but I want to go to Andover! I want to see all the
old friends again. And I want to get away from everything here--'tis all
so gloomy--after--after my lord's death!"

"Dearest, of course you shall go away--but if only you would remember
that you are in mourning--"

"But 'tis what I wish to forget! Oh, Dicky, don't, don't, don't be
unkind."

"Very well, dear. If you must go--go."

She clapped her hands joyfully.

"Oh thank you, Dicky! And you are not angry with me?"

"No, dear, of course not."

"Ah! Now I am happy! 'Tis sweet of you, Dicky, but confess you are
secretly thankful to be rid of me for a week! Now are you not?" She
spread out her fan in the highest good-humour and coquetted behind it.
Richard was induced to smile.

"I fear I shall miss you too sadly, dear."

"Oh!" She dropped the fan. "But think how you will look forward to
seeing me again, and I you. Why, I shall be so thankful to be back after
a week away, that I shall be good for months!"

His face lightened, and he caught her hands in his.

"Darling, if I thought you would miss me--"

"But of course I shall miss you, Dick--oh, _pray_, mind my frock! Shall
I not miss him, Tracy?"

Richard suddenly remembered his brother-in-law's presence. He turned and
went to the foot of the stairs.

"So you are determined to wrest my wife from me?" he smiled.

Tracy descended leisurely, opening his snuff-box.

"Yes, I require a hostess," he said. "And I have"--he paused--"induced
her to honour Andover with her presence. Shall we have the felicity of
seeing you at any time?"

"I thank you, no. I am not, you will understand, in the mood for the
gaiety for which my poor Lavinia craves."

The Duke bowed slightly, and they all three went out on to the terrace,
Lavinia laughing and talking as Richard had not heard her laugh or talk
for days. She was the life and soul of the little dinner-party, flirting
prettily with her husband and exerting herself to please him in every
way. She had won her point; therefore she was in excellent spirits with
all the world, and not even the spilling of some wine on her new silk
served to discompose her.




CHAPTER VI

BATH: 29 QUEEN SQUARE


The autumn and the winter passed smoothly, and April found the Carstares
installed at Bath, whither Lady Lavinia had teased her husband into
going, despite his desire to return to Wyncham and John. She herself did
not care to be with the child, and was perfectly content that Richard
should journey occasionally to Wyncham to see that all was well with
him.

On the whole, she had enjoyed the winter, for she had induced Richard to
open Wyncham House, Mayfair, the Earl's town residence, where she had
been able to hold several entirely successful routs, and many select
little card-parties. Admirers she had a-many, and nothing so pleased her
vain little heart as masculine adulation. Carstares never entered his
home without stumbling against some fresh flame of hers, but as they
mostly consisted of what he rudely termed the lap-dog type, he was
conscious of no jealous qualms, and patiently submitted to their
inundation of his house. He was satisfied that Lavinia was happy, and,
as he assured himself at times when he was most tried, nothing else
signified.

The only flaw to Lavinia's content was the need of money. Not that she
was stinted, or ever refused anything that he could in reason give her;
but her wants were never reasonable. She would demand a new town
chariot, upholstered in pale blue, not because her own was worn or
shabby, but because she was tired of its crimson cushions. Or she would
suddenly take a fancy to some new, and usually fabulously expensive toy,
and having acquired it, weary of it in a week.

Without a murmur, Richard gave her lap-dogs (of the real kind), black
pages, jewels, and innumerable kickshaws, for which she rewarded him
with her brightest smiles and tenderest caresses. But when she required
him to refurnish Wyncham House in the style of the French Court,
throwing away all the present Queen Anne furniture, the tapestries, and
the countless old trappings that were one and all so beautiful and so
valuable, he put his foot down with a firmness that surprised her. Not
for any whim of hers was Jack's house to be spoiled. Neither her coaxing
nor her tears had any effect upon Richard, and when she reverted to
sulks, he scolded her so harshly that she was frightened, and in
consequence silenced.

For a week she thought and dreamt of nothing but gilded French chairs,
and then abruptly, as all else, the fancy left her, and she forgot all
about it. Her mantua-maker's bills were enormous, and caused Richard
many a sleepless night, but she was always so charmingly penitent that
he could not find it in his heart to be angry; and, after all, he
reflected, he would rather have his money squandered on her adornment
than on that of her brothers. She was by turns passionate and cold to
him: one day enrapturing him by some pretty blandishment, the next
snapping peevishly when he spoke to her.

At the beginning of the season he dutifully conducted her to routs and
_bals masqués_, but soon she began to go always with either Andrew or
Robert, both of whom were in town, and whose casual chaperonage she much
preferred to Richard's solicitous care. Tracy was rarely in London for
more than a few days at a time, and the Carstares, greatly to Richard's
relief, saw but little of him. Carstares disliked Colonel Lord Robert
Belmanoir, but the Duke he detested, not only for his habitual sneer
towards him, but for the influence that he undoubtedly held over
Lavinia. Richard was intensely jealous of this, and could sometimes
hardly bring himself to be civil when his Grace visited my lady. Whether
justly or not, he inwardly blamed Tracy for all Lavinia's crazy whims
and periodical fits of ill-temper. It did not take his astute Grace long
to discover this, and with amused devilry he played upon it, encouraging
Lavinia in her extravagance, and making a point of calling on her
whenever he was in town.

Carstares never knew when not to expect to find him there; he came and
went to and from London with no warning whatsoever. No one ever knew
where he was for more than a day at a time, and no one was in the least
surprised if he happened to be seen in London when he should, according
to all accounts, have been in Paris. They merely shrugged their
shoulders, and exchanged glances, murmuring: "Devil Belmanoir!" and
wondering what fresh intrigue he was in.

So altogether Richard was not sorry when my lady grew suddenly sick of
town and was seized with a longing for Bath. He had secretly hoped that
she might return to Wyncham, but when she expressed no such wish, he
stifled his own longing for home, shut up the London house, and took her
and all her baggage to Bath, installing her in Queen Square in one of
the most elegantly furnished houses in the place.

Lady Lavinia was at first charmed to be there again; delighted with the
house, and transported over the excellencies of the new French milliner
she had discovered.

But the milliner's bills proved monstrous, and the drawing-room of her
house not large enough for the routs she contemplated giving. The air
was too relaxing for her, and she was subject to constant attacks of the
vapours that were as distressing to her household as they were to
herself. The late hours made her head ache as it never ached in London,
and the damp gave her a cold. Furthermore, the advent of an attractive
and exceedingly wealthy little widow caused her many a bitter hour, to
the considerable detriment of her good-temper.

She was lying on a couch in her white and gilt drawing room one
afternoon--alas! the craze for French furniture was o'er-smelling-bottle
in hand and a _bona fide_ ache in her head, when the door opened and
Tracy walked into the room.

"Good heavens!" she said faintly, and uncorked her salts.

It was his Grace's first appearance since she had come to Bath, and the
fact that he had politely declined an invitation that she had sent to
him still rankled in her mind. He bowed over the limp hand that she
extended, and looked her up and down.

"I regret to find you thus indisposed, my dear sister," he said
smoothly.

"'Tis nought. Only one of my stupid headaches. I am never well here, and
this house is stuffy," she answered fretfully.

"You should take the waters," he said, scrutinising, through his
eyeglass, the chair to which she had waved him. "It has an unstable
appearance, my dear; I believe I prefer the couch." He moved to a
smaller sofa and sat down.

"Pray, how long have you been in Bath?" she demanded.

"I arrived last Tuesday week."

Lady Lavinia started up.

"Last Tuesday week? Then you have been here ten days and not visited me
until now!"

He appeared to be examining the whiteness of his hands through the folds
of black lace that drooped over them.

"I believe I had other things to do," he said coolly.

A book of sermons that she had been trying to peruse slid to the ground
as Lavinia jerked a cushion into place.

"And you come to me when it suits you? How could you be so unkind as to
refuse my invitation?"

There was a rising, querulous note in her voice which gave warning of
anger.

"My dear Lavinia, if you exhibit your deplorable temper to me, I shall
leave you, so have a care. I thought you would understand that your good
husband's society, improving though it may be, would be altogether too
oppressive for my taste. In fact, I was surprised at your letter."

"You might have come for my sake," she answered peevishly, sinking back
again. "I suppose you have been dancing attendance on the Molesly woman?
Lud! but I think you men have gone crazed."

Understanding came to his Grace, and he smiled provokingly.

"Is that what upsets you? I wondered."

"No, 'tis not!" she flashed. "And I do not see why you should think so!
For my part, I cannot see that she is even tolerable, and the way the
men rave about her is disgusting! Disgusting! But 'tis always the same
when a woman is unattached and wealthy. Well! Well! Why do you not say
something? Do you find her so lovely?"

"To tell the truth, my dear, I have barely set eyes on the lady. I have
been otherwise engaged, and I have done with all women, for the time,
save one."

"So I have heard you say before. Do you contemplate marriage? Lud! but I
pity the girl." She gave a jeering little laugh, but it was evident that
she was interested.

His Grace was not in the least degree ruffled.

"I do not contemplate marriage, Lavinia, so your sympathies are wasted.
I have met a girl--a mere child, for sure--and I will not rest until I
have her."

"Lord! Another farmer's chit?"

"No, my dear sister, not another farmer's chit. A lady."

"God help her! Who is she? Where does she live?"

"She lives in Sussex. Her name I shall not tell you."

Her ladyship kicked an offending cushion on to the floor, and snapped at
him.

"Oh, as you please! I shall not die of curiosity!"

"Ah!" The cynical lips curled annoyingly, and Lady Lavinia was seized
with a mad desire to hurl her smelling-bottle at him. But she knew that
it was worse than useless to be angry with Tracy, so she yawned
ostentatiously, and hoped that she irritated him. If she did, she got no
satisfaction from it, for he continued, quite imperturbably:

"She is the daintiest piece ever a man saw, and I'll swear there's blood
and fire beneath the ice!"

"Is it possible the girl will have none of your Grace?" wondered Lavinia
in mock amazement, and had the pleasure of seeing him frown.

The thin brows met over his arched nose, and the eyes glinted a little,
while she caught a glimpse of cruel white teeth closing on a sensual
under-lip. She watched his hand clench on his snuff-box, and exulted
silently at having roused him. It was a very brief joy, however, for the
next moment the frown had disappeared, the hand unclenched, and he was
smiling again.

"At present she is cold," he admitted, "but I hope that in time she will
become more plastic. I think, Lavinia, I have some experience with your
charming, if capricious sex."

"I don't doubt you have. Where did you meet this perverse beauty?"

"In the Pump Room."

"Lud! Pray, describe her."

"I shall be delighted. She is taller than yourself, and dark. Her hair
is like a dusky cloud of black, and it ripples off her brow and over her
little ears in a most damnably alluring fashion. Her eyes are brown, but
there are lights in them that are purest amber, and yet they are dark
and velvety--"

My lady had recourse to the smelling-bottle.

"But I perceive I weary you. A man in love, my dear Lavinia--"

She was up again at that.

"In love? You? Nonsense! Nonsense! Nonsense! You do not know what the
word means. You are like a--like a fish, with no more of love in you
than a fish, and no more heart than a fish, and--"

"Spare me the rest, I beg. I am very clammy, I make no doubt, but you
will at least accord me more brain than a fish?"

"Oh, you have brain enough!" she raged. "Brain for evil! I grant you
that!"

"It is really very kind of you--"

"The passion you feel now is not _love_. It is--it is--"

"Your pardon, my dear, but at the present moment I am singularly devoid
of all strenuous emotions, so your remark is--"

"Oh, Tracy, Tracy, I am even quarrelling with you!" she cried
wretchedly. "Oh, why?--why?"

"You are entirely mistaken, my dear. This is but the interchange of
compliments. Pray, do not let me hinder you in the contribution of your
share!"

Her lip trembled.

"Go on, Tracy, go on."

"Very well. I had described her eyes, I think?"

"Very tediously."

"I will strive to be brief. Her lips are the most kissable that I have
ever seen--"

"And, as you remarked, you have experience," she murmured. He bowed
ironically.

"Altogether she's as spirited a filly as you could wish for. All she
needs is bringing to heel."

"Does one bring a filly to heel? I rather thought--"

"As usual, my dear Lavinia, you are right: one does not. One breaks in a
filly. I beg leave to thank you for correcting my mixed metaphor."

"Oh, pray do not mention it."

"I will cease to do so. She needs breaking in. It should be amusing to
tame her."

"Should it?" She looked curiously at him.

"Vastly. And I am persuaded it can be done. I will have her."

"But what if she'll none of you?"

Suddenly the heavy lids were raised.

"She will have no choice."

Lady Lavinia shivered and sat up.

"La, Tracy! Will you have no sense of decency?" she cried. "I suppose,"
she sneered, "you think to kidnap the girl?"

"Exactly," he nodded.

She gasped at the effrontery of it.

"Heavens, are you mad? Kidnap a lady! This is no peasant girl, remember.
Tracy, Tracy, pray do not be foolish! How _can_ you kidnap her?"

"That, my dear, is a point which I have not yet decided. But I do not
anticipate much trouble."

"But goodness gracious me! has the child no protectors? No brothers? No
father?"

"There is a father," said Tracy slowly. "He was here at the beginning of
their stay. He does not signify, and, which is important, he is of those
that truckle. Were _I_ to make myself known to him, I believe I might
marry the girl within an hour. But I do not want that. At least--not
yet."

"Good God, Tracy! do you think you are living in the Dark Ages? One
cannot do these things now, I tell you! Will you not at least remember
that you represent our house? 'Twill be a pretty thing an there is a
scandal!" She broke off hopelessly and watched him flick a remnant of
snuff from his cravat.

"Oh, Tracy! 'Tis indeed a dangerous game you play. Pray consider!"

"Really, Lavinia, you are most entertaining. I trust I am capable of
caring for myself and mine own honour."

"Oh, don't sneer--don't sneer!" she cried. "Sometimes I think I quite
hate you!"

"You would be the more amusing, my dear."

She swept the back of her hand across her eyes in a characteristic
movement.

"How cross I am!" she said, and laughed waveringly. "You must bear with
me, Tracy. Indeed, I am not well."

"You should take the waters," he repeated.

"Oh, I do!--I do! And that reminds me that I must look for your beauty."

"She is not like to be there," he answered. "'Tis only very seldom that
she appears."

"What! Is she then _religieuse_?"

"_Religieuse_! Why, in heaven's name?"

"But not to walk in the Rooms--!"

"She is staying here with her aunt, who has been ill. They do not mix
much in society."

"How very dreadful! Yet she used to walk in the Rooms, for you met her
there?"

"Yes," he admitted coolly. "'Tis for that reason that she now avoids
them."

"Oh, Tracy, the poor child!" exclaimed his sister in a sudden fit of
pity. "How can you persecute her, if she dislikes you?"

"She does not."

"Not! Then--"

"Rather, she fears me. But she is intrigued, for all that. I persecute
her, as you call it, for her own (and my) ultimate good. But they quit
Bath in a few days, and then, _nous verrons_!" He rose. "What of Honest
Dick?"

"Don't call him by that odious name! I will not have it!"

"Odious, my dear? Odious? You would have reason an I called him
_Dis_honest Dick."

"Don't! Don't!" she cried, covering her ears. His Grace laughed softly.

"Oh, Lavinia, you must get the better of these megrims of yours, for
there is nought that sickens a man sooner, believe me."

"Oh, go away!--go away!" she implored. "You tease me and tease me until
I cannot bear it, and indeed I do not _mean_ to be shrewish! Please go!"

"I am on the point of doing so, my dear. I trust you will have in a
measure recovered when next I see you. Pray bear my respects to Hon--to
the Honourable Richard."

She stretched out her hand.

"Come again soon!" she begged. "I shall be better to-morrow! 'Tis only
to-day that my head aches till I could shriek with the worry and the
pain of it! Come again!"

"Unfortunately I anticipate leaving Bath within a day or two. But
nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to comply with your
wishes." He kissed her hand punctiliously, and took his leave. At the
door he paused, and looked back mockingly. "By the way--her name
is--Diana." He bowed again and swept out, as Lavinia buried her face in
the cushions and burst into tears.

It was thus that Richard found her, twenty minutes later, and his
concern was so great that it in part restored her spirits, and she spent
a quiet and, for him, blissful evening, playing at piquet.

In the middle of a game she suddenly flung down her hand and caught at
his wrist.

"Dicky, Dicky--I will go home!"

"Go home? What do you mean? Not--"

"Yes, yes--Wyncham! Why not?"

"My dear, do you mean it?" His voice quivered with joyful surprise, and
the cards slipped from his hands.

"Yes, I mean it! But take me quickly before I change my mind! I can
sleep at Wyncham, and here I lie awake all night, and my head aches.
Take me home and I will try to be a better wife! Oh, Dicky, have I been
tiresome and exacting? I did not mean to be! Why do you let me?" She
came quickly round the table and knelt at his side, giving no heed to
the crumpling of her billowing silks. "I have been a wicked, selfish
woman!" she said vehemently. "But indeed I will be better. You must not
_let_ me be bad--you _must_ not, I tell you!"

He flung his arm about her plump shoulders and drew her tightly to him.

"When I get you home at Wyncham, I promise you I will finely hector you,
sweetheart," he said, laughing to conceal his deeper feelings. "I shall
make you into a capital housewife!"

"And I will learn to make butter," she nodded. "Then I must wear a
dimity gown with a muslin apron and cap. Oh, yes, yes-a dimity gown!"
She sprang up and danced to the middle of the room. "Shall I not be
charming, Richard?"

"Very charming, Lavinia!"

"Of course! Oh, we will go home at once--at once! But first I must
procure some new gowns from Marguerite!"

"To make butter in, dear?" he protested.

She was not attending.

"A dimity gown--or shall it be of tiffany with a quilted petticoat? Or
both?" she chanted. "Dicky, I shall set a fashion in country toilettes!"

Dicky sighed.




CHAPTER VII

INTRODUCING SUNDRY NEW CHARACTERS


Not twenty minutes' walk from Lady Lavinia's house in Queen Square
resided a certain Madam Thompson--a widow--who had lived in Bath for
nearly fifteen years. With her was staying Miss Elizabeth Beauleigh and
her niece, Diana. Madam Thompson had been at a seminary with Miss
Elizabeth when both were girls, and they had ever afterwards kept up
their friendship, occasionally visiting one another, but more often
contenting themselves with the writing of lengthy epistles, full of
unimportant scraps of news and much gossip, amusing only on Miss
Elizabeth's side, and on the widow's uninteresting and rambling.

It was a great joy to Madam Thompson when she received a letter from
Miss Beauleigh begging that she and her niece might be allowed to pay a
visit to her house in Bath, and to stay at least three weeks. The good
lady was delighted at having her standing invitation at last accepted,
and straightway wrote back a glad assent. She prepared her very best
bedchamber for Miss Beauleigh, who, she understood, was coming to Bath
principally for a change of air and scene after a long and rather trying
illness.

In due course the two ladies arrived, the elder very small and thin, and
birdlike in her movements; the younger moderately tall, and graceful as
a willow tree, with great candid brown eyes that looked fearlessly out
on to the world, and a tragic mouth that belied a usually cheerful
disposition, and hinted at a tendency to look on the gloomy side of
life.

Madam Thompson, whose first meeting with Diana this was, remarked on the
sad mouth to Miss Elizabeth, or Betty as she was more often called, as
they sat over the fire on the first night, Diana herself having retired
to her room.

Miss Betty shook her head darkly and prophesied that her precious Di
would one day love some man as no man in _her_ opinion deserved to be
loved!

"And she'll have love badly," she said, clicking her knitting-needles
energetically. "_I_ know these temperamental children!"

"She looks so melancholy," ventured the widow.

"Well there you are wrong!" replied Miss Betty. "'Tis the
sunniest-tempered child, and the sweetest-natured in the whole wide
world, bless her! But I don't deny that she can be miserable. Far from
it. Why, I've known her weep her pretty eyes out over a dead puppy even!
But usually she is gay enough."

"I fear this house will be dull and stupid for her," said Madam Thompson
regretfully. "If only my dear son George were at home to entertain
her--"

"My love, pray do not put yourself out! I assure you Diana will not at
all object to a little quiet after the life she has been leading in town
this winter with her friend's family."

Whatever Diana thought of the quiet, she at least made no complaint, and
adapted herself to her surroundings quite contentedly.

In the morning they would all walk as far as the Assembly Rooms, and
Miss Betty would drink the waters in the old Pump Room, pacing sedately
up and down with her friend on one side and her niece on the other.
Madam Thompson had very few acquaintances in Bath, and the people she
did know were all of her own age and habits, rarely venturing as far as
the crowded fashionable quarter; so Diana had to be content with the
society of the two old ladies, who gossiped happily enough together, but
whose conversation she could not but find singularly uninteresting.

She watched the _monde_ with concealed wistfulness, seeing Beau Nash
strut about among the ladies, bowing with his extreme gallantry, always
impeccably garbed, and in spite of his rapidly increasing age and bulk
still absolute monarch of Bath. She saw fine painted madams in enormous
hoops, and with their hair so extravagantly curled and powdered that it
appeared quite grotesque, mincing along with their various cavaliers;
elderly beaux with coats padded to hid their shrunken shoulders, and
paint to fill the wrinkles on their faces; young rakes; stout dowagers
with their demure daughters; old ladies who had come to Bath for their
health's sake; titled folk of fashion, and plain gentry from the
country--all parading before her eyes.

One or two young bucks tried to ogle her, and received such indignant
glances from those clear eyes, that they never dared annoy her again,
but for the most part no one paid any heed to the unknown and plainly
clad girl.

Then came his Grace of Andover upon the stage.

He drew Diana's attention from the first moment that he entered the Pump
Room--a black moth amongst the gaily-hued butterflies. He had swept a
comprehensive glance round the scene and at once perceived Diana.
Somehow, exactly how she could never afterwards remember, he had
introduced himself to her aunt and won that lady's good will by his
smoothness of manner and polished air. Madam Thompson, who, left to
herself, never visited the Assembly Rooms, could not be expected to
recognise Devil Belmanoir in the simple Mr. Everard who presented
himself.

As he had told his sister, Diana was cold. There was something about his
Grace that repelled her, even while his mesmeric personality fascinated.
He was right when he said that she feared him; she was nervous, and the
element of fear gave birth to curiosity. She was intrigued, and began to
look forward to his daily appearance in the Pump Room with mingled
excitement and apprehension. She liked his flattering attention, and his
grand air. Often she would watch him stroll across the floor, bowing to
right and left with that touch of insolence that characterised him, and
rejoiced in the knowledge that he was coming straight to her, and that
the painted beauties who so palpably ogled and invited him to their
sides could not alter his course. She felt her power with a thrill of
delight, and smiled upon Mr. Everard, giving him her hand to kiss, and
graciously permitting him to sit with her beside her aunt. He would
point out all the celebrities of town and Bath for her edification,
recalling carefully chosen and still more carefully censured anecdotes
of each one. She discovered that Mr. Everard was an entertaining and
harmless enough companion, and even expanded a little, allowing him a
glimpse of her whimsical nature with its laughter and its hint of tears.

His Grace of Andover saw enough to guess at the unsounded depths in her
soul, and he became lover-like. Diana recoiled instinctively, throwing
up a barrier of reserve between them. It was not what he said that
alarmed her, but it was the way in which he said it, and the vague
something in the purring, faintly sinister voice that she could not
quite define, that made her heart beat unpleasantly fast, and the blood
rush to her temples. She began first to dread the morning promenade,
and then to avoid it. One day she had a headache; the next her foot was
sore; another time she wanted to work at her fancy stitchery, until her
aunt, who knew how she disliked her needle, and how singularly free from
headaches and all petty ailments she was wont to be, openly taxed her
with no longer wishing to walk abroad.

They were in the girl's bedroom at the time, Diana seated before her
dressing-table, brushing out her hair for the night. When her aunt put
the abrupt question she hesitated, caught a long strand in her comb, and
pretended to be absorbed in its disentanglement. The clouds of rippling
hair half hid her face, but Miss Betty observed how her fingers
trembled, and repeated her question. Then came the confession. Mr.
Everard was unbearable; his attentions were odious; his continued
presence revolting to Mistress Di. She was afraid of him, afraid of his
dreadful green eyes and of his soft voice. She wished they had never
come to Bath, and still more that they had not met him. He looked at her
as if--as if--oh, in short, he was hateful!

Miss Betty was horrified.

"You cannot mean it! Dear, dear, dear! Here was I thinking what a
pleasant gentleman he was, and all the time he was persecuting my poor
Di, the wretch! _I_ know the type, my love, and I feel inclined to give
him a good piece of my mind!"

"Oh, no--no!" implored Diana. "Indeed, you must do no such thing,
Auntie! He has said nought that I could possibly be offended at--'tis
but his _manner_, and the--and the way he looked at me. Indeed, indeed,
you must not!"

"Tut, child! Of course I shall say nought. But it makes me so monstrous
angry to think of my poor lamb being tormented by such as he that I
declare I could tear his eyes out! Yes, my dear, I could! Thank goodness
we are leaving Bath next week!"

"Yes," sighed Diana. "I cannot help being glad, though Madam Thompson is
very amiable! 'Tis so very different when there is no man with one!"

"You are quite right, my love. We should have insisted on your father's
staying with us instead of allowing him to fly back to his fusty, musty
old volumes. I shall not be so foolish another time, I can assure you.
But we need not go to the Assembly Rooms again."

"I need not go," corrected Diana gently. "Of course you and Madam
Thompson will continue to."

"To tell the truth, my love," confessed Miss Betty, "I shall not be
sorry for an excuse to stay away. 'Tis doubtless most ill-natured of me,
but I cannot but think that Hester has altered sadly since last I saw
her. She is always talking of sermons and good works!"

Diana twisted her luxuriant hair into a long plait, and gave a gurgling
little laugh.

"Oh, Auntie, is it not depressing? I wondered how you could tolerate it!
She is so vastly solemn, poor dear thing!"

"Well," said Miss Betty charitably, "she has seen trouble, has Hester
Thompson, and I have my doubts about this George of hers. A worthless
young man, I fear, from all accounts. But, unkind though it may be, I
shall be glad to find myself at home again, and that's the truth!" She
rose and picked up her candle. "In fact, I find Bath not half so amusing
as I was told 'twould be."

Diana walked with her to the door.

"'Tis not amusing at all when one has no friends; but last year, when my
cousins were with us and papa took a house for the season on the North
Parade, 'twas most enjoyable. I wish you had been there, instead of with
that disagreeable Aunt Jennifer!"

She kissed her relative most affectionately and lighted her across the
landing to her room. Then she returned to her room and shut the door,
giving a tired little yawn.

It was at about that moment that his Grace of Andover was ushered into
the already crowded card-room of my Lord Avon's house in Catharine
Place, and was greeted with ribald cries of "Oho, Belmanoir!", and
"Where's the lady, Devil?"

He walked coolly forward into the full light of a great pendant
chandelier, standing directly beneath it, the diamond order on his
breast burning and winking like a living thing. The diamonds in his
cravat and on his fingers glittered every time he moved, until he seemed
to be carelessly powdered with iridescent gems. As usual, he was clad in
black, but it would have been difficult to find any other dress in the
room more sumptuous or more magnificent than his sable satin with its
heavy silver lacing, and shimmering waistcoat. Silver lace adorned his
throat and fell in deep ruffles over his hands, and in defiance of
Fashion, which decreed that black alone should be worn to tie the hair,
he displayed long silver ribands, very striking against his unpowdered
head.

He raised his quizzing glass and looked round the room with an air of
surprised hauteur. Lord Avon, leaning back in his chair at one of the
tables, shook a reproving finger at him.

"Belmanoir, Belmanoir, we have seen her and we protest she is too
charming for you!"

"In truth, we think we should be allowed a share in the lady'th
thmileth," lisped one from behind him, and his Grace turned to face
dainty, effeminate little Viscount Fotheringham, who stood at his elbow,
resplendent in salmon-pink satin and primrose velvet, with skirts so
full and stiffly whaleboned that they stood out from his person, and
heels so high that instead of walking he could only mince.

Tracy made a low leg.

"Surely shall you have a share in her smiles an she wills it so," he
purred, and a general laugh went up which caused the fop to flush to the
ears, as he speedily effaced himself.

He had been one of those who had tried to accost Diana, and
gossip-loving Will Stapely, with him at the time, had related the story
of his discomfiture to at least half-a-dozen men, who immediately told
it to others, vastly amused at the pertinacious Viscount's rebuff.

"What was it Selwyn said?" drawled Sir Gregory Markham, shuffling cards
at Lord Avon's table.

Davenant looked across at him inquiringly.

"George? Of Belmanoir? When?"

"Oh, at White's one night--I forget--Jack Cholmondely was there--he
would know; and Horry Walpole. 'Twas of Devil and his light o'
loves--quite apt, on the whole."

Cholmondely looked up.

"Did I hear my name?"

"Ay. What was it George said of Belmanoir at White's the night Gilly
made that absurd bet with Ffolliott?"

"When Gilly--oh, yes, I remember. 'Twas but an old hexameter tag,
playing on his name: '_Est bellum bellis bellum bellare puellis_.' He
seemed to think it a fitting motto for a ducal house."

There was another general laugh at this. Markham broke in on it:

"Who is she, Tracy?"

His Grace turned.

"Who is who?" he asked languidly.

Lord Avon burst out laughing.

"Oh, come now, Belmanoir, that won't do! It really will not! Who is she,
indeed!"

"Ay, Belmanoir, who is the black-haired beauty, and where did you find
her?" cried Tom Wilding, pressing forward with a glass in one hand and a
bottle of port in the other. "I thought you were captivated by Cynthia
Evans?"

Tracy looked bewildered for the moment, and then a light dawned on him.

"Evans! Ah, yes! The saucy widow who lived in Kensington, was it not? I
remember."

"He had forgotten!" cried Avon, and went off into another of the noisy
laughs that had more than once caused Mr. Nash to shudder and to close
his august eyes. "You'll be the death of me, Devil! Gad! but you will!"

"Oh, I trust not. Thank you, Wilding." He accepted the glass that Tom
offered, and sipped delicately.

"But you've not answered!" reminded Fortescue from another table. He
dealt the cards round expertly. "Is it hands off, perhaps?"

"Certainly," replied his Grace. "It generally is, Frank, as you know."

"To my cost!" was the laughing rejoinder, and Fortescue rubbed his sword
arm as if in memory of some hurt. "You pinked me finely, Tracy!"

"Clumsily, Frank, clumsily. It might have been quicker done."

The Viscount, who had been a second at the meeting, tittered amiably.

"Neatetht thing I ever thaw, 'pon my honour. All over in leth than a
minute, Avon! Give you my word!"

"Never knew you had fought Devil, Frank? What possessed you?"

"I was more mad than usual, I suppose," replied Fortescue in his low,
rather dreamy voice, "and I interfered between Tracy and his French
singer. He objected most politely, and we fought it out in Hyde Park."

"Gad, yes!" exclaimed his partner, Lord Falmouth. "Why, I was Devil's
second! But it was ages ago!"

"Two years," nodded Fortescue, "but I have not forgotten, you see!"

"Lord, I had! And 'twas the funniest fight I ever saw, with you as
furious as could be and Devil cool as a cucumber. You were never much of
a swordsman, Frank, but that morning you thrust so wildly that stap me
if I didn't think Devil would run you through. 'Stead of that he pinks
you neatly through the sword-arm, and damme if you didn't burst out
laughing fit to split! And then we all walked off to breakfast with you,
Frank, as jolly as sandboys. Heavens, yes. That was a fight!"

"It was amusing," admitted Tracy at Fortescue's elbow. "Don't play,
Frank."

Fortescue flung his cards face downwards on the table. "Curse you,
Tracy, you've brought bad luck!" he said entirely without rancour. "I
had quite tolerable hands before you came."

"Belmanoir, I will thtake my chestnut mare 'gaintht your new grey,"
lisped the Viscount, coming up to the table, dice-box in hand.

"Stap me, but that is too bad!" cried Wilding. "Don't take him, Devil!
Have you seen the brute?"

The four players had finished their card-playing and were quite ready
for the dice.

"Trust in your luck, Belmanoir, and take him!" advised Pritchard, who
loved hazarding other men's possessions, but kept a tight hold on his
own.

"Ay, take him!" echoed Falmouth.

"Don't," said Fortescue.

"Of course I shall take him," answered his Grace tranquilly. "My grey
against your chestnut and the best of three. Will you throw?"

The Viscount rattled his box with a flourish. Two threes and a one
turned up.

With a hand on Fortescue's shoulder, and one foot on the rung of his
chair, Tracy leaned forward and cast his own dice on to the table. He
had beaten the Viscount's throw by five. The next toss Fotheringham won,
but the last fell to his Grace.

"Damnathion!" said the Viscount cheerfully. "Will you thtake your grey
againtht my Terror?"

"Thunder and turf, Fotheringham! You'll lose him!" cried Nettlefold
warningly. "Don't stake the Terror!"

"Nonthenth! Do you take me, Belmanoir?"

"Certainly," said the Duke, and threw.

"Oh, an you are in a gaming mood, I will play you for the right to try
my hand with the dark beauty!" called Markham across the room.

"Against what?" asked Fortescue.

"Oh, what he wills!"

The Viscount had cast and lost, and his Grace won the second throw.

"It appears my luck is in," he remarked. "I will stake my beauty against
your estates, Markham."

Sir Gregory shook his head, laughing.

"No, no! Keep the lady!"

"I intend to, my dear fellow. She is not your style. I begin to wonder
whether she altogether suits my palate." He drew out his snuff-box and
offered it to his host, and the other men finding that he was proof
against their railing, allowed the subject to drop.

In the course of the evening his Grace won three thousand guineas--two
at ombre and one at dice--lost his coveted grey hunter and won him back
again from Wilding, to whom he had fallen. He came away at three o'clock
in company with Fortescue, both perfectly cool-headed, although his
Grace, for his part, had imbibed a considerable quantity of burgundy,
and more punch than any ordinary man could take without afterwards
feeling very much the worse for wear.

As my Lord Avon's door closed behind them, Tracy turned to his friend:

"Shall we walk, Frank?"

"Since our ways lie together, yes," replied Fortescue, linking his arm
in the Duke's. "Down Brock Street and across the Circus is our quickest
way."

They strolled down the road for a few moments in silence, passing a
linkman on the way. Fortescue bade him a cheery good-night, which was
answered in a very beery voice, but the Duke said nothing. Frank looked
into his dark-browed face thoughtfully.

"You've had the luck, to-night, Tracy."

"Moderately. I hoped entirely to repair last week's losses."

"You are in debt, I suppose?"

"I believe so."

"To what extent, Tracy?"

"My dear fellow, I neither have, nor wish to have, the vaguest notion.
Pray do not treat me to a sermon!"

"I shall not. I've said all I have to say on the subject."

"Many times."

"Yes--many times. And it has had no more effect upon you than if I had
not spoken."

"Less."

"I daresay. I wish it were not so, for there's good in you somewhere,
Tracy."

"By what strange process of reasoning do you arrive at that?"

"Well," said Fortescue laughing, "there's nearly always some good in the
very worst of men. I count on that--and your kindness to me."

"I should be interested to know when I have been kind to you--beyond the
time when I was compelled to teach you to leave me and my affairs
alone."

"I was not referring to that occasion," was the dry answer. "I had not
seen your act in that light. I meant well over the episode."

"You could not damn yourself more effectually than by saying that," said
his Grace calmly. "But we wander from the point. When have I done you an
act of kindness?"

"You know very well. When you extricated me from that cursed
sponging-house."

"I remember now. Yes, that _was_ good of me. I wonder why I did it?"

"'Tis what I want to know."

"I suppose I must have had some sort of an affection for you. I would
certainly never have done such a thing for anyone else."

"Not even for your own brother!" said Frank sharply.

They had crossed the Circus and were walking down Gay Street now.

"Least of all for them," came the placid response. "You are thinking of
Andrew's tragic act? Most entertaining, was it not?"

"You evidently found it so."

"I did. I wanted to prolong the sensation, but my esteemed
brother-in-law came to the young fool's rescue."

"Would you have assisted him?"

"In the end I fear I should have had to."

"I believe there must be a kink in your brain!" cried Fortescue. "I
cannot else account for your extraordinary conduct!"

"We Belmanoirs are all half-mad," replied Tracy sweetly, "but I think
that in my case it is merely concentrated evil."

"I will not believe it! You have shown that you can behave differently!
You do not try to strip me of all I possess--why all those unfortunate
youths you play with?"

"You see, you possess so little," the Duke excused himself.

"Neither do you sneer at me in your loathsome fashion. Why?"

"Because I have hardly ever any desire to. I like you."

"Tare an' ouns! you must like someone else in the world besides me?"

"I can think of no one. And I do not exactly worship the ground _you_
tread on. The contemplation of my brothers appals me. I have loved
various women, and shall no doubt love many more--"

"No, Tracy," interposed Fortescue, "you have never loved a woman in your
life. 'Tis that that might save you. I do not allude to the lustful
passion you indulge in, but real love. For God's sake Belmanoir, live
clean!"

"Pray do not distress yourself, Frank. I am not worth it."

"I choose to think that you are. I cannot but feel that if you had been
loved as a boy--Your mother--"

"Did you ever see my mother?" inquired his Grace lazily.

"No--but--"

"Have you ever seen my sister?"

"Er--yes--"

"In a rage?"

"Really, I--"

"Because, if you have, you have seen my mother. Only she was ten times
more violent. In fact, we were a pleasant party when we were all at
home."

"I understand."

"Good Gad! I believe you are sorry for me?" cried Tracy scornfully.

"I am. Is it a presumption on my part?"

"My dear Frank, when I am sorry for myself you may be sorry too. Until
then--"

"When that day comes I shall no longer pity you."

"Very deep, Frank! You think I shall be on the road to recovery? A
pretty conceit. Luckily, the happy moment has not yet come--and I do not
think it is like to. We appear to have arrived."

They were standing outside one of the tall houses where Fortescue
lodged. He turned and grasped his friend's shoulders.

"Tracy, give up this mad life you lead! Give up the women and the drink,
and the excessive gaming; for one day, believe me, you will overstep
yourself and be ruined!"

The Duke disengaged himself.

"I very much object to being man-handled in the street," he complained.
"I suppose you still _mean_ well. You should strive to conquer the
tendency."

"I wonder if you know how insolent is your tone, Belmanoir?" asked
Fortescue steadily.

"Naturally. I should not have attained such perfection in the art else.
But pray accept my thanks for your good advice. You will forgive me an I
do not avail myself of it, I am sure. I prefer the crooked path."

"Evidently," sighed the other. "If you will not try the straight and
narrow way, I can only hope that you will fall very deeply and very
honestly in love; and that the lady will save you from yourself."

"I will inform you of it when it comes to pass," promised his Grace.
"And now: good-night!"

"Good-night!" Frank returned the low bow with a curt nod. "I shall see
you to-morrow--that is, this morning--at the Baths?"

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," was the smiling
rejoinder. "Sleep soundly, Frank!" He waved an ironic farewell and
crossed the road to his own lodgings, which stood almost directly
opposite.

"And I suppose _you_ will sleep as soundly as if you had not a stain on
your conscience--and had not tried your uttermost to alienate the regard
of the only friend you possess," remarked Frank bitterly to the
darkness. "Damn you, Tracy, for the villain you are!" He walked up the
steps to his own front door and turned the key in the lock. He looked
over his shoulder as a door slammed across the street. "Poor Devil!" he
said. "Oh, you poor Devil!"




CHAPTER VIII

THE BITER BIT


With John Carstares the winter had passed quite uneventfully. He
continued his highway robbery, but he made two bad blunders--not from
the point of view of a thief, but from that of the gentleman in him. The
first was when he stopped an opulent-looking chariot, which he found to
contain two ladies, their maid and their jewels, and the second when the
occupant of a large travelling coach chanced to be an old gentleman who
possessed far greater courage than physical strength. On the first
occasion my lord's dismay had been ludicrous, and he had hastily retired
after tendering a naive apology. The old gentleman in the second episode
had defied him so gallantly that he had impulsively offered him the butt
end of one of his pistols. The old man was so surprised that he allowed
the weapon to fall to the ground, where it exploded quite harmlessly,
sending up a cloud of dust and smoke. Carstares then begged his pardon
most humbly, assisted him back into his coach, and rode off before the
astonished Mr. Dunbar had time to collect his wits.

The robbing was not carried out in a very scientific manner, for, as has
been seen, Carstares could not bring himself to terrorise women or old
men, and there only remained the young and the middle-aged gentlemen,
one of whom Jack offered to fight for the possession of his jewels. His
challenge was promptly accepted by the man, who happened to possess a
strong sense of humour, and probably saw a chance of saving his
belongings in the offer. He had been speedily worsted, but Carstares was
so pleased with a particularly neat thrust which he had executed, that
he forwent half the booty, and the pair of them divided the contents of
the jewel-box by the roadside, the sporting gentleman keeping his most
valued belongings and giving Jack the surplus. They parted on the very
best of terms, and all Carstares got out of the episode was a little
sword practice and a few trinkets.

When day came he was patrolling the west side of Sussex, beyond
Midhurst, not because he thought it a profitable part, but because he
knew and loved the country. One late afternoon towards the end of the
month he rode gaily into one of the small villages that nestle amongst
the Downs, and made his way down the quaint main street to the George
Inn, where he drew rein and dismounted. At his call an aged ostler
hobbled out of a side door, chewing an inevitable straw, and after
eyeing the newcomer and his steed for an appreciable length of time,
evidently decided that they were worthy of his attention, for he came
forward, remarking that it had been a pleasant day.

Carstares agreed with him, and volunteered the information that it would
be another fine day to-morrow, if the sunset were to be trusted. To this
the ostler replied that he, for one, never trusted to no red sunsets,
and added darkly that there warn't nothing so deceitful to his manner o'
thinking. He'd known it be such a red sunset as never was, and yet be
a-pouring with rain all next day.... Should he take the mare?

Carstares shook his head.

"No, I thank you. I remain here but a few moments. I doubt she's thirsty
though--eh, Jenny?"

"Water, sir?"

"For her, yes. For myself I fancy a tankard of your home-brewed ale.
Stand, Jenny!" He turned away and walked up the steps to the inn door.

"Be you a-going to leave her there, sir--a-standing all by herself?"
inquired the man, surprised.

"Why, yes! She's docile enough."

"Well! Seems to me a risky thing to leave a hoss--and a skittish hoss at
that--a-standing loose in the road. Ye won't be tying her to a post,
master?"

Carstares leaned his arms on the balustrade and looked down at them.

"I will not. She'd be very hurt at such treatment, wouldn't you, lass?"

Jenny tossed her head playfully, as if in agreement, and the ostler
scratched his head, looking from her to my lord:

"A'most seems as if she understands what you be a-saying to her, sir!"

"Of course she understands! Don't I tell you 'tis a clever little lady?
If I call her now she'll come up these steps to me, and not all the
ostlers in Christendom could stop her."

"Don't'ee go for to do it, sir!" urged the old man, backing. "She must
be uncommon fond o' ye?"

"She'd be a deal fonder of you if you'd fetch her a drink," hinted Jack
broadly.

"Ay, sir! I be a-going this werry instant!" And with many an anxious
glance over his shoulder at the perfectly quiet mare, he disappeared
through an open doorway into the yard.

When Carstares, tankard of ale in hand, emerged from the inn and sat
himself down on one of the benches that stood against the wall, the
mare was drinking thirstily from a bucket which the ancient one held for
her.

"'Tis a wunnerful fine mare, sir," he remarked at length, after a
careful inspection of her points.

Carstares nodded pleasantly, and surveyed Jenny through half-shut eyes.

"I think so every time I look at her," he said.

"I should think she could get a bit of a pace on her, sir? Mebbe ye've
tried her racing?"

"No, she wasn't brought up to that. But she's fast enough."

"Ay, sir. No vices?"

"Lord, no!"

"Don't kick neither?"

"Not with me."

"Ah! they allus knows who'll stand it and who won't."

Jack drained his tankard, and setting it down on the bench beside him,
rose to his feet.

"She'd not dream of kicking a friend. Jenny!"

The ostler watched her pick her way towards her master, coquetting with
her head, and sidling round him in the most playful manner possible. A
slow smile dawned on the man's face.

"Ah, it be a purty sight to watch her--so it be!" he said, and received
a guinea from Jack, who never tired of listening to praise of his
beloved Jenny.

Carstares remounted, nodded farewell to the ostler and rode leisurely on
down the street, soon branching off to the right into a typical Sussex
lane, where he trotted between uneven hedges, sweet with blossom and
with May, and placid fields rolling away on either side, upwards until
they merged into the undulating hills, barely discernible in the gloom,
that are the downs. It was a wonderfully calm evening, with only a
gentle west wind blowing, and the moon already shining faintly in the
dark sky. There was nothing beyond the sound of the mare's hoofs to
break the beautiful stillness of it all.

He rode for some way without meeting a soul, and when at the end of an
hour someone did chance along the road it was only a labourer returning
home to his supper after a long day in the fields. John bade him a
cheery good evening and watched him pass on down the road humming.

After that he met no one. He rode easily along for miles, into the
fast-gathering darkness. He was frowning as he rode, thinking.

Curiously enough, it was on his penniless days in France that his mind
dwelt this evening. He had resolutely thrust that dark time behind him,
determined to forget it, but there were still days when, try as he
might, he could not prevent his thoughts flying back to it.

With clenched teeth he recalled the days when he, the son of an Earl,
had taught fencing in Paris for a living.... Suddenly he laughed
harshly, and at the unusual sound the mare pricked up her ears and
sidled uneasily across the road. For once no notice was taken of her,
and she quickened her pace with a flighty toss of her head....

He thought how he, the extravagant John, had pinched and scraped and
saved rather than go under; how he had lived in one of the poorer
_quartiers_ of the city, alone, without friends--nameless.

Then, cynically now, he reviewed the time when he had taken to drinking,
heavily and systematically, and had succeeded in pulling himself up at
the very brink of the pit he saw yawning before him.

Next the news of his mother's death.... John passed over that quickly.
Even now the thought of it had the power of rousing in him all the old
misery and impotent resentment.

His mind sped on to his Italian days. On his savings he had travelled to
Florence, and from there he went gradually south, picking up all the
latest arts and subtleties of fence on the way.

The change of scene and of people did much to restore his spirits. His
devil-may-care ways peeped out again; he started to gamble on the little
money he had left. For once Fortune proved kind; he doubled and trebled
and quadrupled the contents of his purse. Then it was that he met Jim
Salter, whom he engaged as his servant. This was the first friend since
he had left England. Together they travelled about Europe, John gambling
his way, Jim keeping a relentless hand on the exchequer. It was entirely
owing to his watchfulness and care that John was not ruined, for his
luck did not always hold good, and there were days when he lost with
distressing steadiness. But Jim guarded the winnings jealously, and
there was always something to fall back on.

At last the longing for England and English people grew so acute that
John made up his mind to return. But he found that things in England
were very different from what they had been abroad. Here he was made to
feel acutely that he was outcast. It was impossible to live in town
under an assumed name, as he would like to have done, for too many
people knew Jack Carstares, and would remember him. He saw that he must
either live secluded, or--and the idea of becoming a highwayman occurred
to him. A hermit's existence he knew to be totally unsuited to a man of
his temperament, but the free, adventurous spirit of the road appealed
to him. The finding of his mare--J. the Third, as he laughingly dubbed
her--decided the point; he forthwith took on himself the role of
quixotic highwayman, roaming his beloved South Country, happier than he
had been since he first left England; bit by bit regaining his youth and
spirits, which last, not all the trouble he had been through had
succeeded in extinguishing....

Clip-clap, clip-clop.... With a jerk he came back to earth and reined-in
his mare, the better to listen.

Along the road came the unmistakable sound of horses' hoofs, and the
scrunch-scrunch of swiftly-revolving wheels on the sandy surface.

By now the moon was right out, but owing to the fact that she was
playing at hide-and-seek in and out of the clouds, it was fairly dark.
Nevertheless, Jack fastened his mask over his face with quick, deft
fingers, and pulled his hat well over his eyes. His ears told him that
the vehicle, whatever it was, was coming towards him, so he drew into
the side of the road, and taking a pistol from its holster, sat waiting,
his eyes on the bend in the road.

Nearer and nearer came the horses, until the leader swung round the
corner. Carstares saw that it was an ordinary travelling chariot, and
levelled his pistol.

"Halt, or I fire!" He had to repeat the command before it was heard, and
to ride out from the shadow of the hedge.

The chariot drew up and the coachman leaned over the side to see who it
was bidding them to stop in so peremptory a manner.

"What d'ye want? Who are ye? Is there aught amiss?" he cried testily,
and found himself staring at a long-nosed pistol.

"Throw down your arms!"

"I ain't got none, blast ye!"

"On your honour?" Jack dismounted.

"Ay! Wish I had, and I'd see ye damned afore I'd throw 'em down!"

At this moment the door of the coach opened and a gentleman leapt
lightly down on to the road. He was big and loose-limbed as far as
Carstares could see, and carried himself with an easy grace.

My lord presented his pistol.

"Stand!" he ordered gruffly.

The moon peeped coyly out from behind a cloud and shed her light upon
the little group as if to see what all the fuss was about. The big man's
face was in the shadow, but Jack's pistol was not. Into its muzzle the
gentleman gazed, one hand deep in the pocket of his heavy cloak, the
other holding a small pistol.

"Me very dear friend," he said in a rich brogue, "perhaps ye are not
aware that that same pistol ye are pointing at me is unloaded? Don't
move; I have ye covered!"

Jack's arm fell to his side, and the pistol he held clattered to the
ground. But it was not surprise at Jim's defection that caused him that
violent start. It was something far more overwhelming. For the voice
that proceeded from the tall gentleman belonged to one whom, six years
ago, he had counted, next to Richard, his greatest friend on earth.

The man moved a little, and the moonlight shone full on his face,
clearly outlining the large nose and good-humoured mouth, and above, the
sleepy grey eyes. Miles! Miles O'Hara! For once Jack could find nothing
amusing in the situation. It was too inconceivably hideous that he
should meet his friend in this guise, and, further, be unable to reveal
himself. A great longing to tear off his mask and to grasp Miles' hand
assailed him. With an effort he choked it down and listened to what
O'Hara was saying:

"If ye will be so kind as to give me your word of honour ye'll not be
afther trying to escape, I should be greatly obliged. But I tell ye
first that if ye attempt to move, I shall shoot."

Jack made a hopeless gesture with his hand. He felt dazed. The whole
thing was ridiculous; how Miles would laugh afterwards. He went cold.
There would be no "afterwards".... Miles would never know.... He would
be given over to the authorities, and Miles would never know that he had
helped Jack Carstares to the scaffold.... Perhaps, too, he would not
mind so very much, now that he, Jack, was so disgraced. One could never
tell; even if he risked everything now, and told his true identity,
Miles might turn away from him in disgust; Miles, who could never stoop
to a dishonourable act. Carstares felt that he would bear anything
sooner than face this man's scorn....

"Never tell me 'tis a dumb man ye are, for I heard ye shout meself! Do
ye give me your word of honour, or must I have ye bound?"

Carstares pulled himself together and set his teeth as he faced the
inevitable. Escape was impossible; Miles would shoot, he felt sure, and
then his disguise would be torn away and his friend would see that Jack
Carstares was nothing but a common highwayman. Whatever happened, that
must not be, for the sake of the name and Richard. So he quietly held
out his hands.

"Ay, I give my word, but ye can bind me if ye choose." It was his
highwayman voice: raucous, and totally unlike his own.

But O'Hara's eyes were fixed on the slender white hands held out to him.
In his usual haphazard fashion, Jack had quite forgotten to grime his
hands. They were shapely and white, and carefully manicured.

Miles took either wrist in his large hands and turned them palm upwards
in the moonlight.

"Singularly white hands ye have, for one in your profession," he
drawled, and tightened his hold as Jack tried to draw them away. "No, ye
do not! Now be so good as to step within, me friend."

Jack held back an instant.

"My mare?" he asked, and O'Hara noted the anxiety in his voice.

"Ye need not be after worrying about her," he said. "George!" The
footman sprang forward.

"Yessir?"

"Ye see that mare? I want ye to ride her home. Can ye do it?"

"Yessir!"

"I doubt it," murmured Jack.

So did Jenny. She refused point blank to allow this stranger to mount
her. Her master had left her in one spot, and there she would stand
until he chose to bid her move. In vain did the groom coax and coerce.
She ran round him and seemed a transformed creature. She laid her ears
flat and gnashed at the bit, ready to lash out furiously at the first
opportunity.

Jack watched the man's futile struggles with the ghost of a smile about
his lips.

"Jenny!" he said quietly, and O'Hara looked round at him sharply,
frowning. Unconsciously, he had spoken naturally, and the voice was
faintly familiar.

Jenny twitched the bridle from the perspiring groom and minced up to the
prisoner.

"Would ye allow me to have a hand free--sir?" he asked. "Mebbe I can
manage her."

Without a word Miles released him, and he caught the bridle, murmuring
something unintelligible to the now quiet animal.

O'Hara watched the beautiful hand stroke her muzzle reassuringly, and
frowned again. No ordinary highwayman this.

"Mount her now, will 'ee?" Jack flung at the groom, and kept a warning
hand on the rein as the man obeyed. With a final pat he turned away.
"She'll do now, sir."

O'Hara nodded.

"Ye've trained her well. Get in, please."

Jack obeyed, and in a minute or two O'Hara jumped in after him, and the
coach began to move forward.

For a while there was silence, Carstares keeping himself well under
control. It was almost unbearable to think that after this brief drive
he would never set eyes on his friend again, and he wanted so badly to
turn and grasp that strong hand....

Miles turned in his seat and tried to see the masked face in the
darkness.

"Ye are a gentleman?" he asked, going straight to the point.

Jack was prepared for this.

"Me, sir? Lor' no, sir!"

"I do not believe ye. Don't be forgettin' I've seen your hands!"

"Hands, sir?" in innocent bewilderment.

"Sure, ye don't think I'd be believing ye an ordinary rogue, with hands
like that?"

"I don't rightly understand ye, sir?"

"Bejabers then, ye'll be understanding me tomorrow!"

"To-morrow, sir?"

"Certainly. Ye may as well tell me now as then. I'm not such a daft fool
as I look, and I know a gentleman when I see one, even an he does growl
at me as you do!" he chuckled. "And I'd an odd feeling I knew ye when ye
spoke to the mare. I'd be loth to send a friend to the gallows."

How well Jack knew that soft, persuasive voice. His hands clenched as he
forced himself to answer:

"I don't think I've ever seen ye afore, sir."

"Maybe ye have not. We shall see to-morrow."

"What do ye mean by to-morrow, sir?" ventured Carstares uneasily.

"Sure, ye will have the honour of appearing before me, me friend."

"Before _you_, sir?"

"Why not? I'm a Justice of the Peace, heaven save the mark!"

There was a breathless pause, and then at last the funny side of it
struck Jack, and his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. The
exquisite irony of it was almost too much for him. He, the Earl of
Wyncham, was to be formally questioned by his friend Sir Miles O'Hara,
J.P.!

"What ails ye now, man? Ye find it amusing?" asked Miles, surprised.

"Oh, Lud, yes!" gasped Jack, and collapsed into his corner.




CHAPTER IX

LADY O'HARA INTERVENES


Lady O'Hara found that her big, indolent husband was unusually silent
next morning at breakfast. She had not been married long enough to
consent to being practically ignored, no matter what the time of day,
but she had been married quite long enough to know that before she took
any direct action against him, she must first allow him to assuage his
appetite. Accordingly she plied him with coffee and eggs, and with a
satisfied and slightly motherly air, watched him attack a sirloin of
beef. She was a pretty, birdlike little lady, with big eyes, and soft
brown curls escaping from under a demure but very becoming mob cap. She
measured five foot nothing in her stockings, and was sometimes referred
to by her large husband as the Midget. Needless to say, this flippant
appellation was in no wise encouraged by the lady.

She decided that Miles had come to the end of his repast, and, planting
two dimpled elbows on the table, she rested her small chin in her hands
and looked across at him with something of the air of an inquisitive
kitten.

"Miles!"

O'Hara leaned back in his chair, and at the sight of her fresh
prettiness his brow cleared and he smiled.

"Well, asthore?"

A reproachful finger was raised and a pair of red lips pouted adorably.

"Now, Miles, confess you've been vastly disagreeable this morning. Twice
have I spoken to you and you've not troubled to answer me--nay, let me
finish! And once you growled at me like a nasty bear! Yes, sir, you
did!"

"Did I now, Molly? 'Tis a surly brute you're after thinking me, then?
Troth, and I've been sore perplexed, me dear."

Lady O'Hara got up and sidled round to him.

"Have you so, Miles?"

He flung an arm about her and drew her on to his knee.

"Sure, yes, Molly."

"Well then, Miles, had you not better tell me what it is that troubles
you?" she coaxed, laying a persuasive hand on his shoulder.

He smiled up at her.

"'Tis just an inquisitive puss you are!"

Again the pout.

"And ye should not pout your pretty lips at me if ye are not wanting me
to kiss them!" he added, suiting the action to the word.

"But of course I do!" cried my lady, returning the kiss with fervour.
"Nay, Miles, tell me."

"I see ye mean to have the whole tale out of me, so--"

"To be sure I do!" she nodded.

He laid a warning finger on her lips and summoned up a mighty frown.

"Now will ye be done interrupting, me lady?"

Not a whit abashed, she bit the finger, pushed it away, and folding her
hands in her lap, cast her eyes meekly heavenwards.

With a twinkle in his own eyes the Irishman continued:

"Well, alanna, ye must know that yesterday evening I was at Kilroy's on
a matter of business--and that reminds me, Molly, we had a hand or two
at faro and the like before I left, and I had very distressing luck--"

On a sudden my lady's demure air vanished.

"Is that so, Miles? I make no doubt the stakes were prodigious high?
Pray, how much have you lost?"

"Whisht, darlin', 'tis a mere thrifle, I assure you.... Well, as I was
saying, on me way home, what should happen but that we be held up by one
of these highwaymen--"

My lady's eyes widened in horror, and two little hands clutched at his
coat.

"Oh, Miles!"

His arm tightened round her waist.

"Sure, asthore, I'm still alive to tell the tale, though 'tis not far
I'll be getting with you interrupting at every moment!"

"But, Miles, how terrible! You might have been killed! And you never
told me! 'Twas monstrous wicked of you, darling!"

"Faith, Molly, how should I be telling you when 'twas yourself that was
fast asleep? Now will you whisht?"

She nodded obediently, and dimpled.

"Well, as I say, here was this man standing in the road, pointing his
pistol at me. But will ye believe me, me love, when I tell you that that
same pistol was as empty as--my own?" Here he was shaken with laughter.
"Lud, Molly, 'twas the drollest thing! I had me pistol in me hand,
knowing 'twas unloaded, and wondering what the devil, saving your
presence, was to do next, when the idea struck me that I should try to
bluff me fine sir. So I cried out that his pistol was unloaded, and
completely took him by surprise! Sure he hadn't time to ask himself how
the devil I should be knowing that! He dropped it on the road. Afther--"

"Miles, you are becoming very Irish!"

"Never say so, alanna. _After_ that 'twas simple enough, and me lord
gave in. He held out his hands for me to bind--and here's where 'tis
puzzling, Molly--I saw that they were a prodigious sight too white and
fine for an ordinary highwayman. So I taxed him with it--"

"'Twas a gentleman in disguise! How splendid, Miles!"

"Will ye hold your tongue, asthore, and not be spoiling me story on me?"

"Oh, indeed I am sorry! I will be good!"

"--and he started and seemed monstrous put out. What's more, me dear, I
heard him speak to his mare in an ordinary, gentleman's voice. Molly, ye
never saw the like of that same mare! The sweetest--"

"Pray, never mind the mare, dear! I am all agog to hear about the
gentleman-highwayman!"

"Very well, me love, though 'twas a prodigious fine mare--When I heard
him speak, it flashed across me brain that I knew him--no, ye don't,
Molly!" His hand was over her mouth as he spoke, and her eyes danced
madly. "But I could not for the life of me think where I had heard that
voice: 'twas but the one word I heard him speak, ye understand, and when
I held his wrists I felt that 'twas no stranger. And yet 'tis
impossible. When I got him within the coach--"

"How imprudent! He might have--"

"Whisht now! When I got him within the coach I tried to worm his
identity out of him, but 'twas to no avail. But when I told him he would
have to appear before me to-day, he went off into a fit of laughing,
till I wondered what he was at, at all. And not another word could I get
out of him after beyond 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir.' Still, I felt that
'twas a gentleman all the same, so I--"

He was enveloped in a rapturous embrace.

"You dear Miles! You let him escape?"

"Sure, alanna, is it meself that would be doing the like? And me a
Justice of the Peace withal? I told them not to handcuff me lord."

"Oh, I do so wish you had let him escape! But if 'tis really a
gentleman, you will?"

"I will not then, asthore. I'll be sending him to await the Assizes."

"You are very cruel, then."

"But, me darlin'--"

"And I wish to get off your knee." He drew her close.

"I'll see what can be done for your protege, Molly. But don't be
forgetting he tried to kill the only husband you have!" He watched the
effect of this with that humorous twinkle in his eye. But my lady was
not to be put off.

"With an empty pistol? Fie on you, Miles! And may I hide behind the
screen while you question him?"

"Ye may not."

"But I wish so much to see him!"

O'Hara shook his head with an air of finality she knew full well.
However easy-going and good-natured her husband might be, there were
times when he was impervious to all blandishments. So after darkly
hinting that she would be nearer than he imagined, she gave up the
contest to go and visit young Master David in his nursery.

       *       *       *       *       *

For some time in lock-up Carstares had cudgelled his brain to think out
a possible mode of escape next day, but try as he might he could light
on nothing. If only Miles were not to question him! It was hardly likely
that he would be allowed to retain his mask, yet therein lay his only
chance of preserving his incognito. He prayed that by some merciful
providence O'Hara would either fail to recognise him or would at least
pretend that he did not. Having decided that there was nothing further
to be done in the matter he lay down on his extremely hard pallet, and
went to sleep as if he had not a care in the world.

Next morning, after a long and wordy argument with the head gaoler on
the subject of masks, he was haled in triumph to the house.

As the little cavalcade was about to ascend the steps that led to the
front door, my Lady O'Hara came gaily forth carrying a basket and a pair
of scissors, and singing a snatch of song. At the sight of the
highwayman the song broke off and her red lips formed a long-drawn "Oh!"
She stood quite still on the top step, gazing down at my lord. The two
gaolers stood aside to allow her to come down, just as a greyhound
darted up the steps and flung itself against her in an exuberance of
joy. My lady, none too securely balanced, reeled; the basket fell from
her arm, her foot missed the next step, and she tumbled headlong down.
But in the flash of an eyelid Carstares had sprung forward and received
her in his arms. He lowered her gently to the ground. "I trust you are
not hurt, madam?" he asked, and retrieved her basket, handing it to her.

Molly took it with a smile.

"I thank you sir, not at all; though I fear I should have injured myself
quite considerably had you not been so swift in catching me. 'Twas most
kind of you, I am sure!" She extended her small hand, and her eyes
devoured him.

For a moment my lord hesitated, and then, sweeping off his hat, he bowed
low over the hand.

"'Twas less than nothing, madam," he said in his own cultivated voice.
"I beg you will dismiss it from your mind." He straightened himself as
the gaolers came forward, and put on his hat again.

Lady O'Hara stepped aside and watched them disappear into the house. Her
cheeks were rather flushed, and her eyes suspiciously bright. Suddenly
she nodded her head decisively, and throwing away her luckless basket,
hurried across the lawn and entered the house through a long window.

My lord was conducted to the library, where O'Hara sat awaiting him, and
slouched forward with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his hat
still on his head.

The head gaoler eyed him gloomily, and looked pained when Carstares with
studied boorishness leaned carelessly against a fine carved table.

"We 'ave refrained from 'andcuffin' pris'ner, sir, at your horders," he
said, in a tone that warned O'Hara that should harm come of it, on his
head be the blame.

Miles nodded.

"Quite right," he said pleasantly, and glanced at the cloaked and masked
figure before him with more suspicion than ever.

"But I regrets to 'ave to report very hobstinate be'aviour on part of
pris'ner, sir," added the gaoler impressively.

"Indeed?" said Miles gravely. "How so?"

Jack controlled an insane desire to laugh, and listened to the gaoler's
complaint.

"You see the pris'ner, sir, with that great mask on 'is face? Afore we
set out to come 'ere, I told 'im to take it hoff. And 'e refoosed, sir.
Seeing as 'ow you gave no horders, I did not force 'im to hobey."

"Ah! ... Your name, please?"

"John Smith, sir," answered Carstares promptly and hoarsely. O'Hara
wrote it down with a sceptical smile on his lips that Jack did not quite
like.

"Perhaps ye will have the goodness to unmask?"

There was a momentary silence.

"Why, sir, I thought ye might allow me to keep it on?"

"Did ye now? I will not be allowing any such thing."

"But, sir--"

"'Tis impossible. Off with it!"

"Sir--"

"If ye don't take it off, I shall ask these men to assist ye," warned
Miles.

"May I not speak with ye alone, sir?" pleaded Jack. By now O'Hara was
greatly intrigued.

"Ye may not. Unmask!" He was leaning half across the table, his eyes
fixed on Jack's face.

With a quaint little laugh that made O'Hara's brows contract swiftly, my
lord shrugged his shoulders French fashion and obeyed. The mask and hat
were tossed lightly on to the table, and Miles found himself gazing into
a pair of blue eyes that met his half defiantly, half imploringly. He
drew in his breath sharply and the thin ivory rule he held snapped
suddenly between his fingers. And at that crucial moment a door behind
him that had stood ajar was pushed open, and my Lady O'Hara came
tripping into the room.

The two gaolers and her husband turned at once to see who it was, while
Jack, who had recognised her, but had not the least idea who she was,
fell to dusting his boots with his handkerchief.

O'Hara rose, and for once looked severe.

"What--" he began, and stopped, for without so much as a glance at him,
my lady ran towards the prisoner, crying:

"Harry! Oh, Harry!"

Jack gathered that he was the person addressed, and instantly made her
an elaborate leg.

The next moment she was tugging at the lapels of his coat, with her face
upturned to his.

"Harry, you WICKED boy!" she cried, and added beneath her breath: "My
name is Molly!"

A laugh sprang to my lord's eyes and his beautiful smile appeared.

In a stupefied fashion O'Hara watched him steal an arm about her waist,
and place a hand beneath her chin. The next instant a kiss was planted
full on the little lady's lips, and he heard Jack Carstares' voice
exclaim:

"Fie on you, Molly, for a spoil-sport! Here had I fooled Miles to the
top of my bent--and 'pon rep.! he scarce knows me yet!"

My lady disengaged herself, blushing.

"Oh, Miles, you do know Harry--my cousin Harry?"

O'Hara collected his scattered wits and rose nobly to the occasion.

"Of course I do, me dear, though at first he gave me such a shock, I was
near dumbfounded. Ye are a mad, scatter-brained fellow to play such a
thrick upon us, devil take ye!" He laid his hands on Jack's shoulders.
"Pray, what did ye do it for, boy?"

Jack's brain worked swiftly.

"Why, Miles, never tell me you've forgot our wager! Did I not swear I'd
have you at a disadvantage--to be even with you for that night at
Jasper's? But what must you do but see my pistol was unloaded and make
me lose my wager! Still, 'twas worth that and a night in gaol to see
your face when I unmasked!"

O'Hara shook him slightly, laughing, and turned to the two amazed
gaolers. The senior gaoler met his humorous glance with a cold and
indignant stare, and gave a prodigious sniff.

"Me good fellows," drawled Miles, "I'm mighty sorry ye've been worried
over me young cousin here. He's fooled us all it appears, but now
there's nought to be done in the matter, though I've a mind to send him
to await the next sessions!" He slipped a guinea into each curiously
ready palm, and replied to the head gaoler's haughty bow with a pleasant
nod. In silence he watched them leave the room shaking their heads over
the incomprehensible ways of the gentry. Then he turned and looked
across at Carstares.




CHAPTER X

LADY O'HARA RETIRES


For a long minute silence reigned, all three actors in the little comedy
listening to the heavy footsteps retreating down the passage, Carstares
with one arm still around my lady's waist and a rather strained look on
his face. Molly instinctively felt that something beyond her ken was in
the air, and glanced fearfully up at the white face above her. The
expression in the blue eyes fixed on her husband made her turn sharply
to look at him. She found that he was staring at my lord as though he
saw a ghost: She wanted to speak, to relieve the tension, but all words
stuck in her throat, and she could only watch the _denouement_
breathlessly. At last O'Hara moved, coming slowly towards them, reading
John's countenance. Some of the wonder went out of his face, and, as if
he sensed the other's agony of mind, he smiled suddenly and laid his
hands once more on the straight, stiff shoulders.

"Jack, ye rascal, what do ye mean by hugging and kissing me wife under
me very eyes?"

Molly all at once remembered the position of her "Cousin Harry's" arm,
and gave a little gasp, whisking herself away.

My lord put out his hands and strove to thrust his friend off.

"Miles, don't forget--don't forget--what I am!"

The words were forced out, but his head was held high.

"Tare an' ouns, man! And is it meself that'll be caring what ye may or
may not be? Oh, Jack, Jack, I'm so pleased to see ye, that I can scarce
realise 'tis yourself I am looking at! When did ye come to England, and
what-a-plague are you doing in that costume?" He jerked his head to
where John's mask lay, and wrung the hand he held as though he would
never stop.

"I've been in England a year. As to the mask--!" He shrugged and
laughed.

Lady O'Hara pushed in between them.

"But please I do not understand!" she said plaintively.

Carstares bowed over her hand.

"May I be permitted to thank you for your kindly intervention, my lady?
And to congratulate Miles on his marriage?"

She dimpled charmingly and curtsied. Her husband caught her round the
waist.

"Ay, the saucy minx! Oh, me cousin Harry, forsooth! If it had been
anyone but Jack I should be angry with ye, asthore, for 'twas a wicked
thrick to play entirely!"

She patted his hand and smiled across at Jack.

"Of course, I would never have done such a forward thing had I not known
that he was indeed a gentleman--and had he not saved me from sudden
death!" she added as an afterthought.

Miles looked sharply round at her and then at Carstares.

"What's this?"

"My lady exaggerates," smiled my lord. "'Tis merely that I had the
honour to catch her as she fell down the steps this morning."

O'Hara looked relieved.

"Ye are not hurt, alanna?"

"Gracious, no! But I had to do something to show my gratitude--and I was
sure that you would never expose _my_ fraud--so I--But," as a sudden
thought struck her, "you seem to _know_ my highwayman!"

"Sure an' I do, Molly. 'Tis none other than Jack Carstares of whom ye've
often heard me speak!"

She turned round eyes of wonderment upon my lord.

"Can it be--is it possible that you are my husband's dearest
friend--Lord John?"

Jack flushed and bowed.

"I was once--madam," he said stiffly.

"Once!" she scoffed. "Oh, if you could but hear him speak of you! But
I'll let you hear him speak _to_ you, which perhaps you'll enjoy more. I
know you've a prodigious great deal to say to one another, so I shall
run away and leave you alone." She smiled graciously upon him, blew an
airy kiss to her husband and went quickly out of the room.

Carstares closed the door behind her and came back to O'Hara, who had
flung himself back into his chair, trying, manlike, to conceal the
excitement he was feeling.

"Come, sit ye down, Jack, and let me have the whole story!"

My lord divested himself of his long cloak and shook out his hitherto
tucked-up ruffles. From the pocket of his elegant scarlet riding coat he
drew a snuff-box, which he opened languidly. With his eyes resting
quizzically on O'Hara's face, he took a delicate pinch of snuff and
minced across the room.

Miles laughed.

"What's this?"

"This, my dear friend, is Sir Anthony Ferndale, Bart.!" He bowed with
great flourish.

"Ye look it. But come over here, Sir Anthony Ferndale, Bart., and tell
me everything."

Jack perched on the edge of the desk and swung his leg.

"Well really, I do not think there is much to tell that you do not
already know, Miles. You know all about Dare's card-party, for instance,
precisely six years ago?"

"'Tis just exactly what I do not know!" retorted O'Hara.

"You surprise me! I thought the tale was rife."

"Now, Jack, will ye have done drawling at me? Don't be forgetting I'm
your friend--"

"But are you? If you know the truth about me, do you feel inclined to
call me friend?"

"There never was a time when I would not have been proud to call ye
friend, as ye would very well have known, had ye been aught but a damned
young hothead! I heard that crazy tale about the card-party, but do ye
think I believed it?"

"It was the obvious thing to do."

"Maybe, but I fancy I know ye just a little too well to believe any
cock-and-bull story I'm told about ye. And even if I had been fool
enough to have believed it, do ye think I'd be going back on ye? Sure,
'tis a poor friend I'd be!"

Jack stared down at the toe of his right boot in silence.

"I know something more than we guessed happened at that same party, and
I have me suspicions, but 'tis your affair, and whatever ye did ye had
your reasons for. But, Jack, why in the name of wonder must ye fly off
to the devil alone knows where, without so much as a good-bye to
anyone?"

Carstares never raised his eyes from the contemplation of that boot. He
spoke with difficulty.

"Miles--in my place--would you not have done the same?"

"Well--"

"You know you would. Was it likely that I should inflict myself on you
at such a time? What would you have thought of me had I done so?"

O'Hara brought his hand down smartly on the other's knee.

"I'd have thought ye less of a young fool! I would have gone away with
ye, and nothing would have stopped me!"

Jack looked up and met his eyes.

"I know," he said. "'Twas the thought of that--and--and--I could not be
sure. How should I know whether you would even receive me? Last
night--last night--I was horribly afraid...."

The hand on his knee tightened.

"Ye foolish boy! Ye foolish boy!"

Bit by bit he drew the story of the past six years out of Carstares, and
though it was a very modified version, Miles understood his friend well
enough to read between the lines.

"And now," said Jack, when the recital was over, "tell me about
yourself. When did you marry the attractive lady whom I have just been
kissing?"

"Ye rogue! I married Molly three years ago. 'Tis a real darling she is,
isn't she? And upstairs there's a little chap--your godson."

"You lucky fellow! My godson, you say? Could you not find anyone more
worthy for that? I want to see him."

"So ye shall presently. Have ye seen Richard?"

"A year ago I held up his coach. 'Twas dark, and I could scarce see him,
but I thought he seemed aged."

"Aged! Ye wouldn't be afther knowing him! 'Tis an old man he is. Though
I swear 'tis no wonder with that hussy about the house! Lord, Jack, you
were well out of that affair with her ladyship!"

Carstares nursed his foot reflectively.

"Lavinia? What ails her?"

"Nought that I know of, save it be her shrewish temper. 'Tis a dog's
life she leads poor Dick."

"Do you mean to say she does not love Dick?"

"I cannot say--sometimes she's as affectionate as you please, but at
others she treats him to a fine exhibition of rage. And the money she
spends! Of course, she married him for what she could get. There was
never anything else to count with her."

Jack sat very still.

"And anyone but a young fool like yourself would have seen that!"

A gleam of amusement shot into the wistful blue eyes.

"Probably. Yourself, for instance?"

O'Hara chuckled.

"Oh, ay, I knew! 'Twas the money she was after all along; and now
there's not so much, it seems, as Dick won't touch a penny that belongs
to you."

"M'm. Warburton told me. Foolish of him."

A grunt was the sole response.

Jack's eyes narrowed a little as he gazed out of the window. "So Lavinia
never cared? Lord, what a mix-up! And Dick?"

"I'm afraid he still does."

"Poor old Dick! Devil take the woman! Does she bully him? I know what he
is--always ready to give in."

"I am not so sure. Yet I'll swear if 'twere not for John his life would
be a misery. He misses you, Jack."

"Who is John?"

"Did not Warburton tell you? John is the hope of the house. He's four
and a half, and as spoilt a little rascal as you could wish for."

"Dick's child? Good Lord!"

"Ay, Dick's child and your nephew." He broke off and looked into the
other's face. "Jack, cannot this mystery be cleared up? Couldn't ye go
back?" He was clasping Jack's hand, but it was withdrawn, and the eyes
looking down into his were suddenly bored and a little cold.

"I know of no mystery," said Carstares.

"Jack, old man, will ye be afther shutting me out of your confidence?"

A faint, sweet smile curved the fine lips.

"Let us talk of the weather, Miles, or my mare. Anything rather than
this painful subject."

With an impatient movement O'Hara flung back his chair and strode over
to the window with his back to my lord. Jack's eyes followed him
seriously.

"If ye cannot trust me, sure I've no more to say, thin!" flashed O'Hara.
"It seems ye do not value your friends too highly!"

My lord said never a word. But the hand that rested on the desk clenched
suddenly. O'Hara wheeled about and came back to his side.

"Sure, Jack, I never meant that! Forgive me bad temper!"

Carstares slipped off the table and straightened himself, linking his
arm in the Irishman's.

"Whisht, Miles, as you'd say yourself," he laughed, "I know that. 'Tis
not that I don't trust you, but--"

"I understand. I'll not ask ye any more about it at all. Instead, answer
me this: what made ye come out with unloaded pistols?"

The laugh died out of Carstares' face.

"Oh, just carelessness!" he answered shortly, and he thought of the
absent Jim with a tightening of the lips.

"'Twas that very same reason with meself thin!" Jack stared at him.

"Miles, don't tell me yours were unloaded, too?"

"'Deed an' they were! Ecod, Jack! 'tis the best joke I've heard for a
twelvemonth." They both started to laugh. "Sure 'twas bluff on my part,
Jack, when I told ye yours was unloaded. And me lady was determined to
set you free from the moment I told her all about it this morning. We
were sure ye were no ordinary highwayman, though I was a fool not to
have known ye right away. But now I have found ye out, ye'll stay with
us--Cousin Harry?"

"I cannot thank you enough, Miles, but I will not do that. I must get
back to Jim."

"And who the devil is Jim?"

"My servant. He'll be worried nigh to death over me. Nay, do not press
me, I could not stay here, Miles. You must see for yourself 'tis
impossible--Jack Carstares does not exist; only Anthony Ferndale is
left."

"Jack, dear man, can I not--"

"No, Miles, you can do nothing, though 'tis like you to want to help,
and I do thank you. But--oh well! ... What about my mare?"

"Plague take me if I'd not forgotten! Jack, that scoundrel of mine let
her strain her fetlock. I'm demmed sorry."

"Poor Jenny! I'll swear she gave him an exciting ride, though."

"I'll be trying to buy her off ye, Jack, if I see much of her. 'Tis a
little beauty she is."

"I'm not selling, though I intended to ask you to keep her, if--"

A quick pressure on his arm arrested him.

"That will do! I'm too heavy for her anyway."

"So was that devil of a groom you put on her."

"Ay. I'm a fool."

"I always knew that."

"Whisht now, Jack! Ye'll have to take one of my nags while she heals, if
ye won't stay with us. Can ye trust her to me for a week, do ye
suppose?"

"I don't know. It seems as though I must--oh, I retract, I retract. You
are altogether too large, the day is too hot, and my cravat too nicely
tied--Egad, Miles! I wish--oh, I _wish_ we were boys again, and--Yes.
When may I see your son and heir?"

"Sure, ye may come now and find Molly, who'll be aching for the sight of
you. Afther you, Sir Anthony Ferndale, Bart!"




CHAPTER XI

MY LORD TURNS RESCUER AND COMES NIGH ENDING HIS LIFE


Late that afternoon Carstares left Thurze House on one of his friend's
horses. He waved a very regretful farewell to O'Hara and his lady,
promising to let them know his whereabouts and to visit them again soon.
O'Hara had extracted a solemn promise that if ever he got into
difficulties he would let him know:

"For I'm not letting ye drift gaily out of me life again, and that's
flat."

Jack had assented gladly enough--to have a friend once more was such
bliss--and had given Miles the name of the inn and the village where he
would find him, for O'Hara had insisted on bringing the mare over
himself. So Carstares rode off to Trencham and to Jim, with the memory
of a very hearty handshake in his mind. He smiled a little as he thought
of his friend's words when he had shown himself reluctant to give the
required promise:

"Ye obstinate young devil, ye'll do as I say, and no nonsense, or ye
don't leave this house!"

For six years no one had ordered him to obey; it had been he who had
done all the ordering. Somehow it was very pleasant to be told what to
do, especially by Miles.

He turned down a lane and wondered what Jim was thinking. That he was
waiting at the Green Man, he was certain, for those had been his orders.
He was annoyed with the man over the incident of the pistols, for he had
inspected them and discovered that they were indeed unloaded. Had his
captor been other than O'Hara, on whom he could not fire, such
carelessness might have proved his undoing. Apart from that, culpable
negligence always roused his wrath. A rather warm twenty minutes was in
store for Salter.

For quite an hour Carstares proceeded on his way with no mishaps nor
adventures, and then, suddenly, as he rounded a corner of a deserted
road--little more than a cart-track--an extraordinary sight met his
eyes. In the middle of the road stood a coach, and by it, covering the
men on the box with two large pistols, was a seedy-looking ruffian,
while two others were engaged in what appeared to be a life-and-death
struggle at the coach-door.

Jacked reined-in his horse and rose in his stirrups to obtain a better
view. Then his eyes flashed, and he whistled softly to himself. For the
cause of all the turmoil was a slight, graceful girl of not more than
nineteen or twenty. She was frenziedly resisting the efforts of her
captors to drag her to another coach, further up the road. Jack could
see that she was dark and very lovely.

Another, elderly lady, was most valiantly impeding operations by clawing
and striking at one of the men's arms, scolding and imploring all in one
breath. Jack's gaze went from her to a still, silent figure at the side
of the road in the shadow of the hedge, evidently the stage-manager. "It
seems I must take a hand in this," he told himself, and laughed joyously
as he fixed on his mask and dismounted. He tethered his mount to a young
sapling, took a pistol from its holster, and ran softly and swiftly
under the lea of the hedge up to the scene of disaster, just as the man
who covered the unruly and vociferous pair on the box made ready to
fire.

Jack's bullet took him neatly in the neck, and without a sound he
crumpled up, one of his pistols exploding harmlessly as it fell to
earth.

With an oath the silent onlooker wheeled round to face the point of my
lord's gleaming blade.

Carstares drew in his breath sharply in surprise as he saw the white
face of his Grace of Andover.

"Damn you!" said Tracy calmly, and sprang back, whipping out his own
rapier.

"Certainly," agreed Jack pleasantly. "On guard, M. le Duc!"

Tracy's lips curled back in a snarl. His eyes were almost shut. Over his
shoulder he ordered curtly:

"Keep watch over the girl. I will attend to this young jackanapes."

On the word the blades clashed.

Jack's eyes danced with the sheer joy of battle, and his point snicked
in and out wickedly. He knew Tracy of old for an expert swordsman, and
he began warily.

The girl's persecutors retained a firm hold on either arm, but all their
thoughts were centred on the duel. The men on the box got out their
blunderbuss, ready to fire should the need arise, and the girl herself
watched breathlessly, red lips apart, and eyes aglow with fright,
indignation, and excitement. As for the old lady, she positively bobbed
up and down shrieking encouragement to Carstares.

The blades hissed continuously against one another; time after time the
Duke thrust viciously, and ever his point was skilfully parried. He was
absolutely calm, and his lips sneered. Who it was that he was fighting,
he had not the faintest idea; he only knew that his opponent had
recognised him, and must be speedily silenced. Therefore he fought with
deadly grimness and purpose. Carstares, on the other hand, had no
intention of killing his Grace. He had never liked him in the old days,
but he was far too good-natured to contemplate any serious bloodshed. He
was so used to Tracy's little affairs that he had not been filled with
surprise when he discovered who the silent figure was. He did not like
interfering with Belmanoir, but, on the other hand, he could no more
stand by and see a woman assaulted than he could fly. So he fought on
with the idea of disarming his Grace, so as to have him at a
disadvantage and to be able to command his withdrawal from the scene.
Once he feinted cleverly, and lunged, and a little blood trickled down
over the Duke's hand. No sign made Belmanoir, except that his eyelids
flickered a moment and his play became more careful.

Once the Duke thrust in tierce and Jack's sword arm wavered an instant,
and a splash of crimson appeared on his sleeve. He, for the most part,
remained on the defensive, waiting for the Duke to tire. Soon his
Grace's breath began to come unevenly and fast, and beads of moisture
started on his forehead. Yet never did the sneer fade nor his temper go;
he had himself well in hand, and although his face was livid, and his
brain on fire with fury, no trace of it showed itself in his sword-play.

Then Carstares changed his tactics, and began to put into practice all
the arts and subtleties of fence that he had learnt abroad. He seemed
made of steel and set on wires, so agile and untireable was he. Time
after time he leapt nimbly aside, evading some wicked thrust, and all
the while he was driving his Grace back and back. He was not panting,
and now and again he laughed softly and happily. The blood from the
wound on his arm was dripping steadily on to the ground, yet it seemed
to Tracy to affect him not at all. But Jack himself knew that he was
losing strength rapidly, and must make an end.

Suddenly he feinted, and fell back. Tracy saw his advantage and pressed
forward within the wavering sword-point.

The next instant his sword was whirled from his grasp, and he lay on the
ground, unhurt but helpless, gazing up at the masked face and at the
shortened rapier. How he had been thrown he did not know, but that his
opponent was a past master in the art of fence he was perfectly sure.

My lord gave a little chuckle and twisted a handkerchief about his
wounded arm.

"I am aware, m'sieur, that this is most unusual--and, in
duels--forbidden. But I am sure that milor' will agree that the
circumstances are also--most unusual--and the odds--almost
overwhelming!" He turned his head to the two men, one of whom released
his hold on the girl's arm and started forward.

"Oh, no!" drawled my lord, shaking his head. "Another step and I spit
your master where he lies."

"Stand," said his Grace calmly.

"_Bien_! Throw your arms down here at my feet, and--ah--release
Mademoiselle!"

They made no move to obey, and my lord shrugged deprecatingly, lowering
his point to Tracy's throat.

"_Eh bien!_"

They still hesitated, casting anxious glances at their master. "Obey,"
ordered the Duke.

Each man thre

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