"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.
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 inheropinion deserved to be loved!
"And she'll have love badly," she said, clicking her knitting-needles energetically. "Iknow 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 themondewith 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!Iknow 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 hismanner, 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, thatwasgood 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 groundyoutread 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 stillmeanwell. 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 supposeyouwill 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!"
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 poorerquartiersof 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."
"Beforeyou, 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.
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.Afterthat '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.
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 thedenouementbreathlessly. 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 exposemyfraud—so I—But," as a sudden thought struck her, "you seem toknowmy 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 speaktoyou, 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."