"My dear sister, in all justice to him, you must admit the boot was rather on the other leg."
"Oh, I know—I know! But he is so provoking!—so jealous!—so unreasonable!"
"Jealous? And why?"
With an impatient twitch at her petticoat she made answer, not looking at him.
"Oh, I do not know! Nor he! Take me back to the ball-room."
"Certainly, my dear." He rose and led her out. "I shall do myself the honour of waiting on you—to-morrow."
"Yes? How delightful 'twill be! Come to dine, Tracy! Richard is promised to the Fortescues."
"In that case, I have much pleasure in accepting your invitation.... In heaven's name, who is this?"
Lovelace was bearing down upon them.
"Lavinia! I have been seeking you everywhere!—ah—your servant, sir!" He bowed to his Grace, and took Lavinia's hand.
"Oh—oh, Harold!—you remember Tracy?" she said nervously.
"Tracy! I did not know you masked! I saw you last in Paris."
"Really? I regret I was not aware of your presence. It is a good many years since I had the honour of seeing you."
"Five," nodded Lovelace, and sent a smiling, amorous glance at Lavinia.
"Exactly," bowed his Grace. "You have, I perceive, renewed your acquaintance with my sister."
When they were gone he caressed his chin, thoughtfully.
"Lovelace ... and Richard is so jealous, so unreasonable. Now I do hope Lavinia will do nothing indiscreet—Yes, Frank, I was talking to myself; a bad habit."
Fortescue, who had come up behind him, took his arm.
"A sign of lunacy, my dear. Jim Cavendish demands you."
"Does he? May I ask why?"
"He is in the card-room. There is some bet on, I believe."
"In that case I shall have to go. You had best accompany me, Frank."
"Very well. You have seen Lady Lavinia?"
Beneath the mask his Grace's eyes narrowed.
"I have seen Lavinia. Also I have seen an old friend—Lovelace by name."
"The captain with the full-bottomed wig? Your friend, you say?"
"Did I say so? I should correct myself: a friend of my sister's."
"Indeed? Yes, I believe I have seen him in her company."
Tracy smiled enigmatically.
"I daresay."
"And what of you, Tracy?"
"Well?Whatof me?"
"You told me this morning that you had at last fallen in love. It is true? You are honestly in love?"
"Honestly? How do I know? I only know that I have felt this passion for four months, and now it is stronger than ever. It sounds like love."
"Then, an she is a good woman, I hope she will consent to take you, such as you are, and make of you such as she can!"
"Now that is very neat, Frank. I congratulate you. Of course she will take me; as to the rest—I think not."
"Tare an' ouns, Tracy! but an that is the tone you take with her, she'll have none of you!"
"I have never found it unsuccessful."
"With your common trollops, no! But if your Diana is a lady, she will dispatch you about your business! Woo her, man! Forget your own damned importance, for I think you will need to humble yourself to the dust if all that you tell me has passed between you is true!"
They had paused outside the card-room. A curtain shut it off from the ball-room, and with his hand on it, Tracy stared arrogantly down at his friend.
"Humble myself? 'Fore Gad, you must be mad!"
"Belike I am; but I tell you, Tracy, that if your passion is love, 'tis a strange one that puts yourself first. I would not give the snap of a finger for it! You want this girl, not for her happiness, but for your own pleasure. That is not the love I once told you would save you from yourself. When it comes, you will count yourself as nought; you will realise your own insignificance, and above all, be ready to make any sacrifice for her sake. Yes, even to the point of losing her!"
His Grace's lips sneered.
"Your eloquence is marvellous," he remarked. "I have not been so amused since I left Paris."
When the Duke of Andover dined next day at Grosvenor Square, he contrived, by subtle means, to make his sister feel inexplicably ill at ease. He let fall pleasant little remarks concerning her friendship with Captain Lovelace, in which she read disapproval and a sinister warning. She was afraid of him, as she was not of her husband, and she knew that if he ever guessed at the depths of her affection for the old flame, he would take very effective measures towards stopping her intercourse with him. It was, then, entirely owing to his return that she told Lovelace that he must not so palpably adore her. Neither must he visit her so frequently. They were both in her boudoir at the time, one morning, and no doubt Lavinia looked very lovely and very tempting in her wrapper, with her golden curls free from powder and loosely dressed beneath her escalloped lace ruffle. At all events, Lovelace abandoned his daintily bantering pose and seized her in his arms, nearly smothering her with fierce, passionate caresses.
Her ladyship struggled, gave a faint shriek, and started to cry. As his kisses seemed to aggravate her tears, he picked her up, and carrying her to a chair, lowered her gently into it. Then, having first dusted the floor with his handkerchief, he knelt down beside her and possessed himself of both her hands.
"Lavinia! Goddess! I adore you!"
Bethinking herself that tears were ruinous to her complexion, Lady Lavinia pulled her hands away and dabbed at her eyes.
"Oh, Harold!" she reproached him.
"I have offended you! Wretch that I am—"
"Oh, no, no!" Lady Lavinia gave him her hand again. "But 'twas wicked of you, Harry! You must never, never do it again!"
His arm crept round her waist.
"But I love you, sweetheart!"
"Oh! Oh! Think of Dicky!"
He released her at that, and sprang to his feet.
"Why should I think of him? 'Tis of you and myself I think! Only a week ago you vowed he was unkind—"
"You are monstrous wicked to remind me of that! We were both cross—and then we were both sorry. I am very fond of poor Dicky."
"Fond of him! Ay, so you may be, but you do not love him! Not as a woman loves a man—do you?"
"Harold!"
"Of course you do not! You used to love me—no, do not shake your head, 'tis true! You would have married me had it not been for Tracy."
"Oh, Harry! How can you say so? What had he to do with it?"
"What, indeed! Whose fault was it that I was time after time refused admittance at Andover? Whose fault was it that you were induced to marry Carstares?"
"Not Tracy's. 'Twas my own wish."
"Fostered by his influence?"
"Oh, no!"
"You never loved Carstares—"
"I did! I do!"
"You may think so, but I know better. Why, he is not even suited to you! You were made for life and pleasure and hazard! With me you would have had all that; with him—"
She had risen to her feet and drawn nearer to him, her eyes sparkling, but now she covered her ears with her hands and stamped pettishly.
"I will not listen! I will not, I tell you! Oh, you are unkind to plague me so!"
Lovelace took her into his arms once more, and drawing down her hands, kissed her again and again. She resisted, trying to thrust him off, but she was crushed against him, and he would have kissed her again, had not there come an interruption.
A knock fell on the door, and the footman announced:
"His Grace of Andover, m'lady!"
The guilty pair sprang apart in the nick of time, she fiery red, he pale, but composed.
His Grace stood in the doorway, his quizzing glass raised inquiringly. His eyes went swiftly from one to the other and widened. He bowed elaborately.
"My dear Lavinia! Captain Lovelace, your very obedient!"
Lovelace returned the bow with much flourish.
"Your Grace!"
"Dear me, Tracy!" cried Lavinia, advancing. "What an unexpected visit!"
"I trust I have not arrived at an inopportune moment, my dear?"
"Oh, no!" she assured him. "I am quite charmed to see you! But at such an early hour—! I confess, it quite astonishes me!" She brought him to a chair, chattering like a child, and so innocent was his expression, so smiling his attitude towards the Captain, that she imagined that he suspected nothing, and had not noticed her blushes.
It was only when Lovelace had departed that she was undeceived. Then, when his Grace moved to a chair opposite her, she saw that he was frowning slightly.
"You—you are put out over something, Tracy?" she asked nervously.
The frown deepened.
"N-no. I am not 'put out.' I merely anticipate the sensation."
"I—I don't understand. What mean you?"
"At present, nothing."
"Tracy, please do not be mysterious! Are you like to be put out?"
"I trust not, Lavinia."
"But what annoys you?"
Instead of answering, he put a question:
"I hope you amused yourself well—last night, my dear sister?"
She flushed. Last night had been Lady Davenant's masquerade, to which Lord Robert had conducted her. She had danced almost exclusively with Lovelace the whole evening, but as they were both masked, she was rather surprised at the question.
"I enjoyed myself quite tolerably, thank you. You were there?"
"No, Lavinia, I was not there."
"Then how do you kn—" She stopped in confusion, biting her lips. For an instant she caught a glimpse of his eyes, piercing and cold.
"How do I know?" smoothly finished his Grace "One hears things, Lavinia. Also—" he glanced round the room, "one sees things."
"I—I don't understand you!" she shot out, twisting the lace of her gown with restless, uneasy fingers.
"No? Must I then be more explicit?"
"Yes! Yes! I should be glad!"
"Then let me beg of you, my dear Lavinia, that you will commit no indiscretion."
Her cheeks flamed.
"You mean—"
"I mean that you have grown too friendly with Harold Lovelace."
"Well! What of it?"
His Grace put up his eye-glass, faintly astonished.
"What of it? Pray think a moment, Lavinia!"
"'Tis not likely thatIshall be the one to disgrace the name, Tracy!"
"I sincerely hope not. I give you my word I should do all in my power to prevent any foolhardy action on your part. Pray do not forget it."
She sat silent, biting her lips.
"It is, my child, unwise to play with fire. Sooner or later one gets burnt. And remember that your gallant captain has not one half of Richard's wealth."
Up she sprang, kicking her skirts as she always did when angered.
"Money! money!—always money!" she cried. "I do not care one rap for it! And Richard is not wealthy!"
"Richard is heir to wealth," replied his Grace calmly. "And even an you are so impervious to its charms, I, my dear, am not. Richard is extremely useful to me. I beg you will not leave him for any such mad rake as Lovelace, who would be faithful to you for perhaps three months, certainly not longer."
"Tracy, I will not have you speak to me like this! How dare you insult me so? I have given you no cause! I did not say I had any desire to run away with him—and hewouldbe faithful to me! He has been faithful all these years!"
His Grace smiled provokingly.
"My dear—!"
"Oh, I know there have been episodes—indiscretions. Do you think I count him the worse for that?"
"Evidently not."
"There has never been another serious love with him! I hate you!"
"You are overfree with your emotions, my dear. So you do indeed contemplate an elopement?"
"No, no, no! I do not! I amfondof Dicky!"
"Dear me!"
"Of course I shall not leave him!"
"Why then, I am satisfied," he answered, and rose to his feet. "I shall look to see Captain Lovelace more out of your company." He picked up his hat and cane and stood directly in front of her. One dead white hand, on which blazed a great ruby seal ring, took her little pointed chin in a firm clasp and tilted her head up until she was forced to meet his eyes. They held hers inexorably, scorchingly.
"You understand me?" he asked harshly.
Lavinia's eyes filled with tears and her soft underlip trembled.
"Yes," she fluttered, and gave a tiny sob. "Oh, yes, Tracy!"
The eyes lost something of their menacing gleam, and he smiled, for once without a sneer, and releasing her chin, patted her cheek indulgently.
"Bear in mind, child, that I am fifteen years your senior, and I have more worldly wisdom in my little finger than you have in the whole of your composition. I do not wish to witness your ruin."
The tears brimmed over, and she caught his handkerchief from him, dabbing at her eyes with one heavily-laced corner.
"You do love me, Tracy?"
"In the recesses of my mind I believe I cherish some affection for you," he replied coolly, rescuing his handkerchief. "I used to class you with your deplorable brothers, but I think perhaps I was wrong."
She gave an hysterical laugh.
"Tracy, how can you be so disagreeable? Lud! but I pity Diana an she marries you!"
To her surprise he flushed a little.
"Diana, an she marries me, will have all that her heart could desire," he answered stiffly, and took his leave.
Once outside in the square he looked for a sedan, and not seeing one, walked away towards Audley Street. He went quickly, but his progress was somewhat retarded by two ladies, who, passing in their chairs down the street, perceived him and beckoned him to their sides. Escaping presently from them, he turned into Curzon Street, and from thence down Half Moon Street, where he literally fell into the arms of Tom Wilding, who had much to say on the subject of March's last bet with Edgecumbe. His Grace affected interest, politely declined Wilding's proffered escort, and hurried down into Piccadilly, walking eastwards towards St. James's Square, where was the Andover town house. He was fated to be again detained, for as he walked along Arlington Street, Mr. Walpole was on the point of descending the steps of No. 5. He also had much to say to his Grace. He had no idea that Belmanoir had returned from Paris. A week ago he had arrived? Well, he, Walpole, had been out of town all the week—at Twickenham. He hoped Bel. would honour him with his company at the small card-party he was giving there on Thursday. George was coming, and Dick Edgecumbe; he had asked March and Gilly Williams, but the Lord knew whether both would be induced to appear! Bel. had heard of Gilly's absurd jealousy? Wilding was promised, and Markham; several other answers he was awaiting.
Andover accepted gracefully and parted from Mr. Walpole. He made the rest of his journey in peace, and on arriving at his house, went straight to the library, where sat a sleek, eminently respectable-looking individual, dressed like a groom. He stood up as his Grace entered, and bowed.
Belmanoir nodded shortly and sat down at his desk.
"I have work for you, Harper."
"Yes, sir—your Grace, I should say."
"Do you know Sussex?"
"Well, your Grace, I don't know as how—"
"Do you know Sussex?"
"No, your Grace—er—yes, your Grace! I should say, not well, your Grace!"
"Have you heard of a place called Littledean?"
"No, s—your Grace."
"Midhurst?"
"Oh, yes, your Grace."
"Good. Littledean is seven miles west of it. You will find that out—also an inn called, I think, 'The Pointing Finger.' There you will lodge."
"Yes, your Grace, certainly."
"At a very little distance from there is a house—Horton House, where lives a certain Mr. Beauleigh, with his sister and daughter. You are to watch the comings and goings of these people with the utmost care. Eventually you will become groom to Mr. Beauleigh."
"B-but, your Grace!" feebly protested the astonished Harper.
"You will approach their present groom, and you will insinuate that I, Andover, am in need of a second groom. You will tell him that I pay handsomely—treble what Mr. Beauleigh gives him. If I know human nature, he will apply for the post. You then step in. If Mr. Beauleigh asks for some recommendation, you are to refer him to Sir Hugh Grandison, White's Chocolate House, St. James's Street. When you are engaged I will send further instructions."
The man gaped, shut his mouth, and gaped again.
"Do you fully understand me?" asked Belmanoir calmly.
"Er—er—yes, your Grace!"
"Repeat what I have said, then."
Harper stumbled through it and mopped his brow unhappily.
"Very well. In addition, I pay you twice as much as Mr. Beauleigh gives you, and, at the end, if you serve me well—fifty guineas. Are you satisfied?"
Harper brightened considerably.
"Yes, your Grace! Thank you, sir!"
Tracy laid twenty guineas before him.
"That is for your expenses. Remember this: the sooner the thing is done, the more certain are your fifty guineas. That is all. Have you any questions to ask?"
Harper cudgelled his still dazed brain, and finding none, shook his head.
"No, your Grace."
"Then you may go."
The man bowed himself out, clutching his guineas. He was comparatively a newcomer in his Grace's service, and he was by no means accustomed to the Duke's lightning method of conducting his affairs. He was not sure that he quite appreciated it. But fifty guineas were fifty guineas.
Richard Carstares very soon availed himself of Mrs. Fanshawe's permission to call upon her, and duly put in an appearance at No. 16, Mount Street. He found the house very tastefully appointed, the sister elderly and good-natured, and the widow herself an excellent hostess. The first time he called he was not the only visitor; two ladies whom he did not know and a young cousin were already there, and later, a bowing acquaintance, Mr. Standish, also arrived. Seeing that he would have no opportunity to talk with the widow on the subject of his brother, he very soon took his leave, promising to wait upon her again at no very distant date. When, three days later, he again sent in his name and was admitted, he found the lady alone, and was gratified to hear her order the servant to deny her to all other visitors.
He bowed over her hand and hoped she was well.
Mrs. Fanshawe drew him down beside her on the settee.
"I am very well, Mr. Carstares. And you?"
"Also," he smiled, but his looks belied his words.
She told him so, laughing, and he pleaded a worried week.
"Well, sir, I presume you did not come to talk to me about your health, but about my friend—eh?"
"I assure—"
"Remember, no vapid compliments!" she besought.
"Then, madam, yes. I want to hear about—Ferndale. You see, I—like you—took a great interest in him."
She sent him a shrewd glance, and nodded.
"Of course. I will tell you all I know, Mr. Carstares, but it is not very much, and maybe you will be disappointed. But I only knew him the short time we were both in Vienna, and—he was not very communicative."
"Ah!—he did not confide in you, madam?"
"No. If one attempted to draw his confidence, he became a polite iceberg."
"Nevertheless, madam, please tell me all that you know."
"It will not take long, I fear. I met him in '48 at Vienna, in the Prater, where I was walking with my husband, who had come to Vienna for his health. I chanced to let fall my reticule when Sir Anthony was passing us, and he picked it up, speaking the most execrable German." She smiled a little at the remembrance. "Mr. Fanshawe, who had the greatest dislike for all foreigners, was overjoyed to hear the English accent. He induced Sir Anthony to continue his walk with us, and afterwards he called at our lodgings. I think he, too, was glad to meet a fellow-countryman, for he came often, and once when I had been talking with him for some time he let fall—what shall I say?—his reserve—his guard—and told me that he had scarcely spoken his own language for four years. Afterwards he seemed to regret having said even that much, and turned the subject." She paused and looked up to see if her auditor was interested.
"Yes, yes?" urged Richard. "And then?"
"I do not remember. He came, as I said, often, mostly to talk to my husband, who was a great invalid, but sometimes to see me. He would hardly ever speak of England—I think he did not trust himself. He never mentioned any relations or any English friends, and when I spoke of home, he would shut his mouth very tightly, and look terribly sad. I saw that for some reason the subject pained him, so I never spoke of it if I could help it.
"He was a most entertaining companion, Mr. Carstares; he used to tell my husband tales that made him laugh as I had not heard him laugh for months. He was very lively, very witty, and almost finickingly well dressed, but what his occupation was I could not quite ascertain. He said he was a gentleman of leisure, but I do not think he was at all wealthy. He frequented all the gaming houses, and I heard tales of his marvellous luck, so one day I taxed him with it, and he laughed and said he lived by Chance—he meant dice. Yet I know, for I once had conversation with his servant, that his purse was at times very, very slender."
"The time he aided you, Mrs. Fanshawe, when was that?"
She flushed.
"That was a few months after we first met him. I was—foolish; my married life was not—very happy, and I was—or, rather, I fancied myself—in love with an Austrian nobleman, who—who—well, sir, suffice it that I consented to dine with him one evening. I found then that he was not thegalant hommeI had thought him, but something quite different. I do not know what I should have done had not Sir Anthony arrived."
"He did arrive then?"
"Yes. You see, he knew that this Austrian had asked me to dine—I told him—and he counselled me to refuse. But I—well, sir, I have told you, I was young and very foolish—I would not listen. When he called at our house and found that I was out, he at once guessed where I had gone, and he followed me to the Count's house, gave an Austrian name, and was announced just as the Count tried to—tried to—kiss me. I think I shall never forget the relief of that moment! He was so safe, and so English! The Count was furious, and at first I thought he would have his lackeys throw Anthony out. But when he heard all that Anthony had to say, he realised that it was useless to try to detain me—and I was taken home. Anthony was very kind—he did not scold, neither had he told my husband. Two days after, he and the Count fought a duel, and the Count was wounded in the lung. That was all. But it made me very grateful to him and interested in his affairs. Mr. Fanshawe left Vienna a few weeks after that, and I have never seen mypreux chevaliersince." She sighed and looked steadily across at Carstares. "And you—you are so like him!"
"You think so, madam?" was all he could find to say.
"I do, sir. And something more, which, perhaps, you will deem an impertinence. Is Anthony your brother?"
The suddenness of the attack threw Carstares off his guard. He went white.
"Madam!"
"Please be not afraid that mine is the proverbial woman's tongue, sir. It does not run away with me, I assure you. When I saw you the other night for the first time, I was struck by the resemblance, and I asked my partner, Mr. Stapely, who you were. He told me, and much more beside, which I was not at the time desirous of hearing."
"Trust Will Stapely!" exclaimed Richard, and mentally cursed the amiable gossip-monger.
"Among other things he told me of your elder brother-who—who—in fact, he told me the whole story. Of course, my mind instantly leapt to my poor Sir Anthony, despite that in appearance he is younger than you. Was I right?"
Richard rose to his feet and walked away to the window, standing with his back to her.
"Ay!"
"I was sure of it," she nodded. "So that was why he would not speak of England? Poor boy!"
Richard's soul writhed under the lash of her pity.
"So he will always be outcast," she continued. "Alone, unhappy, without friends—"
"No!" he cried, turning. "'Fore Gad, no, madam!"
"Will society—cruel, hard society—receive him, then?" she asked.
"Society will—one day—receive him, Mrs. Fanshawe. You will see."
"I long for that day," she sighed. "I wish I had it in my power to help him—to repay in part the debt I owe him."
At that he lifted his head.
"My brother, madam, would count it not a debt, but an honour," he answered proudly.
"Yes," she smiled. "You are like him; when you speak like that you might almost be he."
"He is worth a thousand of me, Mrs. Fanshawe!" he replied vehemently, and broke off, staring down at the table.
"And his name?" she asked softly.
"John Anthony St. Ervine Delaney Carstares," he said, "Earl of Wyncham."
"So the Anthony was real! I am so glad, for he would always be Anthony to me."
There was a long silence, broken at last by the lady.
"I fear I have made you sad, Mr. Carstares. You will drink a dish of Bohea with me, before you go? And we will not speak of this again."
"You are very good, madam. Believe me, I am grateful to you for telling me all that you have. I beg you will allow me to wait on you again ere long?"
"I shall be honoured, sir. I am nearly always at home to my friends."
Her sister entered the room soon after, and private conversation came to an end.
Carstares lay awake long that night, hearing the hours toll by and the owls screech in the square. The widow's words had sunk deep into his ever-uneasy conscience, and he could not sleep for the thought of John, "alone, unhappy, without friends." ... Time after time had he argued this question with himself: John or Lavinia? ... He fell to wondering where his brother now was; whether he was still roaming the South Country, a highwayman. No one would ever know how he, Richard, dreaded each fresh capture made by the military. Every time he expected John to be among the prisoners, and he visited Newgate so often that his friends twitted him on it, vowing he had Selwyn's love of horrors.
He would argue that the matter rested in John's own hands: if he were minded to come back to society, he would do so; but deep within himself he knew that such a decision was unworthy of one even so debased as was he. Then his mind went to Lavinia, who alternately enchanted and exasperated him. Only a week ago she had defied him openly in the matter of her friendship with Lovelace, yet had she not afterwards apologised, and thrust the Captain aside for his sake? She was so sweetly naughty, so childishly unreasonable. Selfish? Yes, he supposed so, but he loved her!—loved her so greatly that it were a pleasure to him to die for her sake. Yet John—John was his brother—the adored elder brother, and by obeying Lavinia he was wronging him, hurting him. If only Lavinia would consent to the truth being told! It always came back to that point: if only she would consent. And she never would. She insisted that, having married her under false pretences, he had no right to disgrace her now. She was right, he knew, but he wished she could be for once unselfish.
So he worried on through the night, tossing to and fro in his great bed, a weight on his mind, a ceaseless ache in his heart.
Towards dawn he fell asleep and did not wake again until his chocolate was brought to him. Bitterly he reflected that at least John had no conscience to prey upon him; he did not fall asleep with his brain seething with conflicting arguments, and awake with the decision as far off as ever. To-day his head ached unbearably, and he stayed in bed for some time contemplating the grey morning. A fog hung over the Square, and through it the trees, with their withered autumn leaves, loomed dismally before the windows. There was something infinitely depressing about the dull outlook, and presently he rose and allowed his valet to dress him, not able to stand the inaction any longer. His headache was better by the time he had visited his wife in her room, and listened to her enthusiastic account of last night's rout, and, going out into the square, he called a chair, ordering the men to carry him to White's, where he intended to write two letters. Somehow, Wyncham House was too poignantly full of memories of John to-day, and he was thankful to be out of it.
White's was crowded even at that hour of the morning, and the noise seemed to cut through his head. Men hailed him from all sides, offering him bets; someone tried to tell him some piece of scandal; they would not let him alone, and at last his jagged nerves would no longer support it, and he left the house to go further down the street to his other club, the Cocoa-Tree, which he hoped to find less rowdy. It was fuller than he expected, but many of the men had come as he had, to write letters and to be quiet. Very little gaming was as yet in swing.
Richard wrote steadily for perhaps an hour, and sealed his last letter preparatory to leaving. As he affixed the wafer, he was conscious of a stir behind him, and heard exclamations of:
"Where in thunder did you spring from?"
"Gad, 'tis an age since I've seen you!"
"Lord, 'tis O'Hara!"
Then came the soft Irish voice in answer, and he slewed round in his chair to face them all. Miles O'Hara was the centre of a little group of interested and welcoming clubmen, explaining his arrival.
"Sure, I was in town on a matter of business, and I thought I must come to the club to see ye all while I was here, for 'tis not often I get the chance—"
Richard rose, gathering up his letters and stared across at this man who had been Jack's greatest friend. He took a step towards him. As he did so, O'Hara turned and caught sight of him. Richard was about to hail him, when he suddenly noticed the change in his expression. The good humour died out of the Irishman's eyes and left them hard and scornful. His pleasant mouth curved into a disdainful line. Carstares stood still, one hand on the back of a chair, his eyes rivetted to O'Hara's face, reading all the reproach, the red-hot anger that Miles was trying to convey to him. O'Hara achieved a sneer and turned his shoulder, continuing to address his friends.
Richard's head swam. O'Hara was ignoring him, would not speak to him.... O'Hara knew the truth! He walked blindly to the door, and groped for the handle.... O'Hara knew! He was in the passage, on the front steps, in the road, shuddering. O'Hara knew, and he had looked at him as if—as if—again he shuddered, and seeing an empty chair, hailed it, bidding the men carry him to Grosvenor Square.... O'Hara despised him!—reproached him! Then Jack was in trouble? He had seen him and learnt the truth? God, but his brain was reeling! ...
After the encounter with O'Hara, whatever peace of mind Richard had had, left him. He knew not a moment's quiet; all day, and sometimes all night, his brain worried round and round the everlasting question: John or Lavinia? He had quite decided that it must be either the one or the other; the idea that he might conceivably retain his wifeandconfess the truth, never occurred to him. So often had Lavinia assured him that he had no right to expect her to share his disgrace, that now he believed it. He thought that she would elope with Lovelace, whom, his tortured mind decided, she really loved. Any attempt to frustrate such an action would, he supposed wretchedly, be the essence of selfishness. Of course he was not himself, and his brain was not working normally or rationally; had he but known it, he was mentally ill, and if Lavinia had thought to examine him closely she could not have failed to observe the fever spots on each cheek, the unnaturally bright eyes and the dark rings encircling them. Richard wore the look of one goaded beyond endurance, and utterly tired and overwrought. As he told Mrs. Fanshawe, when she exclaimed at his appearance—he could not rest; he must always be moving, thinking. She saw that he was not entirely himself, and counselled him to consult a doctor. His half-angry repudiation of all illness did not surprise her, but she was considerably startled when, in answer to her pleading that he should have a care for himself, he vehemently said: "If I could die, I should be glad!" She wondered what his wife was about not to see his condition, and wished that she might do something. But she was not acquainted with Lady Lavinia, and she felt it would be a piece of gross presumption on her part to speak to her of Richard. If she had thought his malady to be physical, she reflected, she might venture a word, but as she perceived it to be mental, she could only hope that it would pass in time, and that he would recover from his run-down condition.
Lady Lavinia was pursuing her butterfly existence, heeding nothing but her own pleasure, bent on enjoying herself. She succeeded very well, on the whole, but she could not help wishing that Dicky were a little more cheerful and wishful to join in her gaiety. Of late he was worse than ever, and although he supplied her wants uncomplainingly, she would almost rather he had refused her and shown a little life, than give way to her with this dreadful apathy.
Lovelace was out of town for a week, and Lavinia was surprised to find how little she missed him. To be sure, playing with fire was very pleasant, but when it was removed out of her reach, it really made no odds. She missed Harry's adulation and his passionate love-making, for she was one of those women who must always have admiration and excitement, but she was not made miserable by his absence. She continued to flutter round to all the entertainments of the season with one or other of her brothers, and when Lovelace returned he was disturbed by her casual welcome. However, she was undoubtedly pleased to see him, and soon fell more or less under his spell, allowing him to be by her side when Tracy was not near, and to charm her ears with compliments and gallantry.
To do him justice, Captain Harold was really in love with her and was quite ready to relinquish his commission if only she would run away with him. He had private means of his own, and promised her that her every whim should be satisfied. But Lavinia scolded him and shook her head. Apart from any ulterior consideration, Richard was, after all, her husband; he, too, loved her, and she was very, very fond of him, although she did plague him dreadfully.
Lovelace assured her that her husband did not love her nearly as much as he, and when she smiled her disbelief, lost his temper and cried that all the town knew Carstares to be at Mrs. Fanshawe's feet!
Lavinia stiffened.
"Harold!"
"I am only surprised that you have been blind to it," he continued. "Where do you think he goes every day for so long? White's? No. To 16, Mount Street! Stapely called there and met him; another day Lady Davenant saw him with her; Wilding has also met him at her house. He spends nearly every afternoon with her!"
Lavinia was a Belmanoir, and she had all the Belmanoir pride. Rising to her feet she drew her cloak about her with her most queenly air.
"You forget yourself, Harold," she said haughtily. "Never dare to speak to me of my husband again in that tone! You may take me at once to my brother."
He was very penitent, wording his apology most cleverly, smoothing her ruffled plumage, withdrawing his words, but at the same time contriving to leave their sting behind. She forgave him, yes, but he must never offend her so again.
Although she had indignantly refused to believe the scandal, it nevertheless rankled, and she found herself watching her husband with jealous eyes, noticing his seeming indifference towards her and his many absences from home. Then came a day when she caused her chair to be borne down Mount Street at the very moment when Richard was coming out of No. 16.
That was enough for Lavinia. So he was indeed tired of her! He loved another woman!—some wretched widow! For the first time a real worry plagued her. She stayed at home that evening and exerted all her arts to captivate her husband. But Richard, seeing John unhappy, reproachful, every way he turned, his head on fire, his brain seething with conflicting arguments, hardly noticed her, and as soon as he might politely do so, left her, to pace up and down the library floor, trying to make up his mind what to do.
Lady Lavinia was stricken with horror. She had sickened him by her megrims, as Tracy had prophesied she would! He no longer cared for her!Thiswas why he continually excused himself from accompanying her when she went out! For once in her life she faced facts, and the prospect alarmed her. If it was not already too late, she must try to win back his love, and to do this she realised she must cease to tease him for money, and also cease to snap at him whenever she felt at all out of sorts. She must charm him back to her. She had no idea how much she cared for him until now that she thought he did not care for her. It was dreadful: she had always been so sure of Dicky! Whatever she did, however exasperating she might be, he would always adore her.
And all the time, Richard, far from making love to Mrs. Fanshawe, was hearing anecdotes of his brother from her, little details of his appearance, things he had said. He drank in all the information, clutching eagerly at each fresh scrap of gossip, greedy to hear it if it in any way concerned John. His brain was absorbed with this one subject, and he never saw when Lavinia smiled upon him, nor did he seem to hear her coaxing speeches. When she remarked, as she presently did, on his pallor, he almost snapped at her, and left the room. Once she put her arms about him and kissed him on the lips; he put her gently aside, too worried to respond to the caress, but, had she known it—grateful for it.
His Grace of Andover meeting his sister at Ranelagh Gardens, thought her face looked pinched, and her eyes unhappy. He inquired the reason, but Lady Lavinia refused to confide even in him, and pleaded a headache. Andover, knowing her, imagined that she had been refused some kickshaw, and thought no more about it.
He himself was very busy. Only two days before a groom had presented himself at St. James's Square, bearing a missive from Harper, very illegible and ill-spelt, but to the point:
"YR. GRACE,
"I have took the liberty of engageing this Man, Douglas, in Yr. Name. I hope I shall soon be Able to have carrid out the Rest of yr. Grace's Instructions, and trust my Connduct will met with Yr. Grace's Approvall.
Very Obed'tly,
M. HARPER."
Tracy confirmed the engagement and straightway dispatched the man to Andover, where the head groom would undoubtedly find work for him to do. He was amused at the blind way in which the man had walked into his trap, and meditated cynically on the frailty of human nature, which will always follow the great god Mammon.
Not three days later came another letter, this time from Mr. Beauleigh, addressed to him at White's, under the name of Sir Hugh Grandison. It asked for the man Harper's character.
His Grace of Andover answered it in the library of his own home, and smiled sarcastically as he wrote Harper down "exceeding honest and trustworthy, as I have always found."
He was in the middle of the letter when the door was unceremoniously pushed open and Andrew lounged into the room.
His Grace looked up frowning. Not a whit dismayed by the coolness of his reception, his brother kicked the door to and lowered his long limbs into a chair.
"May I ask to what I owe the honour of this intrusion?" smiled Tracy dangerously.
"Richard," was the cheerful reply, "Richard."
"As I am not interested in either him or his affairs—"
"How truly amiable you are to-day! But I think you'll be interested in this, 'tis so vastly mysterious."
"Indeed? What is the matter?"
"Just what I want to know!"
Tracy sighed wearily.
"Pray come to the point, Andrew—if point there be. I have no time to waste."
"Lord! Busy? Working? God ha' mercy!" The young rake stretched his legs out before him and cast his eyes down their shapeliness. Then he stiffened and sat up, staring at one white-stockinged ankle.
"Now, damn and curse it! where did that come from?" he expostulated mildly.
"Where didwhatcome from?"
"That great splash of mud on my leg. Brand new on this morning, and I've scarce set my nose without doors. Damn it, I say! A brand new—"
"Leg?"
"Hey? What's that you say?"
"Nought. When you have quite finished your eulogy, perhaps you would consent to tell me your errand?"
"Oh, ay!—but twenty shillings the pair! Think of it! ... Well, the point—there is one, you see—is this: it is Richard's desire that you honour him with your presence at Wyncham on Friday week, at three in the afternoon exactly. To which effect he sends you this." He tossed a letter on to the desk. "You are like to have the felicity of meeting me there."
Tracy ripped open the packet and spread the single sheet on the desk before him. He read it through very deliberately, turned it over, as if in search of more, re-read it, folded it, and dropped it into the wastebasket at his side. He then picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink again.
"What think you?" demanded Andrew, impatiently.
His Grace wrote tranquilly on to the end of the line.
"What think I of what?"
"Why, the letter, of course! What ails the man? 'Something of great import to impart to us,' forsooth! What means he?"
"Yes, I noticed 'twas very badly worded," commented Tracy. "I have not the vaguest notion as to his meaning."
"But what do you make of it? Lord, Tracy, don't be such a fish! Dick is summoning quite a party!"
"You appear to be in his confidence, my dear Andrew. Allow me to congratulate you. No doubt we shall know more—ah—on Friday week, at three o'clock."
"Oh, you'll go, then?"
"Quite possibly." He went on writing unconcernedly.
"And you've no idea of what 'tis about? Dick is very strange. He hardly listens to what one has to say, and fidget—Lord!"
"Ah!"
"I think he looks ill, an' 'pon my soul, so does Lavvy! Do you suppose there is aught amiss?"
"I really have no idea. Pray do not let me detain you."
Andrew hoisted himself out of his chair.
"Oh, I'm not staying, never fear! ... I suppose you cannot oblige me with—say—fifty guineas?"
"I should be loth to upset your suppositions," replied his Grace sweetly.
"You will not? Well, I didn't think you would somehow! But I wish you might contrive to let me have it, Tracy. I've had prodigious ill-luck of late, and the Lord knows 'tis not much I get from you! I don't want to ask Dick again."
"I should not let the performance grow monotonous, certainly," agreed the other. "Fifty, you said?"
"Forty-five would suffice."
"Oh, you may have it!" shrugged his Grace. "At once?"
"Blister me, but that's devilish good of you, Tracy! At once would be convenient tome!"
His Grace produced a key from his vest pocket and unlocked a drawer in the desk. From it he took a small box. He counted out fifty guineas, and added another to the pile. Andrew stared at it.
"What's that for?" he inquired.
"The stockings," replied Tracy, with a ghost of a smile. Andrew burst out laughing.
"That's good! Gad! but you're devilish amusing, 'pon rep. you are!" He thanked his Grace profusely and gathering up the money, left the room.
Outside he gave vent to a low whistle of astonishment. "Tare an' ouns! he must be monstrous well-pleased over something!" he marvelled. "I shall awaken soon, I doubt not." He chuckled a little as he descended the staircase, but his face was full of wonderment.
Lovelace called nearly every day at Wyncham House, but was always refused admittance, as Lady Lavinia deemed it prudent not to see him. There came a day, however, when he would not be gainsaid, and was ushered into her drawing-room. He kissed her hands lingeringly, holding them for a long while in his.
"Lavinia! Cruel fair one!"
She drew her hands away, not too well pleased at his intrusion.
"How silly, Harold! I cannot have you tease me every day!"
She allowed him to sit by her on the window seat, and he again possessed himself of her hands. Did she love him? She hoped he was not going to be foolish. Of course not. He did not believe her, and started to plead his suit, imploring her to come away with him. In vain Lady Lavinia begged him to be quiet; she had stirred up a blaze, and it threatened to consume her. He was so insistent that, expecting Richard at any moment, and terrified lest there should be a disturbance, she promised to give him an answer next evening, at the theatre. She managed to be rid of him in this way, and, with a relieved sigh, watched him walk down the square. She was very fond of dear Harry, but really, he was dreadfully tiresome at times.
She brought her tiny mirror out from her pocket and surveyed her reflection critically, giving a tweak to one curl, and smoothing another back. She was afraid she was looking rather old this evening, and hoped that Richard would not think so. She glanced up at the clock, wondering where he was; surely he should be in by now? Then she arranged a chair invitingly, pushed a stool up to it and sat down opposite. With a sigh, she reflected that it was an entirely new departure for her to strive to please and captivate her husband, and she fell a-thinking of how he must have waited on her in the old days, waiting as she was waiting now—hoping for her arrival. Lady Lavinia was beginning to realise that perhaps Dick's life had not been all roses with her as wife.
The door opened and Richard came into the room. Deep lines were between his brows, but his mouth was for once set firmly. He looked sombrely down at her, thinking how very beautiful she was.
Lady Lavinia smiled and nodded towards the chair she had prepared.
"Sit down, Dicky! I am so glad you have come! I was monstrous dull and lonely, I assure you!"
"Were you?" he said, fidgeting with her scissors. "No, I will not sit down. I have something to say to you, Lavinia. Something to tell you."
"Oh,haveyou?" she asked. "Something nice, Dicky?"
"I fear you will hardly think so. I am about to make an end."
"Oh—oh, are you? Ofwhat?"
"Of this—this deceitful life I am leading—have been leading. I—I—I am going to confess the whole truth."
"Rich-ard!"
He let fall the scissors and paced restlessly away down the room.
"I—I tell you, Lavinia, I cannot endure it! I cannot! I cannot! The thought of what John may be bearing is driving me crazy! I must speak!"
"You—you can't!" she gasped. "After seven years! Dicky, for heaven's sake—!" The colour ebbed and flowed in her cheeks.
"I cannot continue any longer this living of a lie—I have been feeling it more and more ever since—ever since I met—Jack—that time on the road. And now I can no longer stand it. Everywhere I go I seem to see him—looking at me—you don't understand—"
Lavinia cast aside her work.
"No! No! I do not! 'Pon rep., but you should have thought of this before, Dick!"
"I know it. Nothing can excuse my cowardice—my weakness. I know all that, but it is not too late even now to make amends. In a week they will all know the truth."
"What—what do you mean?"
"I have requested all whom it concerns to come to Wyncham the Friday after this."
"Good heavens! Dick, Dick,think!"
"I have thought. God!howI have thought!"
"It is not fair to me! Oh, think of your honour—Wyncham!"
"My honour is less than nothing. 'Tis of his that I think."
She sprang up, clutching at his arm, shaking him.
"Richard, you are mad! You must not do this! You must not, I say!"
"I implore you, Lavinia, not to try to make me change my decision. It is of no use. Nothing you can say will make any difference."
She flew into a passion, flinging away from him, her good resolutions forgotten.
"You have no right to disgrace me! If you do it, I will never forgive you! I won't stay with you—I—"
He broke in—this was what he had expected; he must not whine; this was retribution.
"I know. I have faced that."
She was breathless for a moment. He knew! He had faced it! He had taken her seriously—he always expected her to leave him! Oh, he must indeed be tired of her, and wanted her to go! What was he saying?
"I know that you love Lovelace. I—I have known it for some time."
Lavinia sank into the nearest chair. To what depths had her folly led her?
"I shall put no obstacle in the way of your flight, of course...."
This was dreadful! Lady Lavinia buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. It was true then—he did not love her—he loved Mrs. Fanshawe—shewas to elope. She sobbed pitifully as the full horror of the situation struck her.
The temptation to gather her into his arms almost overmastered Richard, but he managed to choke it down. If he allowed himself to kiss her, she would try to break his resolution—mayhap, she would succeed. So he looked away from her, tortured by the sound of her crying.
Lavinia wept on, longing to feel his arms about her, ready to consent to anything if only he would show that he loved her. But when he made no movement towards her, pride came back, and flicking her handkerchief across her eyes, she rose to her feet.
"You are cruel!—cruel!—cruel! If you do this thing Ishallleave you!"
Now surely he would say something—contradict her!
With an immense effort, Richard controlled himself.
"I am—sorry—Lavinia," he said in a queer, constrained voice.
It was of no avail. She had killed his love, and he was longing to be rid of her. She walked to the door, and turned.
"I see that you do not love me," she said, with deadly calmness. "I understand perfectly." Then, as she wrenched the handle round: "I hate you!" she cried, and fled, her silken skirts rustling furiously down the corridor. A door slammed in the distance, and there was silence.
Carstares stood very still, staring down at her crumpled broidery. Presently he stooped to pick it up, and her violet scent was wafted up to him. He carried it to his lips, passionately.
If Lavinia had been able to see him, it would have changed the whole state of affairs; as it was she locked herself into her room and continued her cry in private. When she had no more tears to shed, she sat up and tried to think that she wanted to elope. Harold would be very good to her, she was sure, and she would doubtless lead a very exciting life, but—somehow the more she thought of it, the less she wanted to elope. Then she remembered that Dicky—why had she never realised how much she cared for him?—was in love with some horrid widow, and did not want her to remain with him. The idea was not to be borne, she was not going to be the unwanted wife. She would have to go away, though not with Lovelace. Dicky shouldnotforce her to elope with another man. She would go somewhere alone—she had forgotten—she had no money. The dowry that had been hers was spent years ago. She was utterly dependent on her husband. That settled it: shemustelope with Harry!
"Oh, was anyone ever so beset!" she sobbed as her misery swept in upon her with full force. "Why should I run away if I don't want to?"
Richard was away from home all next day, and his wife had plenty of time in which to meditate upon her situation. She had quite come to the conclusion that she must elope with Lovelace, and was only waiting for to-night to tell him so. She would never, never ask Richard to let her stay with him now that she knew he loved another. Truly a most trying predicament. The Carstares were going to-night to Drury Lane to see Garrick play one of his most successful comedies: theBeaux' Stratagem. Themondethat would flock to see the inimitable Archer was likely to be a very distinguished one, especially as the cast held the added attraction of Mrs. Clive, and ordinarily Lady Lavinia would have looked forward with much excitement to seeing the piece. To-day, however, she felt that she would far rather go to bed and cry. But Lovelace had to be answered, and besides that, she had invited two cousins, new come from Scotland, to accompany her, and she could not fail them.
So that evening saw her seated in her box, wonderfully gowned as usual, scanning the house. Behind her stood her husband—when she thought that this was the last time she would ever go with him to the theatre she had much ado to keep from bursting into tears before them all—and in the chair at her side was the cousin, Mrs. Fleming. Mr. Fleming stood with his hands behind his back, exclaiming every now and then as his kinsman, young Charles Holt, pointed out each newcomer of note. He was a short, tubby little man, dressed in sober brown, very neat as regards his wrists and neckband, but attired, so thought Lavinia, for the country, and not for town. His dark suit contrasted strangely with Mr. Holt's rather garish mixture of apple-green and pink, with waistcoat of yellow, and Richard's quieter, but far more handsome apricot and silver. His wig, too, was not at all modish, being of the scratch type that country gentlemen affected. His wife was the reverse of smart, but she was loud in her admiration of her more affluent cousin's stiff silks and laces.
She had married beneath her, had Mrs. Fleming, and the Belmanoirs had never quite forgiven the shockingmesalliance. William Fleming was nought but a simple Scotsman, whose father—even now the family shuddered at the thought—had been a farmer!
Lavinia was not over-pleased that they should have elected to visit London, and still less pleased that they should evince such an affection for the Hon. Richard and his wife.
"Well, to be sure, Lavvy, 'tis pleasant to sit here and admire all the people!" exclaimed Mrs. Fleming, for perhaps the twentieth time. "I declare I am grown positively old-fashioned from having lived for so long in the country!—yes, my dear, positively old-fashioned! ... I cannot but marvel at the great hoops everyone is wearing! I am sure mine is not half the size of yours, and the lady down there in the stage-box has one even larger!"
Lavinia directed her gaze towards the box in question. At any other time she would have been annoyed to see that the occupant was Lady Carlyle, her pet rival in all matters of fashion. Now she felt that nothing signified, and merely remarked that she considered those absurd garlands of roses on the dress quite grotesque.
Behind, Holt was directing Mr. Fleming's attention to a box at the back of the house.
"'Pon my soul, William! 'Tis the Duchess of Queensberry and her son—March, you know. I assure you there is no one more amiable in town. When I last visited her—"
"Charles knows well-nigh everyone here," remarked Mrs. Fleming ingenuously, and wondered why her cousin laughed.
When the curtain rose on the first act, Lovelace was nowhere to be seen, and Lavinia tried to interest herself in the play. But it is difficult to be interested in anything when one's whole mind is occupied with something else far more overwhelming. She was not the only one of the party that Garrick failed to amuse. Richard sat wretchedly in the shadow of the box, thinking how, in a short while, he would never again conduct his wife to the theatre and never again sit at her side watching her every change of expression.
In the first interval Lovelace had still not arrived, but many other acquaintances had arrived and called to see the Carstares. Markham, Wilding, Devereux, Sir John Fortescue—all came into the box at different times, paid homage to Lavinia, were introduced to Mrs. Fleming, laughed and cracked jokes with the men, and drifted away again.
How was it she had never before realised how much she enjoyed her life? wondered Lavinia. She settled down to listen to the second act, and Garrick's skill caught her interest and held it. For a moment she forgot her woes and clapped as heartily as anyone, laughing as gaily.
The next instant she remembered again, and sank back into unutterable gloom.
But Richard had heard her merry laugh, and his heart was even gloomier than hers. There was no help for it: Lavinia was delighted at the thought of leaving him.
As the curtain fell, Mrs. Fleming suddenly demanded if it was not Tracy seated in the box over on the other side. Lavinia turned to look. In the box, alone, sat his Grace, seemingly unaware of her presence.
"Is it not Tracy?" persisted Mrs. Fleming. "I remember his face so well."
"Yes," nodded Lavinia, and waved to him.
Andover rose, bowed, and left his box. In a few moments he was in their own, kissing his cousin's hand.
Lavinia now caught sight of Lovelace standing on the floor of the theatre looking up at her. He, too, disappeared from view, and she guessed that he was coming to speak with her. He had evidently failed to perceive the Duke, who was just a little behind her in the shadow.
Richard and Mr. Fleming had left the box, and only Charles Holt remained, engaging Mrs. Fleming's whole attention. If only Tracy would go! How was she ever to give Lovelace her answer with him sitting there so provokingly.
Captain Lovelace knocked at the door. Carelessly she bade him enter, and affected surprise on seeing him. His Grace looked at her through narrowed lids, and shot a swift glance at Lovelace, whose discomfiture at finding him there was palpable. Not a trace of emotion was visible on that impassive countenance, but Lavinia felt her brother's attitude to be sinister, as if he divined her wishes and was determined to frustrate them. She watched him smile on Lovelace and beg him to be seated. Whether by accident or design, she was not sure which, he had so placed the chairs that he himself was between her and the captain. Skilfully he drew Mrs. Fleming into the conversation, and rearranged his stage.
Lavinia found herself listening to the amiable Mr. Holt, and out of the tail of her eye observed that Lovelace had fallen a victim to her cousin. She could find no way of speaking to him, and dared not even signal, so adroitly was his Grace stage-managing the scene. Lavinia was now quite certain that he was managing it. Somehow he had guessed that she had arranged to speak to Lovelace to-night, and was determined to prevent her. How he had found out, she could not imagine, but she was too well acquainted with him to be surprised. He would never let her disgrace herself if he could help it—she knew that. In whatever manner he himself might behave, his sister's conduct must be above reproach; he would find some means of separating them until he could cause Lovelace to be removed. She did not in the least know how he would contrive to do this, but she never doubted that he could and would. And then she would have to stay with Richard—Richard, who did not want her. If only Tracy would go! Ah! he was rising!
His Grace of Andover begged Captain Lovelace to bear him company in his box. He would brook no refusal. He bore his captive off in triumph.
A minute later Mr. Fleming re-entered the box. The third act had just begun when Richard re-appeared, and softly took his seat. On went the play. Neither Tracy nor Lovelace came to the box during the next interval, and from her point of vantage Lavinia could see that Andrew had been introduced to the latter. She could guess how cleverly his Grace was keeping the Captain by him....
Lord Avon, who had only a week ago returned from Bath, came to pay his respects. He had much to tell dear Lady Lavinia. How Cholmondely and Falmouth had dared to fight a duel in Crescent Fields, and had been arrested. How furious the Beau was, but how his age was beginning to tell on him, and how it was whispered that his power was waning. All of which at any ordinary time would have interested my lady quite prodigiously, but now bored and even annoyed her.
On went the play. Scrub and Boniface kept the house in a roar; all but Richard and his wife were enthralled. The incomparable Kitty failed to hold Lavinia's attention. Would Lovelace manage to speak to her in the last interval? A solicitous enquiry from Mrs. Fleming roused her, and she had perforce to smile—to own to a slight headache, and to evince some interest in the play. One more interval: would he come? She became aware of a hand laid on her shoulder. Richard's voice, gravely courteous, sounded in her ears.
"You are heated, my dear. Will you walk outside a little?"
She felt a mad desire to cling to his hand, and suppressed it forcibly. She rose, hesitating. Mrs. Fleming decided the point.
"The very thing. How considerate of you, Mr. Carstares! I shall like to walk amongst all the people, to be sure! Here is Charles offering to escort us, too! What say you, Lavvy?"
"I—oh, I shall be pleased to do what suits you best, cousin," she answered.
"Then let us go, my love. Charles has an arm for each, so we may leave our husbands to chat."
They went out into the broad passage and walked towards the foyer. There Lord March espied Lavinia, who was always a favourite with him, and came forward, offering his arm. Lavinia took it, thankful to escape from Mr. Holt's vapid conversation. She let March conduct her to where his mother was sitting, with Mr. Selwyn at her elbow. Someone fetched her a glass of ratafie, and Montagu came to talk to her.
Stepping out of his box, Richard fell into the arms of his Grace of Andover.
"Ah! Dick!"
Richard eyed him coldly.
"You wanted me?"
Tracy saw Mr. Fleming approaching
"Only to ask if I may return with you to Grosvenor Square. I have something important to say."
"Certainly," bowed Richard, and turned aside.
Lovelace, who had succeeded in escaping from the Belmanoir claws, hurried in search of Lavinia. Not finding her in her box, he gathered she must be in the foyer and made his way towards it. As soon as she saw him coming she set down her glass and rose to her feet.
"Oh, Captain Lovelace! Have you come to fetch me back to my seat? I have scarce set eyes on you this evening. No, Markham, you maynotcome! No, nor you, my lord! Madam—" She curtsied low to the old Duchess and walked away on Harold's arm.
When they were once in the deserted passage behind the boxes, he turned eagerly towards her.
"Well, my dearest? Well?"
Lady Lavinia's mouth drooped miserably.
"Yes," she said, "I shall have to come with you."
The tone was damping, to say the least of it, but he did not seem to notice it.
"Lavinia! You mean it?"
"Yes," she assented, still more dejectedly.
"My beautiful love! You will really come? When? At once?"
"At—Oh, no, no!"
"Darling, the sooner the better. I understand 'tis a great step to expect you to take in a hurry, but I assure you 'tis wisest. Can you come to-morrow?"
Her big eyes dilated.
"No! No! I—oh, I cannot leave Dicky so soon!" She ended with a sob.
"But, Lavinia, my dearest! You surely do not want tostaywith him?" he cried.
"Yes I do!" she answered. "I—I don't want ever to leave him!"
This blighting speech left him gasping.
"You—but—heavens! what are you saying? You loveme!"
"No, I don't!" she contradicted. "I always s-said I d-didn't. I love my husband!"
"You are distraught!" he exclaimed. "If you love him, why do you consent to elope with me?"
She looked at him reproachfully.
"There is no one else," she said mournfully.