"Good Lord! What—"
"I have to elope with someone—because—Dick—d-doesn't love me any more—you see. I will come with you, and I will try to be good."
He kissed her hand quickly
"Sweetheart! ... I still think you are not yourself. You will think differently to-morrow—you do not really love Carstares."
She shut her mouth obstinately, tilting her regal little head.
He watched her anxiously.
"If you really do love him, 'tis ridiculous to elope with me," he said.
Her fingers tightened on his wrist.
"But I must! You don't understand, Harry! Youmusttake me! Don't you want me?"
"Of course I do, but not if you are longing to be somewhere else all the time. The whole thing seems preposterous!"
"'Tis all dreadful!—dreadful! I have never been so unhappy in my life! I—oh, I wish I had not been so heedless and selfish!"
Lovelace pondered for a moment, as they stood outside her box; then, seeing that people were returning to their seats, he opened the door and took her in.
"Listen, dear! This is the maddest scheme ever I heard; but if you are determined, you shall carry it through. Come to my lodgings to-morrow evening! Bring as little baggage as possible; I will have all ready, and we will post at once to Dover. Then in time I hope you will forget Richard and come to care for me a little."
"You are very, very good, Harry! Yes, I will do just as you say and, oh, I am sorry to put you out like this! I am nought but a plague to everyone, and I wish I were dead! You don't really love me, and I shall be a burden!"
"I do indeed love you!" he assured her, but within himself he could not help wishing that he had not fallen quite so passionately in love with her. "I'll leave you now, sweet, for your husband will be returning at any moment." He kissed her hands lightly "A demain, fairest!"
How she sat through the last act Lavinia could never afterwards imagine. She was longing to be at home—so soon to be home no longer—and quiet. Her head ached now as Richard's had ached for weeks. More than anything did she want to rest it against her husband's shoulder, so temptingly near, and to feel his sheltering arms about her. But Dick was in love with Isabella Fanshawe, and she must sit straight and stiff in her chair and smile at the proper places.
At last the play was ended! The curtain descended on the bowing Archer, and the house stamped and clapped its appreciation. The curtain rose again—what! not finished yet? Ah, no! it was but Garrick leading Mrs. Clive forward. Would they never have done?
Mrs. Fleming was standing; she supposed they were going, and got up. Someone put her cloak about her shoulders; Richard—for the last time. Mr. Holt escorted her to her coach, and put her and her cousin into it. He and Mr. Fleming had their chairs; so only Richard and Tracy went with the ladies. The Flemings were staying with friends in Brook Street, just off Grosvenor Square, so that when they had put Harriet down, only a few more yards remained to be covered.
Lavinia wondered dully why Tracy had elected to come with them. What did he want? Was he going to warn Dick of her intended flight? He little knew the true state of affairs!
At the foot of the staircase at Wyncham House she turned to say good-night.
She merely nodded to Tracy, but to Dick she extended her hand. He took it in his, kissing it, and she noticed how cold were his fingers, how burning hot his lips. Then he released her, and she went slowly up the stairs to her room.
His Grace watched her through his eyeglass. When she was out of sight he turned and surveyed Richard critically.
"If that is the way you kiss a woman, Lavinia has my sympathies," he remarked.
Richard's lips tightened. He picked up a stand of lighted candles and ushered his Grace into the drawing-room.
"I presume you did not come to tell me that?" he asked.
"Your presumption is correct, Richard. I have come to open your eyes."
"You are too kind."
His Grace laid his hat on the table, and sat down on the arm of a chair.
"I think perhaps I am. It may interest you to hear that Lavinia intends to elope with our gallant friend the Captain." Richard bowed.
"You knew it?"
"Certainly."
Andover looked him over.
"May I ask what steps you are taking to prevent her?"
"None."
His Grace's expression was quite indescribable. For a moment he was speechless, and then he reverted to heavy sarcasm.
"Pray remember to be at hand—to conduct her to her chair!" he drawled. "Upon my soul, you sicken me!
"I am grieved. There is a remedy," replied Carstares significantly.
Tracy ignored the suggestion.
"I suppose it is nothing to you that you lose her? No; It is nothing to you that she disgraces her name? Oh, no!"
"Myname, I think."
"Our name! Is it possible for her to disgrace yours?"
Richard went white and his hand flew instinctively to his sword hilt.
Tracy looked at him.
"Do you think I would soil my blade with you?" he asked, very softly.
Richard's hand fell from the hilt: his eyes searched the other's face.
"You know?" he asked at last, quite calmly.
"You fool," answered his Grace gently. "You fool, do you think I have not always known?"
Richard leaned against the mantel-shelf.
"You never thought I was innocent? You knew that night? You guessed?"
The Duke sneered.
"Knowing both, could I suspect other than you?" he asked insultingly.
"Oh, my God!" cried Carstares suddenly. "Why could you not have said so before?"
The Duke's eyes opened wide.
"It has chafed you—eh? I knew it would. I've watched you." He chuckled beneath his breath. "And those fools never looked beneath the surface. One and all, they believed that John would cheat. John! They swallowed it tamely and never even guessed at the truth."
"You, at least, did not believe?"
"I? Hardly. Knowing you for a weak fool and him for a quixotic fool, I rather jumped to conclusions."
"Instead, you tried to throw the blame on him. I would to God you had exposed me!"
"So you have remarked. I confess I do not understand this heroic attitude. Why should I interfere in what was none of my business? What proof had I?"
"Why did you raise no demur? What motive had you?"
"I should have thought it fairly obvious."
Richard stared at him, puzzled.
"Gad, Richard! but you are singularly obtuse. Have I not pointed out that John was a quixotic fool? When did I say he was a weak one?"
"You mean—you mean you wanted Lavinia to marry me—because you thought to squeeze me as you willed?" asked Carstares slowly.
His Grace's thin nostrils wrinkled up.
"You are so crude," he complained.
"It suited you that Jack should be disgraced? You thought I should seize his money. You—you—"
"Rogue? But you will admit that I at least am an honest rogue. You are—er—a dishonest saint. I would sooner be what I am."
"I know there is nothing on God's earth more vile than I am!" replied Carstares, violently.
His Grace sneered openly.
"Very pretty, Richard, but a little tardy, methinks." He paused, and something seemed to occur to him. "'Tis why you purpose to let Lavinia go, I suppose? You confess the truth on Friday—eh?"
Richard bowed his head.
"I have not the right to stop her. She—chooses her own road."
"She knows?" sharply.
"She has always known."
"The jade! And I never guessed it!" He paused. "Yes, I understand your heroic attitude. I am sorry I cannot pander to it. In spite of all this, I cannot permit my sister to ruin herself."
"She were as effectually ruined an she stayed with me."
"Pshaw! After seven years, who is like to care one way or the other which of you cheated? Play the man for once and stop her!"
"ShelovesLovelace, I tell you!"
"What of it? She will recover from that."
"No—I cannot ask her to stay with me—'twould be damnably selfish."
His Grace appeared exasperated.
"'Fore Gad, you are a fool! Ask her!Askher! Force her! Kick Lovelace from your house and abandon the heroic pose, I beg of you!"
"Do you suppose I want to lose her?" cried Carstares. "'Tis because I love her so much that I will not stand in the way of her happiness!"
The Duke flung round and picked up his hat.
"I am sorry I cannot join with you in your heroics. I must take the matter into my own hands, as usual, it seems. Lord, but you should have learnt to make her obey you, my good Dick! She has led you by the nose ever since she married you, and she was a woman who wanted mastering!" He went over to the door and opened it. "I will call upon you to-morrow, when I shall hope to find you more sane. They do not purpose to leave until late, I know, for Lovelace is promised to Mallaby at three o'clock. There is time in which to act."
"I shall not interfere," repeated Richard.
His Grace sneered.
"So you have remarked. It remains for me to do. Good-night."
Lady Lavinia's frame of mind when she awoke next morning was hardly befitting one who contemplated an elopement. A weight seemed to rest on her chest, hopeless misery was gathered about her head. She could not bring herself to drink her chocolate, and, feeling that inaction was the worst of all, she very soon crawled out of bed and allowed her maid to dress her. Then she went with dragging steps to her boudoir, wondering all the time where Richard was and what he was doing. She seated herself at her window and looked out on to the square, biting the edge of her handkerchief in the effort to keep back her tears.
Richard was in a no more cheerful mood. He, too, left his chocolate untouched, and went presently down to the breakfast table and looked at the red sirloin with a feeling of acute nausea. He managed to drink a cup of coffee, and immediately afterwards left the room and made his way to his wife's boudoir. He told himself he was acting weakly, and had far better avoid her, but in the end he gave way to his longing to see her, and knocked on one white panel.
Lavinia's heart leapt. How well she knew that knock!
"Come in!" she called, and tried to compose her features.
Richard entered and shut the door behind him.
"Oh—oh—good-morning!" she smiled. "You—wanted to speak with me—Dick?"
"I—yes—that is—er—have you the Carlyles' invitation?"
It was, perhaps, an unlucky excuse. Lavinia turned away and fought against her tears.
"I—I believe—'tis in my—escritoire," she managed to say. "I—I will look for it."
She rose and unlocked the bureau, standing with her back to him.
"'Tis no matter," stammered Carstares. "I—only—'twas but that I could not find it. Pray do not disturb yourself!"
"Oh—not—at all," she answered, scattering a handful of letters before her. "Yes—here 'tis." She came up to him with the note in her hand, extending it.
Carstares looked down at the golden head, and at the little face with its eyes cast down, and red mouth set so wistfully. Heavens, how could he bear to live without her! Mechanically he took the letter.
Lavinia turned away, and as she stepped from him something snapped in Richard's brain. The luckless invitation was flung down.
"No, by God you shall not!" he cried suddenly.
Lavinia stopped, trembling.
"Oh—oh, what do you mean?" she fluttered.
The mists were gone from his mind now, everything was clear. Lavinia should not elope with Lovelace. In two strides he was at her side, had caught her by the shoulders and swung her to face him.
"You shall not leave me! Do you understand? I cannot live without you!"
Lavinia gave a little cry full of relief, joy and wonderment, and shrank against him.
"Oh, please, please forgive me and keep me with you!" she cried, and clung to the lapels of his coat.
Carstares swept her right off the ground in the violence of his embrace, but she did not mind, although the crushing was ruinous to her silks. Silks were no longer uppermost in her brain. She returned his kisses eagerly, sobbing a little.
When Carstares was able to say anything beyond how he loved her, he demanded if she did not love him?
"Of course I do!" she cooed. "I always, always did, only I was so selfish and so careless!"
He carried her to the sofa and sat down with her on his knee, trying to look into her face. But she had somehow contrived to hide it on his shoulder, and he did not succeed.
"Then you never loved that puppy?" he asked, amazed.
One hand crept up to his other shoulder.
"Oh, Dicky, no! And—and you—you don't love that horrid Mrs. Fanshawe, do you?"
He was still more amazed.
"Mrs. Fanshawe? Great heavens, no! You never thought that, surely?"
"I did—I did! Since you were always at her house, and so cold to me—how could I help it?"
"Cold toyou? My dearest, surely not?"
"You were—you truly were—and I was so miserable—I—I thought I had been so unreasonable and so horrid that you had ceased to I-love me—and I did not know what to do. And—and then you told me that you were going to—to confess—and I lost my temper and said I would n-not stay with you—But I never, never meant it—and when you seemed to expect me to go—I—I did not know what to do again!"
He patted her shoulder comfortingly.
"Sweetheart, don't cry! I had no idea of all this—why, I was sure that you loved Lovelace—I never doubted it—why in the world did you not tell me the truth?"
She sat up at that, and looked at him.
"Why, how could I?" she demanded. "I was quite certain that you loved Isabella Fanshawe. I felt I had to go away, and I could not do it alone—so—so—so, of course I had to elope. And I told Harold last night that I would go with him—and I'm afraid he didn't quite want me when he heard that I loved you. Oh, Dicky darling, you'll tell him that I won't go with him, won't you?"
He could not help laughing.
"Ay, I'll tell him. 'Pon rep., sweetheart, I can find it in me to be sorry for him!"
"Oh, he will not mind for long," she said philosophically. "He loves soeasily, you see! But you, Dick—why did you go so often—soveryoften to see Mrs. Fanshawe?"
His face grew solemn.
"She knew—Jack—in Vienna—I—I wanted to hear all she could tell me of him—I could think of nothing else."
"Oh, Dicky! How—how wickedly foolish I have been! And 'twas that that made you so cold—and I thought—oh, dear!"
He drew her head down on to his shoulder again.
"My poor love! Why, 'tis the kindest lady imaginable, but as to loving her—!" He kissed her hand lingeringly. "I love—and have always loved—a far different being: a naughty, wilful, captivating little person, who—"
Lady Lavinia clasped her arms about his neck.
"You make me feel so very, very dreadful! I have indeed been naughty—I—"
"And you'll be so many times again," he told her, laughing.
"No, no! I—will—try to be good!"
"I do not want you good!" Richard assured her. "I want you to be your own dear self!" ... Lady Lavinia disengaged herself with a contented little sigh, and stood up.
"How charming it is to be happy again, to be sure!" she remarked naively. "To think that only half an hour ago I was wishing to be dead!" She went over to the glass and straightened her hair.
Richard looked at her rather anxiously.
"Lavinia—you—you quite understand, I am going to tell everyone the truth—next Friday?" he asked.
"Yes, I do, of course—'tis dreadfully disagreeable of you, but I suppose you will do it. I dohopepeople will not refuse to recognise us, though."
"No one would ever refuse to recognise you, dearest."
She brightened.
"Do you really think so? Well, perhaps after all, 'twill not be soveryhorrid. And—and you will like to have Jack again, won't you? Yes—I knew you would. Oh, 'twill all be quite comfortable after a little while, I make no doubt!"
His Grace of Andover arose betimes, and early sallied forth into the street. He called a chair, and drove to an address in the Strand, where lodged a certain Colonel Shepherd. Half-an-hour did he spend with the Colonel, and when he at length emerged from the house the curl of his lip betokened satisfaction. He did not at once hail a chair, but walked along in the direction of St. James's, entering the park in company with one Dare, who, seven years before, had given a certain memorable card-party.
Dare was pleasantly intrigued over Richard's latest oddity.
"Have you an idea what 'tis about, Belmanoir?" he inquired. "Has he written you to come as well?"
"I believe I did receive some communication from Carstares; yes—I remember, Andrew brought it."
"Well, what does it mean? Fortescue is bidden, and Davenant. 'Tis very curious."
"My dear Dare, I am not in Richard's confidence. We shall doubtless hear all that there is to hear at the given time. Mysteries do not interest me. But 'twill be a pleasant reunion.... Fortescue and Davenant, you say? Strange! I have heard that Evans and Milward have also received their sum—invitations. It should be most entertaining."
"'Tis prodigious curious," repeated Dare. "No one can imagine what 'tis all about!"
"Ah?" His Grace's thin lips twitched.
Midway through the afternoon he repaired to Wyncham House and was ushered into the library.
Richard sat writing, but rose on seeing him, and came forward.
It struck his Grace that Carstares was looking quite happy.
"You seem cheerful, Richard!"
"I am," smiled his brother-in-law.
"I am much relieved to hear it. I have seen Shepherd."
"Shepherd?" interrogated Carstares.
"Lovelace's colonel, my dear Richard. You may count on Captain Harold's departure—on an important mission—in, say, forty-eight hours."
"You may count on Captain Harold's departure in very much less, Tracy," said Carstares, a twinkle in his eye.
The Duke started forward.
"She has gone?" he almost hissed.
"Gone? No! She is in the drawing-room with him."
"With Lovelace! And you permit it? You stand by and watch another man—"
"Say farewell to my wife. But I am not watching it, as you see."
The anger died out of his Grace's eyes.
"Farewell? Do you tell me you at last came to your senses?"
"We found that we both laboured under a delusion," replied Carstares pleasantly.
"I am delighted to hear you say so. I hope you will for the future keep a stricter hold over Lavinia."
"Do you?"
"I do. I think I will not undo what I have done; Lovelace were perhaps better out of the way for a time."
"Why, I have no objection to that," bowed Richard.
His Grace nodded shortly and picked up his hat.
"Then there remains nothing more to be done in the matter."
He looked piercingly across at Carstares. "She did not love him?"
Richard gave a happy little sigh.
"She loves me."
The heavy lids drooped again.
"You cannot conceive my delight. If she indeed loves you, she is safe. I thought she had not got it in her. Pray bear my respects to her." His hand was on the door-knob, when something seemed to occur to him.
"I take it my presence at Wyncham on Friday will not be necessary?" he said cynically.
Richard flushed.
"It will not be necessary."
"Then I am sure you will excuse me an I do not appear. I have other, more important affairs on hand.....But I shall be loth to miss the heroics," he added pensively, and chuckled. "Au revoir,my good Richard!"
Richard bowed him out thankfully.
Presently the front door opened and shut again, and looking out of the window he saw that Captain Harold Lovelace had taken his departure.
He was now awaiting Mr. Warburton, whom he had sent in search of John some days ago. He should have been here by now, he thought, but perhaps he had been detained. Richard was aching to hear news of his brother, longing to see him once more. But at the same time he was dreading the meeting; he shrank from the thought of looking into Jack's eyes, cold—even scornful. It was not possible, so he reasoned, that Jack should feel no resentment....
"Mr. Warburton, sir."
Carstares turned and came eagerly forward to greet the newcomer.
"Well? Well?"
Mr. Warburton spread out deprecating hands.
"Alas! Mr. Carstares."
Richard caught his arm.
"What mean you? He is not—dead?"
"I do not know, sir."
"You could not find him? Quick! Tell me?"
"Alas! no, sir."
"But the Chequers—he said—Surely they knew something?"
"Nought, Mr. Carstares." Out came Mr. Warburton's snuff-box. Very deliberately he took a pinch, shaking the remains from his finger-tips. "The host, Chadber—an honest man, though lacking in humour—has not set eyes on my lord for well-nigh six months. Not since I went to advise my lord of the Earl's death."
"But Warburton, he cannot be far? He is not dead! Oh, surely not that?"
"No, no, Master Dick," soothed the lawyer. "We should have heard of it had he been killed. I fear he has gone abroad once more. It seems he often spoke of travelling again."
"Abroad? God! don't let me lose him again!" He sank into a chair, his head in his arms.
"Tut! I implore you, Mr. Carstares! Do not despair yet. We have no proof that he has left the country. I daresay we shall find him almost at once. Chadber thinks it likely he will visit the inn again ere long. Calm yourself, Master Dick!" He walked up to the man and laid a hand on one heaving shoulder. "We shall find him, never fear! But do not—I know 'twould grieve him to see you so upset, Master Dick—pray, do not—!"
"If I could only make amends!" groaned Richard.
"Well, sir, are you not about to? He would not wish you to distress yourself like this! He was so fond of you! Pray, pray do not!"
Carstares rose unsteadily and walked to the window. "I crave your pardon, Mr. Warburton—you must excuse me—I have been—living in hell—this last week."
Warburton came over to his side.
"Master Dick—I—you know I have never cared for you-as—well—as—"
"You cared for him."
"Er—yes, sir, exactly!—and of late years I may, perhaps, have been hard. I would desire to—er—apologise for any unjust—er—thoughts I may have harboured against you. I—I—possibly, I never quite understood. That is all, sir."
He blew his nose rather violently, and then his hand found Richard's.
Richard Carstares had plenty to occupy him for the rest of the week. Arrangements had to be made, a house acquired for Lavinia, Wyncham House to be thoroughly cleaned and put in order, awaiting its rightful owner. Once she had made up her mind to face the inevitable, Lavinia quite enjoyed all the preparations. The new house in Great Jermyn Street she voted charming, and she straightway set to work to buy very expensive furniture for it, and to superintend all the alterations. In her present penitent mood she would even have accompanied her husband to Wyncham on Monday, to stand by him on the fateful Friday; but this he would not allow, insisting that she remain in town until his return. So she fluttered contentedly from Grosvenor Square to Jermyn Street, very busy and quite happy.
Carstares was to travel to Wyncham on Monday, arriving there the following evening in company with Andrew, whom he was taking as far as Andover. His lordship had lately embroiled himself in a quarrel over a lady when deep in his cups, and owing to the subsequent duel at Barn Elms and the almost overpowering nature of his debts, he deemed it prudent to go into seclusion for a spell. Tracy disappeared from town in the middle of the week, whither no one knew, but it was universally believed that he had gone to Scotland on a visit.
Monday at length dawned fair and promising. After bidding his wife a very tender farewell, and gently drying her wet eyelashes with his own handkerchief, Richard set out with his brother-in-law in the big travelling chaise soon after noon. Andrew had quite recovered his hitherto rather dampened spirits, and produced a dice-box from one pocket and a pack of cards from the other wherewith to beguile the tedium of the journey.
Diana stood in the old oak porch, riding-whip in hand, and the folds of her voluminous gown over her arm. Miss Betty stood beside her, surveying her with secret pride.
Diana's eyes seemed darker than ever, she thought, and the mouth more tragic. She knew that the girl was, to use her own expression, "moping quite prodigiously for that Mr. Carr." Not all that she could do to entertain Diana entirely chased away the haunting sadness in her face; for a time she would be gay, but afterwards the laughter died away and she was silent. Many times had Miss Betty shaken her fist at the absent John.
Presently Diana gave a tiny sigh, and looked down at her aunt, smiling.
"You would be surprised how excellently well Harper manages the horses," she said. "He is quite a godsend. So much nicer than that stupid William."
"Indeed, yes," agreed Miss Betty. "Only think, my dear, he was groom to Sir Hugh Grandison—I saw the letter Sir Hugh writ your Papa—a remarkable elegant epistle, I assure you, my love."
Diana nodded and watched the new groom ride up, leading her mount. He jumped down, and, touching his hat, stood awaiting his mistress's pleasure.
Diana went up to the cob, patting his glossy neck.
"We are going towards Ashley to-day, aunt," she said. "I am so anxious to find some berries, and Harper tells me they grow in profusion not far from here."
"Now, my dear, pray do not tire yourself by going too far—I doubt it will rain before long and you will catch your death of cold!"
Diana laughed at her.
"Oh, no, aunt! Why, the sky is almost cloudless! But we shall not be long, I promise you. Only as far as Crossdown Woods and back again."
She gave her foot to the groom just as Mr. Beauleigh came out to watch her start.
"Really, my dear, I must ride with you to-morrow," he told her. "'Tis an age since we have been out together."
"Why, Papa, will you not accompany me this afternoon?" cried Diana eagerly. "I should so like it!"
It struck her aunt that Harper awaited the answer to this question rather anxiously. She watched him, puzzled. However, when Mr. Beauleigh had refused she could not see any change in his expression, and concluded that she must have been mistaken.
So with a wave of her hand, Diana rode away, the groom following at a respectful distance. Yet somehow Miss Betty was uneasy. A presentiment of evil seemed to touch her, and when the riders had disappeared round a bend in the road she felt an insane desire to run after them and call her niece back. She gave herself a little shake, saying that she was a fond old woman, over-anxious about Diana. Nevertheless, she laid a detaining hand on her brother's arm as he was about to go indoors.
"Wait, Horace! You—youwillride with Di more frequently, will you not?"
He looked surprised.
"You are uneasy, Betty?"
"Oh—uneasy—! Well, yes—a little. I do not like her to go alone with a groom, and we do not know this man."
"My dear! I had the very highest references from Sir Hugh Grandison, who, I am sure, would never recommend anyone untrustworthy. Why, you saw the letter yourself!"
"Yes, yes. Doubtless I am very stupid. But youwillride with her after to-day, will you not?"
"Certainly I will accompany my daughter when I can spare the time," he replied with dignity, and with that she had to be content.
Diana rode leisurely along the lane, beside great trees and hedges that were a blaze of riotous colour. Autumn had turned the leaves dull gold and flame, mellow brown and deepest red, with flaming orange intermingled, and touches of copper here and there where some beech tree stood. The lane was like a fairy picture, too gorgeous to be real; the trees, meeting overhead, but let the sunlight through in patches, so that the dusty road beneath was mottled with gold.
The hedges retained their greenness, and where there was a gap a vista of fields presented itself. And then they came upon a clump of berries, black and red, growing the other side of the little stream that meandered along the lane in a ditch. Diana drew up and addressed her companion.
"See, Harper—there are berries! We need go no further." She changed the reins to her right hand and made as if to spring down.
"The place I spoke of is but a short way on, miss," ventured the man, keeping his seat.
She paused.
"But why will these not suffice?"
"Well, miss, if you like. But those others were a deal finer. It seems a pity not to get some."
Diana looked doubtfully along the road.
"'Tis not far?"
"No, miss; but another quarter of a mile, and then down the track by the wood."
Still she hesitated.
"I do not want to be late," she demurred.
"No, miss, of course not. I only thought as how we might come back by way of Chorly Fields."
"Round by the mill? H'm...."
"Yes, miss. Then as soon as we get past it there is a clear stretch of turf almost up to the house."
Her eye brightened.
"A gallop? Very well! But let us hurry on."
She touched the cob with her heel, and they trotted on briskly out of the leafy canopy along the road with blue sky above and pasture land around. After a little while the wood came in sight, and in a minute they were riding down the track at right angles to the road. Harper was at Diana's heels, drawing nearer. Half unconsciously she quickened her pace. There was not a soul in sight.
They were coming to a bend in the road, and now Harper was alongside.
Choking a ridiculous feeling of frightened apprehension, Diana drew rein.
"I do not perceive those berries!" she said lightly.
"No, miss," was the immediate response. "They are just a step into the wood. If you care to dismount here I can show you."
Nothing could be more respectful than the man's tone. Diana shook off her nervous qualms and slipped down. Harper, already on the ground, took the cob's rein and tied both horses to a tree.
Diana gathered her skirts over her arm and picked her way through the brambles to where he had pointed.
The blackberry hedges he held back for her entrance swung back after they had passed, completely shutting out all view of the road. There were no berries.
Diana's heart was beating very fast, all her suspicions springing to life again, but she showed no sign of fear as she desired him to hold the brambles back again for her to pass out.
"For there are no berries here, as you can see for yourself."
She swept round and walked calmly towards the bushes.
Then, how she could never quite remember, she was seized from behind, and before she had time to move, a long piece of silk was flung over her head and drawn tight across her mouth, while an arm, as of steel, held and controlled her.
Fighting madly, she managed to get one arm free, and struck out furiously with her slender crop. There was a brief struggle, and it was twisted from her grasp, and her hands tied behind her, despite all her efforts to be free.
Then her captor swung her writhing into his arms, and strode away through the wood without a word.
Diana was passive now, reserving her strength for when it might avail her something, but above the gag her eyes blazed with mingled fright and fury. She noticed that she was being carried not into the wood, but along it, and was not surprised when they emerged on to the road where it had rounded the bend.
With a sick feeling of terror, she saw a coach standing in the road, and guessed, even before she knew, what was her fate. Through a haze she saw a man standing at the door, and then she was thrust into the coach and made to sit down on the softly-cushioned seat. All her energies were concentrated in fighting against the faintness that threatened to overcome her. She won gradually, and strained her ears to catch what was being said outside.
She caught one sentence in a familiar, purring voice:
"Set them loose and tie this to the pummel." Then there was silence.
Presently she heard footsteps returning. An indistinguishable murmur from Harper, and the door opened to allow his Grace of Andover to enter the coach. It gave a lurch and rumbled on.
Tracy looked down with a slight smile into the gold-flecked eyes that blazed so indignantly into his.
"A thousand apologies, Miss Beauleigh! Allow me to remove this scarf."
As he spoke he untied the knot, and the silk fell away from her face.
For a moment she was silent, struggling for words wherewith to give vent to her fury; then the red lips parted and the small, white teeth showed, clenched tightly together.
"You cur!" she flung at him in a panting undertone. "Oh, you cur!—you coward! Undo my hands!"
"With pleasure." He bowed and busied himself with this tighter knot.
"Pray, accept my heartfelt apologies for incommoding you so grievously. I am sure that you will admit the necessity."
"Oh, that there were amanhere to avenge me!" she raged.
His Grace tugged at the stubborn knot.
"There are three outside," he answered blandly. "But I do not think they are like to oblige you."
He removed her bonds and sat back in the corner, enjoying her. His eyes fell on her bruised wrists, and at once his expression changed, and he frowned, leaning forward.
"Believe me, I did not mean that," he said, and touched her hands.
She flung him off.
"Do not touch me!"
"I beg your pardon, my dear." He leaned back again nonchalantly.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, trying to conceal the fear in her voice.
"Home," replied his Grace.
"Home!" Incredulously she turned to look at him, hope in her eyes.
"Home," he reiterated. "Ourhome."
The hope died out.
"You are ridiculous, sir."
"'Tis an art, my dear, most difficult to acquire."
"Sir—Mr. Everard—whoever you are—if you have any spark of manliness in you, of chivalry, if you care for me at all, you will this instant set me down!"
Never had she seemed more beautiful, more desirable. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, soft and luminous, and the tragic mouth pleaded, even trying to smile.
"It would appear that none of these attributes belongs to me," murmured his Grace, and wondered if she would weep. He had never a taste for a weeping woman.
But Diana was proud. She realised that tears, prayers and all would avail her nothing, and she was determined not to break down, at least in his presence. Tracy was surprised to see her arrange her skirts and settle back against the cushions in the most unconcerned manner possible.
"Then, since you are so ungallant, sir, pray tell me what you purpose doing with me?" The tone was light, even bantering, but with his marvellous, almost uncanny perspicacity, he sensed the breathless terror behind it.
"Why, my dear, I had planned to marry you," he answered, bowing.
The knuckles gleamed white on her clenched hand. "And if I refuse?"
"I do notthinkyou will refuse, my dear." She could not repress a shiver.
"I do refuse!" she cried sharply.
The smile with which he received this statement drove the blood cold in her veins.
"Wait. I think you will be glad to marry me—in the end," he drawled.
Her great eyes were hunted, desperate, and her face was very white. The dry lips parted.
"I think—you will be—very sorry—when my father—comes."
The indulgent sneer brought the blood racing back to her cheeks.
"And he will come!"
His Grace was politely interested.
"Really? But I do not doubt it, Diana, an he knows where to come."
"He will find a way, never fear!"
She laughed with a confidence she was far from feeling.
"I do not fear—not in the least—I shall be delighted to welcome him," promised his Grace. "I do not anticipate a refusal of your hand from him."
"No?" Diana, too, could sneer.
"No, my dear. Not after a little—persuasion."
"Who are you?" she shot at him.
His shoulders shook in the soundless laugh peculiar to him.
"I am several people, child."
"So I apprehend," she retorted smoothly. "Sir Hugh Grandison amongst them?"
"Ah, you have guessed that?"
"It rather leaps to the eye, sir." She spoke in what was almost an exact imitation of his sarcastic tone.
"True. It was neatly done, I flatter myself."
"Quite marvellous, indeed."
He was enjoying her as he had rarely enjoyed a woman before. Others had sobbed and implored, railed and raved; he had never till now met one who returned him word for word, using his own weapons against him.
"Who else have you the honour to be?" she asked, stifling a yawn.
"I am Mr. Everard, child, and Duke of Andover."
Then she turned her head and looked at him with glittering eyes.
"I have heard of you, sir," she said, evenly.
"You are like to hear more, my dear."
"That is as may be, your Grace."
Now she understood the elaborate hilt of the mysterious sword with the coronet on it, wrought in jewels. She wondered whether Jack had it still, wherever he was. If only some wonderful providence would bring him to her now in her dire need! There was no one to strike a blow for her; she was entirely at the mercy of a ruthless libertine, whose reputation she knew well, and whose presence filled her with dread and a speechless loathing. She felt very doubtful that her father would succeed in finding her. If only Jack were in England! He would come to her, she knew.
His Grace leaned towards her, laying a thin, white hand on her knee.
"My dear, be reasonable. I am not such a bad bargain after all."
The tenderness in his voice filled her with horror. He felt her shrink away.
"Take your hand away!" she commanded throbbingly. "Do not touch me!" He laughed softly and at the sound of it she controlled her terrors and dropped again to the mocking tone she had adopted. "What? Ungallant still, your Grace? Pray keep your distance!"
The pistol holster on the wall at her side caught her attention. Instantly she looked away, hoping he had not observed her. Very little escaped his Grace.
"I am desolated to have to disappoint you, my dear. It is empty."
She laid a careless hand on the holster, verifying his statement.
"This? Oh, I guessed it, your Grace!"
He admired her spirit more and more. Was there ever such a girl?
"My name is Tracy," he remarked.
She considered it with her head tilted to one side.
"I do not like your name, sir," she answered.
"'There was no thought of pleasing you when I was christened,'" he quoted lazily.
"Hardly, sir," she said. "You might be my father."
It was a master stroke, and for an instant his brows drew together. Then he laughed.
"Merci du compliment, mademoiselle! I admire your wit."
"I protest I am overwhelmed. May I ask when we are like to arrive at our destination?"
"We should reach Andover soon after eight, my dear."
So it was some distance he was taking her?
"I suppose you had the wit to provide food for the journey?" she yawned. "You will not wish to exhibit me at an inn, I take it?"
He marvelled at her indomitable courage
"We shall halt at an inn certainly, and my servant will bring you refreshment. That will be in about an hour."
"So long?" she frowned. "Then, pray excuse me an I compose myself to sleep a little. I am like to find the journey somewhat tedious, I fear."
She shifted farther into the corner, leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes.
Thus outwitting his Grace. For it is impossible to be passionate with a girl who feigns sleep when she should be struggling to escape from you. So Tracy, who, whatever else he might lack, possessed a keen sense of humour, settled himself in his corner and followed her example. So they jogged on....
Arrived at length at the inn, the coach pulled up slowly. Diana opened her eyes with a great assumption of sleepiness.
"Already?" she marvelled.
"I trust you have slept well," said his Grace suavely.
"Excellently well, I thank you, sir," was the unblushing reply.
"I am relieved to hear you say so, my dear. I had thought you unable to—your mouth kept shut so admirably. Doubtless you have schooled your jaw not to drop when you sleep sitting up? I wish I might do the same."
The triumph in his voice was thinly veiled. She found nothing to say.
He rose.
"With your leave, I will go to procure you some refreshment, child. Do not think me uncivil if I remind you that a servant stands without either door."
"I thank you for the kind thought," she smiled, but her heart was sick within her.
He disappeared, returning a few moments later with a glass of wine and some little cakes.
"I deplore the scanty nature of your repast," he said. "But I do not wish to waste time. You shall be more fittingly entertained when we reach Andover."
Diana drank the wine gratefully, and it seemed to put new life into her. The food almost choked her, but rather than let him see it, she broke a cake in half and started to eat it, playing to gain time: time in which to allow her father a chance of overtaking them before it was too late. She affected to dislike the cake, and rather petulantly demanded a 'maid of honour.'
Tracy's eyes gleamed.
"I fear I cannot oblige you, my dear. When we are married you can go to Richmond, and you shall have maids of honour in plenty."
He relieved her of her glass, taking it from hands that trembled pitifully.
The rest of the journey was as some terrible nightmare. She felt that she dared no longer feign sleep. She was terrified at what his Grace might do, and kept him at arm's length by means of her tongue and all her woman's wit. As a matter of fact, Andover had himself well in hand, and had no intention of letting his passion run away with him. But as the time went on and the light went, some of Diana's control seemed to slip from her, and she became a little less the self-possessed woman, and a little more the trapped and frightened child. When they at last reached Andover Court, and his Grace assisted her to alight her legs would barely carry her up the steps to the great iron-clamped door. She trembled anew as he took her hand.
On the threshold he paused and bowed very low. "Welcome to your future home, my queen," he murmured, and led her in, past wooden-faced footmen who stared over her head, to his private room, where a table was set for two. He would have taken her in his arms then, but she evaded him and slipped wearily into a chair.
"I protest," she managed to say, "I protest, I am faint through want of food."
Andover, looking at her white lips, believed her. He took a seat opposite.
Two footmen came to wait on them, and although her very soul was shamed that they should see her there, she was thankful for their restraining presence.
My lord yawned most prodigiously and let fall theSpectator.His eyes roved towards the clock, and noted with disgust that the hands pointed to half after five. He sighed and picked up theRambler.
His host and hostess were visiting some miles distant, and were not likely to be back until late, so my lord had a long dull evening in front of him, which he relished not at all. Lady O'Hara had tried to induce him to accompany them, promising that he would meet no one he knew, but he had for once been prudent and refused steadfastly. So my lady, after pouting crossly at him and assuring him that he was by far the most obstinate and disagreeable man that she had ever come across, not excepting her husband, who, to be sure, had been quite prodigiously annoying all day, relented, told him she understood perfectly, and even offered to kiss him to make up for her monstrous ill-humour. Jack accepted the offer promptly, waved farewell to her from the porch, and returned to the empty drawing-room to while away the time with two numbers of theSpectatorand his own thoughts till dinner, which was to be later than usual to-day, on account of an attack of vapours which had seized the cook.
His thoughts were too unpleasant to be dwelt on; everything in his world seemed to have gone awry. So he occupied himself with what seemed to him a particularly uninteresting number of theSpectator. The sun had almost disappeared, and very soon it became too dark to read; no candles having been brought as yet, my lord, very unromantically, went to sleep in his chair. Whether he would have eventually snored is not known, for not more than a quarter of an hour afterwards the butler roused him with the magic words:
"Dinner is served, sir."
Carstares turned his head lazily.
"What's that you say, James?"
"Dinner is served, sir," repeated the man, and held the door wide for him to pass out.
"Faith! I'm glad to hear it!"
My lord rose leisurely and pulled his cravat more precisely into position. Although he was to be alone, he gave his costume a touch here and there, and flicked a speck of dust from one great cuff with his elegant lace handkerchief.
He strolled across the old panelled hall to the dining-room, and sat down at the table.
The curtains were drawn across the windows, and clusters of candles in graceful silver holders were arranged on the table, shedding a warm light on to the white damask and the shining covers. The footmen presented a fish, and my lord permitted a little to be put on his plate. The butler desired to know if Mr. Carr would drink claret or burgundy, or ale? Mr. Carr would drink claret. A sirloin of beef next made its appearance, and went away considerably smaller. Then before my lord was spread an array of dishes. Partridges flanked one end, a pasty stood next, a cream, two chickens, a duck, and a ham of noble proportions.
My lord went gently through.
The butler desired to know if Mr. Carr would drink a glass of burgundy? He exhibited a dusty bottle. My lord considered it through his eyeglass and decided in favour. He sipped reflectively and waved the ham away.
Sweetmeats appeared before him and a soup, while plump pigeons were uncovered at his elbow.
One was whipped deftly on to his plate, and as he took up his knife and fork to carve it, a great scuffling sounded without, angry voices being raised in expostulation, and, above all, a breathless, insistent appeal for Mr. Carr or Sir Miles. My lord laid down the knife and fork and came to his feet.
"It appears I am demanded," he said, and went to the door. It was opened for him at once, and he stepped out into the hall to find Mr. Beauleigh trying to dodge the younger footman, who was refusing to let him pass. At the sight of Carstares he stepped back respectfully. Mr. Beauleigh, hot, distraught, breathless, fell upon my lord.
"Thank God you are here, sir!" he cried.
Carstares observed him with some surprise. Mr. Beauleigh had been so very frigid when last they had met.
"I am glad to be at your service, sir," he bowed. "You have commands for me?"
"We are in terrible trouble," almost moaned the other. "Betty bade me come to find you, or failing you, Sir Miles, for none other can help us!"
Carstares' glance grew sharper.
"Trouble? Not—But I forget my manners—we shall talk more at ease in here." He led Mr. Beauleigh into the morning-room. Beauleigh thrust a paper into his hands.
"Diana went riding this afternoon, and only her horse returned—with this attached to the pommel! Read it, sir! Read it!"
"Diana!" Carstares strode over to the light, and devoured the contents of the single sheet, with eager eyes.
They were not long, and they were very much to the point:
"Mr. Beauleigh may haply recall to mind a certain 'Mr. Everard,' of Bath, whose Addresses to Miss Beauleigh were cruelly repulsed. He regrets having now to take the Matter into his Own Hands, and trusts to further his Acquaintance with Mr. Beauleigh at some Future Date, when Miss Beauleigh shall, He trusts, have become 'Mrs. Everard.'"
Jack crumpled the paper furiously in his hand, grinding out a startling oath.
"—insolent cur!"
"Yes, yes, sir! But what will that avail my daughter? I have come straight to you, for my sister is convinced you know this Everard, and can tell me where to seek them!"
Carstares clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Never fear, Mr. Beauleigh! I pledge you my word she shall be found this very night!"
"You know where he has taken her? You do? You are sure?"
"Back to his earth, I'll lay my life; 'tis ever his custom." He strode to the door, flung it wide and shot clear, crisp directions at the footman. "See to it that my mare is saddled in ten minutes and Blue Devil harnessed to your master's curricle! Don't stand staring—go! And send Salter to me!"
The footman scuttled away, pausing only to inform my lord that Salter was not in.
Carstares remembered that he had given Jim leave to visit his Mary at Fittering, and crushed out another oath. He sprang up the stairs, Mr. Beauleigh following breathlessly.
In his room, struggling with his boots, he put a few questions.
Mr. Beauleigh related the whole tale, dwelling mournfully on the excellent references for Harper he had received from Sir Hugh Grandison.
Jack hauled at his second boot.
"Tracy himself, of course!" he fumed, adjusting his spurs.
"Pray, Mr. Carr, who is this scoundrel? Is it true that you know him?"
"Andover," answered Jack from the depths of the garde-robe. "Damn the fellow, where has he put my cloak?" This to the absent Jim, and not the Duke.
"Andover! Not—surely not the Duke?" cried Mr. Beauleigh.
"I know of none other. At last!"
He emerged and tossed a heavy, many-caped coat on to the bed.
"Now, sir, your attention for one moment."
He was buckling on his sword as he spoke, and not looking at the other man.
"Tracy will have borne Di—Miss Beauleigh off to Andover Court, seven miles beyond Wyncham, to the south-west. Your horse, I take it, is not fresh," (he knew Mr. Beauleigh's horse). "I have ordered the curricle for you. I will ride on at once by short cuts, for there is not a moment to be lost—"
"The Duke of Andover!" interrupted Mr. Beauleigh. "The Duke of Andover! Why, do you think he purposes to marry my daughter?"
Jack gave a short, furious laugh.
"Ay! As he married all the others!"
Mr. Beauleigh winced.
"Sir! Pray why should you say so?"
"I perceive you do not know his Grace. Perchance you have heard of Devil Belmanoir?"
Then the little man paled.
"Good God, Mr. Carr, 'tis not he?"
Carstares caught up his hat and whip.
"Ay, Mr. Beauleigh, 'tis indeed he. Now perhaps you appreciate the necessity for haste?"
Mr. Beauleigh's eyes were open at last.
"For God's sake, Mr. Carr, after them!"
"'Tis what I intend, sir. You will follow as swiftly as possible?"
"Yes, yes, but do not wait for anything! Can you reach Andover—in time?"
"I reach Andover to-night," was the grim answer. "And you, sir? You know the road?"
"I will find out. Only go, Mr. Carr! Do not waste time, I implore you!"
Jack struggled into his riding coat, clapped his hat on to his head, and with his Grace of Andover's sword tucked beneath his arm, went down the stairs three and four at a time, and hurried out on to the drive, where the groom stood waiting with Jenny's bridle over his arm. Carstares cast a hasty glance at the girths and sprang up. The mare sidled and fidgeted, fretting to be gone, but was held in with a hand of iron while her master spoke to the groom.
"You must drive Mr. Beauleigh to Andover Court as fast as you can. It is a matter of life and death. You know the way?"
The amazed groom collected his wits with difficulty.
"Roughly, sir."
"That will do—Mr. Beauleigh will know. Drive your damnedest, man—Sir Miles won't mind. You understand?"
Jack's word was law in the O'Hara household.
"Yes, sir," answered the man, and touched his hat.
On the word, he saw the beautiful straining mare leap forward, and the next moment both horse and rider were swallowed in the gloom.
"Well I'm—darned," exploded the groom, and turned to fetch the curricle.
Across the stretch of moorland went Jack at a gallop, Jenny speeding under him like the wind, and seeming to catch something of her master's excitement. Low over her neck he bent, holding the Duke's sword across his saddle-bows with one hand and with the other guiding her. So he covered some three miles. He reined in then, and forced her to a canter, saving her strength for the long distance ahead of them. She was in splendid condition, glorying in the unrestrained gallop across the turf, and although she was too well-mannered to pull on the rein, Carstares could see by the eager twitching of her ears how she longed to be gone over the ground. He spoke soothingly to her and guided her on to the very lane where Diana had ridden that afternoon. She fell into a long, easy stride that seemed to eat up the ground. Now they were off the lane, riding over a field to join another road, leading west. A hedge cut them off, but the mare gathered her legs beneath her and soared over, alighting as gracefully as a bird, and skimming on again up the road.
Her responsive ears flickered as he praised her, and pulled her up.
"Easy now, Jenny, easy!"
She was trembling with excitement, but she yielded to his will and trotted quietly for perhaps another half-hour.
Carstares rose and fell rhythmically in the saddle, taking care to keep his spurred heels from her glossy sides. He guessed the time to be about seven o'clock, and his brows drew together worriedly. Jenny was made of steel and lightning, but would she manage it? He had never tested her powers as he was about to now, and he dared not allow her much breathing space. Every minute was precious if he were to reach Andover before it was too late.
Assuming that Tracy had captured Diana at four, or thereabouts, he reckoned that it should take a heavy coach four hours or more to reach Andover. Jenny might manage it in two and a half hours, allowing for short cuts, in which case he ought to arrive not long after the others.
He was tortured by the thought of Diana at the mercy of a man of Tracy's calibre; Diana in terror; Diana despairing. Unconsciously he pressed his knees against the smooth flank and once more Jenny fell into that long, swift stride. She seemed to glide over the ground with never a jar nor a stumble. Carstares was careful not to irk her in any way, only keeping a guiding, restraining hand on the rein, and for the rest letting her go as she willed. On and on they sped, as the time lagged by, sometimes through leafy lanes, at others over fields and rough tracks. Not for nothing had Carstares roamed this country for two years; almost every path was familiar to him; he never took a wrong turn, never swerved, never hesitated. On and on, past sleeping villages and lonely homesteads, skirting woods, riding up hill and down dale, never slackening his hold on the rein, never taking his eyes off the road before him, except now and then to throw a glance to the side on the look-out for some hidden by-path. After the first hour a dull pain in his shoulder reminded him of his wound, still troublesome. He set his teeth and pressed on still faster.
The mare caught her foot on a loose stone and stumbled. His hand held her together, the muscles standing out like ribbed steel, his voice encouraged her, and he made her walk again. This time she did not fret against the restraint. He shifted the sword under his bridle hand, and passed the right down her steaming neck, crooning to her softly beneath his breath.
She answered with a low, throbbing whinny. She could not understand why he desired her to gallop on, braving unknown terrors in the dark; all she could know was that it was his wish. It seemed also that he was pleased with her. She would have cantered on again, but he made her walk for, perhaps, another five minutes, until they were come to a stretch of common he knew well. It was getting late, and he pressed her with his knee, adjuring her to do her best, and urging her to a gallop, leaning right forward, the better to pierce the darkness ahead. A gorse bush loomed before them, and Jenny shied at it, redoubling her pace.
With hand and voice he soothed her, and on they sped. He judged the time to be now about half-past eight, and knew that they must make the remaining miles in an hour. Even now the coach might have arrived, and beyond that he dared not think.
Another half-hour crept by, and he could feel the mare's breath coming short and fast, and reined in again, this time to a canter. He was off the moor now, on a road he remembered well, and knew himself to be not ten miles from Wyncham. Five more miles as the crow flies.... He knew he must give Jenny another rest, and pulled up, dismounting and going to her head.
Her legs were trembling, and the sweat rolled off her satin skin. She dropped her nose into his hand, sobbingly. He rubbed her ears and patted her, and she lipped his cheek lovingly, breathing more easily.
Up again then, and forward once more, skimming over the ground.
Leaving Wyncham on his right, Carstares cut west and then north-west, on the highroad now, leading to Andover. Only two more miles to go....
Jenny stumbled again and broke into a walk. Her master tapped her shoulder, and she picked up her stride again.
She was almost winded, and he knew it, but he had to force her onwards. She responded gallantly to his hand, although her breath came sobbingly and her great, soft eyes were blurred.
At last the great iron gates were in view; he could see them through the dusk, firmly shut. He pulled up and walked on, looking for a place in the hedge where Jenny might push through.