The Black Moth Part 34

"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 EnglandI 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 Chancehe 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 wasfoolish; my married life was not very happy, and I wasor, rather, I fancied myselfin love with an Austrian n.o.bleman, whowhowell, sir, suffice it that I consented to dine with him one evening. I found then that he was not the galant homme I 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 dineI told himand he counselled me to refuse. But Iwell, sir, I have told you, I was young and very foolis.h.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 totried tokiss me. I think I shall never forget the relief of that moment! He was so safe, and so Englis.h.!.+ 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 kindhe 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 my preux chevalier since." 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 a.s.sure 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 brotherwhowhoin 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 societycruel, hard societyreceive him, then?" she asked.

"Society willone dayreceive him, Mrs. Fanshawe. You will see."

"I long for that day," she sighed. "I wish I had it in my power to help himto 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 JohnJohn was his brotherthe 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 carne 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 club-men, 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 pa.s.sage, on the front steps, in the road, shuddering. O'Hara knew, and he had looked at him as ifas if.a.gain 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? G.o.d, but his brain was reeling! . . .

CHAPTER XXII.

DEVELOPMENTS.

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 wife and confess the truth, never occurred to him. So often had Lavinia a.s.sured 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 appearancehe 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 pa.s.s in time, and that he would recover from his run-down condition.

Lady Lavinia was pursuing her b.u.t.terfly existence, heeding nothing but her own pleasure, bent on enjoying herself. She succeeded very well, on the whole, but she could not help wis.h.i.+ng that d.i.c.ky 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 pa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sured 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! This was 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 d.i.c.ky! 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 sc.r.a.p 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 itgrateful 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 meet 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 G.o.d 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, Andrewif point there be. I have no time to waste."

"Lord! Busy? Working? G.o.d 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, d.a.m.n and curse it! where did that come from?" he expostulated mildly.

"Where did what come from?"

"That great splash of mud on my leg. Brand new on this morning, and I've scarce set my nose without doors. d.a.m.n it, I say! A brand new-"

"Leg?"