The Black Moth, Georgette Heyer [self help books to read .txt] 📗

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 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 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! …