The Black Moth (20 page)

As soon as O'Hara read the last part of the letter he brushed Carstares and his love affairs to one side, and posted straight to London to obey the welcome summons.

Bit by bit my lord discovered that he was very much in love with Diana. At first his heart gave a great bound, and then seemed to stop with a sickening thud. He remembered that he could not ask her to marry him, disgraced as he was, and he immediately faced the situation, realising that he must go away at once. His first move was to Mr. Beauleigh, to tell him of his decision. On being asked why he must so suddenly leave Horton House, he explained that he loved Diana and could not in honour speak of love to her. At which Mr. Beauleigh gasped and demanded to know the reason. Carstares told him that he was by profession a highwayman, and watched him bridle angrily. Before so agreeable and so smiling, Mr. Beauleigh now became frigidly polite. He quite understood Mr. Carr's position, and–er–yes, he honoured him for the course on which he had decided. But Mr. Beauleigh was very, very cold. Carstares gave Jim orders to pack immediately, that he might depart next day, and reluctantly informed Miss Betty of his going. She was startled and bewildered. She had imagined that he would spend all June with them.–Circumstances, he regretted, willed otherwise. He should always remember her great kindness to him, and hoped that she would forgive the brusque nature of his departure.

When he told Diana her eyes opened very wide and she laughed, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"You are teasing, Mr. Carr!" she cried, and ran into the house.

That evening Miss Betty confirmed Jack's words, and seeing the hurt look in the girl's eyes, wisely held her peace.

Next morning in the pleasaunce Diana came across my lord, and went up to him, gravely questioning.

"You are really leaving us to-day, Mr. Carr?"

"I am afraid I must, Mistress Di."

"So suddenly? Then you were not teasing yesterday?"

"No, mademoiselle–I was not. I fear I have tarried too long, taking advantage of your kindness."

"Oh, no, no!" she assured him. "Indeed, you have not! Must you
really
go?"

Looking down into her big eyes, John read the answering love in them, and grew pale. It was worse to think that she cared, too. If only he thought she was indifferent, parting would not seem so unbearable.

"Mademoiselle–you overwhelm me–I must go."

"Oh, but I am sorry. Your being here has been such a pleasure! I—"She stopped, and looked away across the flowers.

"You?" prompted Jack before he could check himself.

With a tiny laugh she brought her gaze back.

"I am sorry you must leave us, naturally."

She sat down beneath an arbour of roses, and patted the place beside her invitingly, with just the same unconscious friendliness that she had always shown him. My lord stayed where he was, with one hand on a tree trunk and the other fidgeting with his quizzing glass.

"Mistress Di—I think it only right that I should tell you what I have told your father, and what I told your aunt some time ago, when she refused to believe me. To some extent I am here under false pretences. I am not what you think me."

Diana laced and unlaced her fingers, and thought that she understood.

"Oh, no, Mr. Carr!"

"I am afraid yes, mademoiselle. I am–a common felon . . . a highwayman!" He bit the words out, not looking at her.

"But I knew that," she said softly.

"You
knew
it?"

"Why, yes! I remember when you told Aunt Betty."

"You believed me?"

"You see," she apologised, "I always wondered why you were masked."

"And yet you permitted me to stay—"

"How silly of you, Mr. Carr! Of course I do not care what you are! I owe so much to you!"

He wheeled round at that, and faced her.

"Madam, I can bear anything rather than gratitude! Is it only that which has made you tolerate me all this time?"

Her fingers gripped one another.

"Why, sir–why, sir—"

The flame died out of his eyes, and he drew himself up stiffly, speaking with a curtness that surprised her.

"I crave your pardon. I should be whipped at the cart-tail for asking such an impertinent question. Forget it, I beg."

Diana looked up at the stern face, half amazed, half affronted.

"I do not think I quite understand you, sir."

"There is nought to understand, mademoiselle," he answered with dry lips. "'Twere merely that I was coxcomb enough to hope that you liked me a little for mine own sake."

She glanced again at his averted head with a wistful little smile.

"Oh!" she murmured. "
Oh!
"–and
̵
"It is very dreadful to be a highwayman!" she sighed

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"But surely you could cease to be one?" coaxingly.

He did not trust himself to answer.

"I know you could. Please do!"

"That is not all," he forced himself to say. "There is worse."

"
Is
there?" she asked wide-eyed. "What else have you done, Mr. Carr?"

"I–once—" heavens, how hard it was to say! "I once . . . cheated . . . at cards." It was out. Now she would turn from him in disgust. He shut his eyes in anticipation of her scorn, his head turned away.

"Only
once?
" came the soft voice, filled with awed admiration.

His eyes flew open.

"Mademoiselle!—"

She drooped her head mournfully.

"I'm afraid I always cheat," she confessed. "I had no idea 'twas so wicked, although Auntie gets very cross and vows she will not play with me."

He could not help laughing.

"'Tis not wicked in you, child. You do not play for money."

"Oh, did you?"

"Yes, child."

"Then that
was
horrid of you," she agreed.

He stood silent, fighting the longing to tell her the truth.

"But–but–do not look so solemn, sir," the pleading voice went on. "I am sure you must have had a very strong excuse?"

"None."

"And now you are letting it spoil your life?" she asked reproachfully.

"It does not wait for my permission," he answered bitterly.

"Ah, but what a pity! Must one moment's indiscretion interfere with all else in life? That is ridiculous. You have–what is the word?–expiated! yes, that is it–expiated it, I know."

"The past can never be undone, madam."

"That, of course, is true," she nodded, with the air of a sage, "but it can be forgotten."

His hand flew out eagerly and dropped back to his side. It was hopeless. He could not tell her the truth and ask her to share his disgrace; he must bear it alone, and, above all, he must not whine. He had chosen to take Richard's blame and he must abide by the consequences. It was not a burden to be cast off as soon as it became too heavy for him. It was for ever–for ever. He forced his mind to grasp that fact. All through his life he must be alone against the world; his name would never be cleared; he could never ask this sweet child who sat before him with such a wistful, pleading look on her lovely face, to wed him. He looked down at her sombrely, telling himself that she did not really care: that it was his own foolish imagination. Now she was speaking: he listened to the liquid voice that repeated:

"Could it not be forgotten?"

"No, mademoiselle. It will always be there."

"To all intents and purposes, might it not be forgotten?" she persisted.

"It will always stand in the way, mademoiselle."

He supposed that mechanical voice was his own. Through his brain thrummed the thought: "It is for Dick's sake . . . for Dick's sake. For Dick's sake you must be silent." Resolutely he pulled himself together.

"It will stand in the way–of what?" asked Diana.

"I can never ask a woman to be my wife," he replied.

Diana wantonly stripped a rose of its petals, letting each fragrant leaf flutter slowly to the ground.

"I do not see why you cannot, sir."

"No woman would share my disgrace."

"No?"

"No."

"You seem very certain, Mr. Carr. Pray have you asked the lady?"

"No, madam." Carstares was as white as she was red, but he was holding himself well in hand.

"Then—" the husky voice was very low, "then–why don't you?"

The slim hand against the tree trunk was clenched tightly, she observed. In his pale face the blue eyes burnt dark.

"Because, madam, 'twere the action of a—of a—"

"Of a what, Mr. Carr?"

"A cur! A scoundrel! A blackguard!"

Another rose was sharing the fate of the first.

"I have heard it said that some women like–curs, and–and–and scoundrels; even blackguards," remarked that provocative voice. Through her lashes its owner watched my lord's knuckles gleam white against the tree-bark.

"Not the lady I love, madam."

"Oh? But are you sure?"

"I am sure. She must marry a man whose honour is spotless; who is not–a nameless outcast, and who lives–not–by dice–and highway robbery."

He knew that the brown eves were glowing and sparkling with unshed tears, but he kept his own turned inexorably the other way. There was no doubting now that she cared, and that she knew that he did also. He could not leave her to think that her love had been slighted. She must not be hurt, but made to understand that he could not declare his love. But how hard it was, with her sorrowful gaze upon him and the pleading note in her voice. It was quivering now:

"Must she, sir?"

"Yes, madam."

"But supposing–supposing the lady did not care? Supposing she–loved you–and was willing to share your disgrace?"

The ground at her feet was strewn with crimson petals, and all around and above her roses nodded and swayed. A tiny breeze was stirring her curls and the lace of her frock, but John would not allow himself to look, lest the temptation to catch her in his arms should prove too great for him. She was ready to give herself to him; to face anything, only to be with him. In the plainest language she offered herself to him, and he had to reject her.

"It is inconceivable that the lady would sacrifice herself in such a fashion, madam," he said.

"Sacrifice!" She caught her breath. "You call it that!"

"What else?"

"I . . . I . . . I do not think that you are very wise, Mr. Carr. Nor . . . that you . . . understand women . . . very well. She might not call it by that name."

"It would make no difference what she called it, madam. She would ruin her life, and that must never be."

A white rose joined its fallen brethren, pulled to pieces by fingers that trembled pitifully.

"Mr. Carr, if the lady . . . loved you . . . is it quite fair to her–to say nothing?"

There was a long silence, and then my lord lied bravely.

"I hope that she will–in time–forget me," he said.

Diana sat very still. No more roses were destroyed; the breeze wafted the fallen petals over her feet, lightly, almost playfully. Somewhere in the hedge a bird was singing, a full-throated sobbing plaint, and from all around came an incessant chirping and twittering. The sun sent its bright rays all over the garden, bathing it in gold and happiness; but for the two in the pleasaunce the light had gone out, and the world was very black.

"I see," whispered Diana at last. "Poor lady!"

"I think it was a cursed day that saw me come into her life," he groaned.

"Perhaps it was," her hurt heart made answer

He bowed his head.

"I can only hope that she will not think too hardly of me," he said, very low. "And that she will find it in her heart to be sorry–for me–also."

She rose and came up to him, her skirts brushing gently over the grass, holding out her hands imploringly.

"Mr. Carr . . ."

He would not allow himself to look into the gold-flecked eyes. . . . He must remember Dick–his brother Dick!

In his hand he took the tips of her fingers, and bowing, kissed them. Then he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away between the hedges towards the quiet woods, with a heart aflame with passion, and with rebellion and impotent fury. He would go somewhere quite alone and fight the devil that was prompting him to cry the truth aloud and to throw aside his burden for love, forgetting duty.

But Diana remained standing among the scattered flowers, very still, very cold, with a look of hopeless longing in her eyes and a great hurt.

JIM SALTER folded one of my lord's waistcoats, and placed it carefully in an open valise; then he picked up a coat, and spread it on the bed preparatory to folding it in such wise that no crease should afterwards mar its smoothness. All about him my lord's clothing was strewn; Mechlin ruffles and cravats adorned one chair, silk hose another; gorgeous coats hung on their backs; shoes of every description, red-heeled and white, riding boots and slippers, stood in a row awaiting attention; wigs perched coquettishly on handy projections, and piles of white cambric shirts peeped out from an almost finished bag.