The Black Moth Part 12

Luckily, the happy moment has not yet comeand I do not think it is like to. We appear to have arrived."

They were standing outside one of the tall houses where Fortescue lodged. He turned and grasped his friend's shoulders.

"Tracy, give up this mad life you lead! Give up the women and the drink, and the excessive gaming; for one day, believe me, you will overstep yourself and be ruined!"

The Duke disengaged himself.

"I very much object to being man-handled in the street," he complained. "I suppose you still mean well. You should strive to conquer the tendency."

"I wonder if you know how insolent is your tone, Belmanoir?" asked Fortescue steadily.

"Naturally. I should not have attained such perfection in the art else. But pray accept my thanks for your good advice. You will forgive me an I do not avail myself of it, I am sure. I prefer the crooked path."

"Evidently," sighed the other. "If you will not try the straight and narrow way, I can only hope that you will fall very deeply and very honestly in love; and that the lady will save you from yourself."

"I will inform you of it when it comes to pa.s.s," promised his Grace. "And now: goodnight!"

"Good-night!" Frank returned the low bow with a curt nod. "I shall see you to-morrow that is, this morningat the Baths?"

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," was the smiling rejoinder. "Sleep soundly, Frank!" He waved an ironic farewell and crossed the road to his own lodgings, which stood almost directly opposite.

"And I suppose you will sleep as soundly as if you had not a stain on your conscience and had not tried your uttermost to alienate the regard of the only friend you possess,"

remarked Frank bitterly to the darkness. "d.a.m.n you, Tracy, for the villain you are!" He walked up the steps to his own front door and turned the key in the lock. He looked over his shoulder as a door slammed across the street. "Poor Devil!" he said. "Oh, you poor Devil!"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BITER BIT.

WITH John Carstares the winter had pa.s.sed quite uneventfully. He continued his highway robbery, but he made two bad blundersnot from the point of view of a thief, but from that of the gentleman in him. The first was when he stopped an opulent looking chariot, which he found to contain two ladies, their maid and their jewels, and the second when the occupant of a large travelling coach chanced to be an old gentleman who possessed far greater courage than physical strength. On the first occasion my lord's dismay had been ludicrous, and he had hastily retired after tendering a nive apology. The old gentleman in the second episode had defied him so gallantly that he had impulsively offered him the b.u.t.t end of one of his pistols. The old man was so surprised that he allowed the weapon to fall to the ground, where it exploded quite harmlessly, sending up a cloud of dust and smoke. Carstares then begged his pardon most humbly, a.s.sisted him back into his coach, and rode off before the astonished Mr.

Dunbar had time to collect his wits.

The robbing was not carried out in a very scientific manner, for, as has been seen, Carstares could not bring himself to terrorise women or old men, and there only remained the young and the middle-aged gentlemen, one of whom Jack offered to fight for the possession of his jewels. His challenge was promptly accepted by the man, who happened to possess a strong sense of humour, and probably saw a chance of saving his belongings in the offer. He had been speedily worsted, but Carstares was so pleased with a particularly neat thrust which he had executed, that he forwent half the booty, and the pair of them divided the contents of the jewel-box by the roadside, the sporting gentleman keeping his most valued belongings and giving Jack the surplus. They parted on the very best of terms, and all Carstares got out of the episode was a little sword practice and a few trinkets.

When day came he was patrolling the west side of Suss.e.x, beyond Midhurst, not because he thought it a profitable part, but because he knew and loved the country. One late afternoon towards the end of the month he rode gaily into one of the small villages that nestle amongst the Downs, and made his way down the quaint main street to the George Inn, where he drew rein and dismounted. At his call an aged ostler hobbled out of a side door, chewing an inevitable straw, and after eyeing the newcomer and his steed for an appreciable length of time, evidently decided that they were worthy of his attention, for he came forward, remarking that it had been a pleasant day.

Carstares agreed with him, and volunteered the information that it would be another fine day to-morrow, if the sunset were to be trusted. To this the ostler replied that he, for one, never trusted to no red sunsets, and added darkly that there warn't nothing so deceitful to his manner o' thinking. He'd known it be such a red sunset as never was, and yet be a-pouring with rain all next day. . . . Should he take the mare?

Carstares shook his head.

"No, I thank you. I remain here but a few moments. I doubt she's thirsty thougheh, Jenny?"

"Water, sir?"

"For her, yes. For myself I fancy a tankard of your home-brewed ale. Stand, Jenny!" He turned away and walked up the steps to the inn door.

"Be you a-going to leave her there, sira-standing all by herself?" inquired the man, surprised.

"Why, yes! She's docile enough."

"Well! Seems to me a risky thing to leave a hossand a skittish hoss at thata-standing loose in the road. Ye won't be tying her to a post, master?"

Carstares leaned his arms on the bal.u.s.trade and looked down at them.

"I will not. She'd be very hurt at such treatment, wouldn't you, la.s.s?"

Jenny tossed her head playfully, as if in agreement, and the ostler scratched his head, looking from her to my lord: "A'most seems as if she understands what you be a-saying to her, sir!"

"Of course she understands! Don't I tell you 'tis a clever little lady? If I call her now she'll come up these steps to me, and not all the ostlers in Christendom could stop her."

"Don't'ee go for to do it, sir!" urged the old man, backing. "She must be uncommon fond o' ye?"

"She'd be a deal fonder of you if you'd fetch her a drink," hinted Jack broadly.

"Ay, sir! I be a-going this werry instant!" And with many an anxious glance over his shoulder at the perfectly quiet mare, he disappeared through an open doorway into the yard.

When Carstares, tankard of ale in hand, emerged from the inn and sat himself down on one of the benches that stood against the wall, the mare was drinking thirstily from a bucket which the ancient one held for her.

"'Tis a wunnerful fine mare, sir," he remarked at length, after a careful inspection of her points.

Carstares nodded pleasantly, and surveyed Jenny through half-shut eyes.

"I think so every time I look at her," he said.

"I should think she could get a bit of a pace on her, sir? Mebbe ye've tried her racing?"

"No, she wasn't brought up to that. But she's fast enough."

"Ay, sir. No vices?"

"Lord, no!"

"Don't kick neither?"

"Not with me."

"Ah! they allus knows who'll stand it and who won't."

Jack drained his tankard, and setting it down on the bench beside him, rose to his feet.

"She'd not dream of kicking a friend. Jenny!"

The ostler watched her pick her way towards her master, coquetting with her head, and sidling round him in the most playful manner possible. A slow smile dawned on the man's face.

"Ah, it be a purty sight to watch herso it be!" he said, and received a guinea from Jack, who never tired of listening to praise of his beloved Jenny.

Carstares remounted, nodded farewell to the ostler and rode leisurely on down the street, soon branching off to the right into a typical Suss.e.x lane, where he trotted between uneven hedges, sweet with blossom and with May, and placid fields rolling away on either side, upwards until they merged into the undulating hills, barely discernible in the gloom, that are the downs. It was a wonderfully calm evening, with only a gentle west wind blowing, and the moon already shining faintly in the dark sky.

There was nothing beyond the sound of the mare's hoofs to break the beautiful stillness of it all.

He rode for some way without meeting a soul, and when at the end of an hour someone did chance along the road it was only a labourer returning home to his supper after a long day in the fields. John bade him a cheery good evening and watched him pa.s.s on down the road humming.

After that he met no one. He rode easily along for miles, into the fast-gathering darkness He was frowning as he rode, thinking.

Curiously enough, it was on his penniless days in France that his mind dwelt this evening. He had resolutely thrust that dark time behind him, determined to forget it, but there were still days when, try as he might, he could not prevent his thoughts flying back to it.

With clenched teeth he recalled the days when he, the son of an Earl, had taught fencing in Paris for a living. . . . Suddenly he laughed harshly, and at the unusual sound the mare p.r.i.c.ked up her ears and sidled uneasily across the road. For once no notice was taken of her, and she quickened her pace with a flighty toss of her head. . . .

He thought how he, the extravagant John, had pinched and sc.r.a.ped and saved rather than go under; how he had lived in one of the poorer quartiers of the city, alone, without friendsnameless.

Then, cynically now, he reviewed the time when he had taken to drinking, heavily and systematically, and had succeeded in pulling himself up at the very brink of the pit he saw yawning before him.

Next the news of his mother's death. . . . John pa.s.sed over that quickly. Even now the thought of it had the power of rousing in him all the old misery and impotent resentment.

His mind sped on to his Italian days. On his savings he had travelled to Florence, and from there he went gradually south, picking up all the latest arts and subtleties of fence on the way.

The change of scene and of people did much to restore his spirits. His devil-may-care ways peeped out again; he started to gamble on the little money he had left. For once Fortune proved kind; he doubled and trebled and quadrupled the contents of his purse.

Then it was that he met Jim Salter, whom he engaged as his servant. This was the first friend since he had left England. Together they travelled about Europe, John gambling his way, Jim keeping a relentless hand on the exchequer. It was entirely owing to his watchfulness and care that John was not ruined, for his luck did not always hold good, and there were days when he lost with distressing steadiness. But Jim guarded the winnings jealously, and there was always something to fall back on.

At last the longing for England and English people grew so acute that John made up his mind to return. But he found that things in England were very different from what they had been abroad. Here he was made to feel acutely that he was outcast. It was impossible to live in town under an a.s.sumed name, as he would like to have done, for too many people knew Jack Carstares, and would remember him. He saw that he must either live secluded, orand the idea of becoming a highwayman occurred to him. A hermit's existence he knew to be totally unsuited to a man of his temperament, but the free, adventurous spirit of the road appealed to him. The finding of his mareJ. the Third, as he laughingly dubbed herdecided the point; he forthwith took on himself the role of quixotic highwayman, roaming his beloved South Country, happier than he had been since he first left England; bit by bit regaining his youth and spirits, which last, not all the trouble he had been through had succeeded in extinguishing. . . .

Clip-clap, clip-clop. . . . With a jerk he came back to earth and reined-in his mare, the better to listen.

Along the road came the unmistakable sound of horses' hoofs, and the scrunch-scrunch of swiftly-revolving wheels on the sandy surface.

By now the moon was right out, but owing to the fact that she was playing at hide-and-seek in and out of the clouds, it was fairly dark. Nevertheless, Jack fastened his mask over his face with quick, deft fingers, and pulled his hat well over his eyes. His ears told him that the vehicle, whatever it was, was coming towards him, so he drew into the side of the road, and taking a pistol from its holster, sat waiting, his eyes on the bend in the road.

Nearer and nearer came the horses, until the leader swung round the corner. Carstares saw that it was an ordinary travelling chariot, and levelled his pistol.

"Halt, or I fire!" He had to repeat the command before it was heard, and to ride out from the shadow of the hedge.

The chariot drew up and the coachman leaned over the side to see who it was bidding them to stop in so peremptory a manner.

"What d'ye want7 Who are ye? Is there aught amiss?" he cried testily, and found himself staring at a long-nosed pistol.

"Throw down your arms!"

"I ain't got none, blast ye!"

"On your honour?" Jack dismounted.

"Ay! Wish I had, and I'd see ye d.a.m.ned afore I'd throw 'em down!"

At this moment the door of the coach opened and a gentleman leapt lightly down on to the road. He was big and loose-limbed as far as Carstares could see, and carried himself with an easy grace.

My lord presented his pistol.

"Stand!" he ordered gruffly.

The moon peeped coyly out from behind a cloud and shed her light upon the little group as if to see what all the fuss was about. The big man's face was in the shadow, but Jack's pistol was not. Into its muzzle the gentleman gazed, one hand deep in the pocket of his heavy cloak, the other holding a small pistol.

"Me very dear friend," he said in a rich brogue, "perhaps ye are not aware that that same pistol ye are pointing at me is unloaded? Don't move; I have ye covered!"

Jack's arm fell to his side, and the pistol he held clattered to the ground. But it was not surprise at Jim's defection that caused him that violent start. It was something far more overwhelming. For the voice that proceeded from the tall gentleman belonged to one whom, six years ago, he had counted, next to Richard, his greatest friend on earth.

The man moved a little, and the moonlight shone full on his face, clearly outlining the large nose and good-humoured mouth, and above, the sleepy grey eyes. Miles! Miles O'Hara! For once Jack could find nothing amusing in the situation. It was too inconceivably hideous that he should meet his friend in this guise, and, further, be unable to reveal himself. A great longing to tear off his mask and to grasp Miles' hand a.s.sailed him. With an effort he choked it down and listened to what O'Hara was saying: "If ye will be so kind as to give me your word of honour ye'll not be afther trying to escape, I should be greatly obliged. But I tell ye first that if ye attempt to move, I shall shoot."

Jack made a hopeless gesture with his hand. He felt dazed. The whole thing was ridiculous; how Miles would laugh afterwards. He went cold. There would be no "afterwards." . . . Miles would never know. . . He would be given over to the authorities, and Miles would never know that he had helped Jack Carstares to the scaffold. . . .

Perhaps, too, he would not mind so very much, now that he, Jack, was so disgraced.

One could never tell; even if he risked everything now, and told his true ident.i.ty, Miles might turn away from him in disgust; Miles, who could never stoop to a dishonourable act. Carstares felt that he would bear anything sooner than face this man's scorn. . . .

"Never tell me 'tis a dumb man ye are, for I heard ye shout meself! Do ye give me your word of honour, or must I have ye bound?"

Carstares pulled himself together and set his teeth as he faced the inevitable. Escape was impossible; Miles would shoot, he felt sure, and then his disguise would be torn away and his friend would see that Jack Carstares was nothing but a common highwayman.

Whatever happened, that must not be, for the sake of the name and Richard. So he quietly held out his hands.

"Ay, I give my word, but ye can bind me if ye choose." It was his highwayman voice: raucous, and totally unlike his own.

But O'Hara's eyes were fixed on the slender white hands held out to him. In his usual haphazard fashion, Jack had quite forgotten to grime his hands. They were shapely and white, and carefully manicured.

Miles took either wrist in his large hands and turned them palm upwards in the moonlight.

"Singularly white hands ye have, for one in your profession," he drawled, and tightened his hold as Jack tried to draw them away. "No, ye do not! Now be so good as to step within, me friend."

Jack held back an instant.

"My mare?" he asked, and O'Hara noted the anxiety in his voice.

"Ye need not be after worrying about her," he said. "George!"

The footman sprang forward.