"You will excuse my not rising, I beg," he smiled. "As you perceiveI have had an accident."
Light dawned on Bettison. This was the man who had rescued Diana, confound his impudence!
"Ah, yes, sir! Your arm, was it not? My faith, I should be proud of such a wound!"
It seemed to Carstares that he smiled at Diana in a d.a.m.ned familiar fashion, devil take his impudence!
"It was indeed a great honour, sir. Mistress Di, I have finished sorting your green silks."
Diana sank down on the cushion again, and shook some more strands out on to his knee.
"How quick you have been! Now we will do the blue ones."
Bettison glared. This fellow seemed prodigious intimate with Diana, devil take him! He sat down beside Miss Betty, and addressed my lord patronisingly.
"Let me seeerMr. Carr. Have I met you in town, I wonder? At Tom"s, perhaps?"
This country b.u.mpkin would belong to Tom"s, reflected John savagely, for no reason at all. Aloud he said: "I think it extremely unlikely, sir. I have been abroad some years."
"Oh, indeed, sir? The "grand tour," I suppose?"
Mr. Bettison"s tone was not the tone of one who supposes any such thing.
John smiled.
"Not this time," he said, "that was seven years ago."
Mr. Bettison had heard rumours of this fellow who, it was murmured, was nought but a common highwayman.
"Really? After Cambridge, perhaps?"
"Oxford," corrected Carstares gently.
Curse his audacity! thought Mr. Bettison.
"Seven years agolet me think. George must have been on the tour thenSelwyn, I mean, Miss Beauleigh."
Jack, who had made the tour with several other young bucks fresh down from college, accompanied as far as Paris by the famous wit himself, held his peace.
Mr. Bettison then launched forth into anecdotes of his own tour, and seeing that his friend was entirely engrossed with Miss Diana and her silks, O"Hara felt it inc.u.mbent on him to draw the enemy"s fire, and, taking his own departure, to bear the squire off with him. For which he received a grateful smile from my lord, and a kiss blown from the tips of her fingers from Mistress Di, with whom he was on the best of terms.
CHAPTER XIV.
MISTRESS DIANA IS UNMAIDENLY.
THE idyllic summer days pa.s.sed quickly by, and every time that my lord spoke of leaving, the outcry was so indignant and so firm that he hastily subsided and told himself he would stay just another few days. His shoulder, having mended up to a certain point, refused quite to heal, and exertion brought the pain back very swiftly. So his time was for the most part spent with Mistress Di out of doors, helping her with her gardening and her chickensfor Diana was an enthusiastic poultry farmer on a small scaleand ministering to her various pets. If Fido had a splinter in his paw, it was to Mr.
Carr that he was taken; if Nellie, the spaniel, caught a live rabbit, Mr. Carr would a.s.suredly know what to do for it, and the same with all the other animals. The young pair grew closer and closer together, while Miss Betty and O"Hara watched from afar, the former filled with pride of her darling, and satisfaction, and the latter with apprehension. O"Hara knew that his friend was falling unconsciously in love, and he feared the time when John should realise it. He confided these fears to his wife, who, with young David, was staying at her mother"s house in Kensington, in a long and very Irish letter. She replied that he must try and coax my lord into coming to stay with them, when her charms would at once eclipse Mistress Diana"s, though to be sure, she could not understand why Miles should not wish him to fall in love, for as he well knew, "twas a prodigious pleasant sensation. If he did not know it, then he was indeed most disagreeable. And had he ever heard of anything so wonderful?David had drawn a picture of a horse! Yes, really, it was a horse! Was he not a clever child? Further, would her dearest Miles please come and fetch her home, for although Mamma was prodigious amiable, and wanted her to stay several weeks, she positively could not live without her husband an instant longer than was necessary!
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, anderyes, 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.Circ.u.mstances, 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, mademoiselleI was not. I fear I have tarried too long, taking advantage of your kindness."
"Oh, no, no!" she a.s.sured 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.
"Mademoiselleyou overwhelm meI 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 gla.s.s.
"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 ama 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 grat.i.tude! Is it only that which has made you tolerate me all this time?"
Her fingers gripped one another.
"Why, sirwhy, 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 c.o.xcomb 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?"
"Ionce-" 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 antic.i.p.ation 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.
"Butbutdo 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 havewhat is the word?expiated! yes, that is itexpiated 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 everfor 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."