CHAPTER XXI
MRS. FANSHAWE LIGHTS A FIRE AND O'HARA FANS THE FLAME
Richard Carstares very soon availed himself of Mrs. Fanshawe'spermission to call upon her, and duly put in an appearance at No. 16,Mount Street. He found the house very tastefully appointed, the sisterelderly and good-natured, and the widow herself an excellent hostess.The first time he called he was not the only visitor; two ladies whom hedid not know and a young cousin were already there, and later, a bowingacquaintance, Mr. Standish, also arrived. Seeing that he would have noopportunity to talk with the widow on the subject of his brother, hevery soon took his leave, promising to wait upon her again at no verydistant date. When, three days later, he again sent in his name and wasadmitted, he found the lady alone, and was gratified to hear her orderthe servant to deny her to all other visitors.
He bowed over her hand and hoped she was well.
Mrs. Fanshawe drew him down beside her on the settee.
"I am very well, Mr. Carstares. And you?"
"Also," he smiled, but his looks belied his words.
She told him so, laughing, and he pleaded a worried week.
"Well, sir, I presume you did not come to talk to me about your health,but about my friend--eh?"
"I assure--"
"Remember, no vapid compliments!" she besought.
"Then, madam, yes. I want to hear about--Ferndale. You see, I--likeyou--took a great interest in him."
She sent him a shrewd glance, and nodded.
"Of course. I will tell you all I know, Mr. Carstares, but it is notvery much, and maybe you will be disappointed. But I only knew him theshort time we were both in Vienna, and--he was not very communicative."
"Ah!--he did not confide in you, madam?"
"No. If one attempted to draw his confidence, he became a politeiceberg."
"Nevertheless, madam, please tell me all that you know."
"It will not take long, I fear. I met him in '48 at Vienna, in thePrater, where I was walking with my husband, who had come to Vienna forhis health. I chanced to let fall my reticule when Sir Anthony waspassing us, and he picked it up, speaking the most execrable German."She smiled a little at the remembrance. "Mr. Fanshawe, who had thegreatest dislike for all foreigners, was overjoyed to hear the Englishaccent. He induced Sir Anthony to continue his walk with us, andafterwards he called at our lodgings. I think he, too, was glad to meeta fellow-countryman, for he came often, and once when I had been talkingwith him for some time he let fall--what shall I say?--his reserve--hisguard--and told me that he had scarcely spoken his own language for fouryears. Afterwards he seemed to regret having said even that much, andturned the subject." She paused and looked up to see if her auditor wasinterested.
"Yes, yes?" urged Richard. "And then?"
"I do not remember. He came, as I said, often, mostly to talk to myhusband, who was a great invalid, but sometimes to see me. He wouldhardly ever speak of England--I think he did not trust himself. He nevermentioned any relations or any English friends, and when I spoke ofhome, he would shut his mouth very tightly, and look terribly sad. Isaw that for some reason the subject pained him, so I never spoke of itif I could help it.
"He was a most entertaining companion, Mr. Carstares; he used to tell myhusband tales that made him laugh as I had not heard him laugh formonths. He was very lively, very witty, and almost finickingly welldressed, but what his occupation was I could not quite ascertain. Hesaid he was a gentleman of leisure, but I do not think he was at allwealthy. He frequented all the gaming houses, and I heard tales of hismarvellous luck, so one day I taxed him with it, and he laughed and saidhe lived by Chance--he meant dice. Yet I know, for I once hadconversation with his servant, that his purse was at times very, veryslender."
"The time he aided you, Mrs. Fanshawe, when was that?"
She flushed.
"That was a few months after we first met him. I was--foolish; mymarried life was not--very happy, and I was--or, rather, I fanciedmyself--in love with an Austrian nobleman, who--who--well, sir, sufficeit that I consented to dine with him one evening. I found then that hewas not the _galant homme_ I had thought him, but something quitedifferent. I do not know what I should have done had not Sir Anthonyarrived."
"He did arrive then?"
"Yes. You see, he knew that this Austrian had asked me to dine--I toldhim--and he counselled me to refuse. But I--well, sir, I have told you,I was young and very foolish--I would not listen. When he called at ourhouse and found that I was out, he at once guessed where I had gone, andhe followed me to the Count's house, gave an Austrian name, and wasannounced just as the Count tried to--tried to--kiss me. I think I shallnever forget the relief of that moment! He was so safe, and so English!The Count was furious, and at first I thought he would have his lackeysthrow Anthony out. But when he heard all that Anthony had to say, herealised that it was useless to try to detain me--and I was taken home.Anthony was very kind--he did not scold, neither had he told my husband.Two days after, he and the Count fought a duel, and the Count waswounded in the lung. That was all. But it made me very grateful to himand interested in his affairs. Mr. Fanshawe left Vienna a few weeksafter that, and I have never seen my _preux chevalier_ since." Shesighed and looked steadily across at Carstares. "And you--you are solike him!"
"You think so, madam?" was all he could find to say.
"I do, sir. And something more, which, perhaps, you will deem animpertinence. Is Anthony your brother?"
The suddenness of the attack threw Carstares off his guard. He wentwhite.
"Madam!"
"Please be not afraid that mine is the proverbial woman's tongue, sir.It does not run away with me, I assure you. When I saw you the othernight for the first time, I was struck by the resemblance, and I askedmy 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 amiablegossip-monger.
"Among other things he told me of your elder brother-who--who--in fact,he told me the whole story. Of course, my mind instantly leapt to mypoor Sir Anthony, despite that in appearance he is younger than you. WasI right?"
Richard rose to his feet and walked away to the window, standing withhis back to her.
"Ay!"
"I was sure of it," she nodded. "So that was why he would not speak ofEngland? Poor boy!"
Richard's soul writhed under the lash of her pity.
"So he will always be outcast," she continued. "Alone, unhappy, withoutfriends--"
"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 helphim--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," heanswered proudly.
"Yes," she smiled. "You are like him; when you speak like that you mightalmost 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 Anthonyto 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 ofBohea 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 tellingme all that you have. I beg you will allow me to wait on you again erelong?"
"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 toan end.
Carstares lay awake long that night, he
aring the hours toll by and theowls screech in the square. The widow's words had sunk deep into hisever-uneasy conscience, and he could not sleep for the thought of John,"alone, unhappy, without friends." ... Time after time had he arguedthis question with himself: John or Lavinia? ... He fell to wonderingwhere his brother now was; whether he was still roaming the SouthCountry, a highwayman. No one would ever know how he, Richard, dreadedeach fresh capture made by the military. Every time he expected John tobe among the prisoners, and he visited Newgate so often that his friendstwitted 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 wereminded to come back to society, he would do so; but deep within himselfhe knew that such a decision was unworthy of one even so debased as washe. Then his mind went to Lavinia, who alternately enchanted andexasperated him. Only a week ago she had defied him openly in the matterof 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 lovedher!--loved her so greatly that it were a pleasure to him to die for hersake. Yet John--John was his brother--the adored elder brother, and byobeying Lavinia he was wronging him, hurting him. If only Lavinia wouldconsent to the truth being told! It always came back to that point: ifonly she would consent. And she never would. She insisted that, havingmarried 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 chocolatewas brought to him. Bitterly he reflected that at least John had noconscience to prey upon him; he did not fall asleep with his brainseething with conflicting arguments, and awake with the decision as faroff as ever. To-day his head ached unbearably, and he stayed in bed forsome time contemplating the grey morning. A fog hung over the Square,and through it the trees, with their withered autumn leaves, loomeddismally before the windows. There was something infinitely depressingabout the dull outlook, and presently he rose and allowed his valet todress him, not able to stand the inaction any longer. His headache wasbetter by the time he had visited his wife in her room, and listened toher enthusiastic account of last night's rout, and, going out into thesquare, he called a chair, ordering the men to carry him to White's,where he intended to write two letters. Somehow, Wyncham House was toopoignantly full of memories of John to-day, and he was thankful to beout of it.
White's was crowded even at that hour of the morning, and the noiseseemed to cut through his head. Men hailed him from all sides, offeringhim bets; someone tried to tell him some piece of scandal; they wouldnot let him alone, and at last his jagged nerves would no longer supportit, and he left the house to go further down the street to his otherclub, the Cocoa-Tree, which he hoped to find less rowdy. It was fullerthan he expected, but many of the men had come as he had, to writeletters and to be quiet. Very little gaming was as yet in swing.
Richard wrote steadily for perhaps an hour, and sealed his last letterpreparatory to leaving. As he affixed the wafer, he was conscious of astir 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 came the soft Irish voice in answer, and he slewed round in hischair to face them all. Miles O'Hara was the centre of a little group ofinterested and welcoming clubmen, explaining his arrival.
"Sure, I was in town on a matter of business, and I thought I must cometo the club to see ye all while I was here, for 'tis not often I get thechance--"
Richard rose, gathering up his letters and stared across at this man whohad been Jack's greatest friend. He took a step towards him. As he didso, O'Hara turned and caught sight of him. Richard was about to hailhim, when he suddenly noticed the change in his expression. The goodhumour 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 toconvey 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 thehandle.... O'Hara knew! He was in the passage, on the front steps, inthe road, shuddering. O'Hara knew, and he had looked at him as if--asif--again he shuddered, and seeing an empty chair, hailed it, biddingthe men carry him to Grosvenor Square.... O'Hara despisedhim!--reproached him! Then Jack was in trouble? He had seen him andlearnt the truth? God, but his brain was reeling! ...