CHAPTER XIV

MISTRESS DIANA IS UNMAIDENLY

The idyllic summer days passed 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 chickens--for Diana was an enthusiastic poultry

farmer on a small scale--and 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 assuredly 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, 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 eyes 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.