CHAPTER XXI

MRS. FANSHAWE LIGHTS A FIRE AND O'HARA FANS THE FLAME

Richard Carstares very soon availed himself of Mrs. Fanshawe's

permission to call upon her, and duly put in an appearance at No. 16,

Mount Street. He found the house very tastefully appointed, the sister

elderly and good-natured, and the widow herself an excellent hostess.

The first time he called he was not the only visitor; two ladies whom he

did not know and a young cousin were already there, and later, a bowing

acquaintance, Mr. Standish, also arrived. Seeing that he would have no

opportunity to talk with the widow on the subject of his brother, he

very soon took his leave, promising to wait upon her again at no very

distant date. When, three days later, he again sent in his name and was

admitted, he found the lady alone, and was gratified to hear her order

the 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--like

you--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 not

very much, and maybe you will be disappointed. But I only knew him the

short 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 polite

iceberg."

"Nevertheless, madam, please tell me all that you know."

"It will not take long, I fear. I met him in '48 at Vienna, in the

Prater, where I was walking with my husband, who had come to Vienna for

his health. I chanced to let fall my reticule when Sir Anthony was

passing us, and he picked it up, speaking the most execrable German."

She smiled a little at the remembrance. "Mr. Fanshawe, who had the

greatest dislike for all foreigners, was overjoyed to hear the English

accent. He induced Sir Anthony to continue his walk with us, and

afterwards he called at our lodgings. I think he, too, was glad to meet

a fellow-countryman, for he came often, and once when I had been talking

with him for some time he let fall--what shall I say?--his reserve--his

guard--and told me that he had scarcely spoken his own language for four

years. Afterwards he seemed to regret having said even that much, and

turned the subject." She paused and looked up to see if her auditor was

interested.

"Yes, yes?" urged Richard. "And then?"

"I do not remember. He came, as I said, often, mostly to talk to my

husband, who was a great invalid, but sometimes to see me. He would

hardly ever speak of England--I think he did not trust himself. He never

mentioned any relations or any English friends, and when I spoke of

home, he would shut his mouth very tightly, and look terribly sad. I

saw that for some reason the subject pained him, so I never spoke of it

if I could help it.

"He was a most entertaining companion, Mr. Carstares; he used to tell my

husband tales that made him laugh as I had not heard him laugh for

months. He was very lively, very witty, and almost finickingly well

dressed, but what his occupation was I could not quite ascertain. He

said he was a gentleman of leisure, but I do not think he was at all

wealthy. He frequented all the gaming houses, and I heard tales of his

marvellous luck, so one day I taxed him with it, and he laughed and said

he lived by Chance--he meant dice. Yet I know, for I once had

conversation with his servant, that his purse was at times very, very

slender."

"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; my

married life was not--very happy, and I was--or, rather, I fancied

myself--in love with an Austrian nobleman, who--who--well, sir, suffice

it that I consented to dine with him one evening. I found then that he

was not the _galant homme_ I had thought him, but something quite

different. I do not know what I should have done had not Sir Anthony

arrived."

"He did arrive then?"

"Yes. You see, he knew that this Austrian had asked me to dine--I told

him--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 our

house and found that I was out, he at once guessed where I had gone, and

he followed me to the Count's house, gave an Austrian name, and was

announced just as the Count tried to--tried to--kiss me. I think I shall

never 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 lackeys

throw Anthony out. But when he heard all that Anthony had to say, he

realised 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 was

wounded in the lung. That was all. But it made me very grateful to him

and interested in his affairs. Mr. Fanshawe left Vienna a few weeks

after that, and I have never seen my _preux chevalier_ since." She

sighed and looked steadily across at Carstares. "And you--you are so

like him!"

"You think so, madam?" was all he could find to say.

"I do, sir. And something more, which, perhaps, you will deem an

impertinence. Is Anthony your brother?"

The suddenness of the attack threw Carstares off his guard. He went

white.

"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 other

night for the first time, I was struck by the resemblance, and I asked

my 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 amiable

gossip-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 my

poor Sir Anthony, despite that in appearance he is younger than you. Was

I right?"

Richard rose to his feet and walked away to the window, standing with

his back to her.

"Ay!"

"I was sure of it," she nodded. "So that was why he would not speak of

England? Poor boy!"

Richard's soul writhed under the lash of her pity.

"So he will always be outcast," she continued. "Alone, unhappy, without

friends--"

"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 help

him--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," he

answered proudly.

"Yes," she smiled. "You are like him; when you speak like that you might

almost 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 Anthony

to 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 of

Bohea 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 telling

me all that you have. I beg you will allow me to wait on you again ere

long?"

"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 to

an end.

Carstares lay awake long that night, hearing the hours toll by and the

owls screech in the square. The widow's words had sunk deep into his

ever-uneasy conscience, and he could not sleep for the thought of John,

"alone, unhappy, without friends." ... Time after time had he argued

this question with himself: John or Lavinia? ... He fell to wondering

where his brother now was; whether he was still roaming the South

Country, a highwayman. No one would ever know how he, Richard, dreaded

each fresh capture made by the military. Every time he expected John to

be among the prisoners, and he visited Newgate so often that his friends

twitted 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 were

minded to come back to society, he would do so; but deep within himself

he knew that such a decision was unworthy of one even so debased as was

he. Then his mind went to Lavinia, who alternately enchanted and

exasperated him. Only a week ago she had defied him openly in the matter

of 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 loved

her!--loved her so greatly that it were a pleasure to him to die for her

sake. Yet John--John was his brother--the adored elder brother, and by

obeying Lavinia he was wronging him, hurting him. If only Lavinia would

consent to the truth being told! It always came back to that point: if

only she would consent. And she never would. She insisted that, having

married 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 chocolate

was brought to him. Bitterly he reflected that at least John had no

conscience to prey upon him; he did not fall asleep with his brain

seething with conflicting arguments, and awake with the decision as far

off as ever. To-day his head ached unbearably, and he stayed in bed for

some time contemplating the grey morning. A fog hung over the Square,

and through it the trees, with their withered autumn leaves, loomed

dismally before the windows. There was something infinitely depressing

about the dull outlook, and presently he rose and allowed his valet to

dress him, not able to stand the inaction any longer. His headache was

better by the time he had visited his wife in her room, and listened to

her enthusiastic account of last night's rout, and, going out into the

square, he called a chair, ordering the men to carry him to White's,

where he intended to write two letters. Somehow, Wyncham House was too

poignantly full of memories of John to-day, and he was thankful to be

out of it.

White's was crowded even at that hour of the morning, and the noise

seemed to cut through his head. Men hailed him from all sides, offering

him bets; someone tried to tell him some piece of scandal; they would

not let him alone, and at last his jagged nerves would no longer support

it, and he left the house to go further down the street to his other

club, the Cocoa-Tree, which he hoped to find less rowdy. It was fuller

than he expected, but many of the men had come as he had, to write

letters and to be quiet. Very little gaming was as yet in swing.

Richard wrote steadily for perhaps an hour, and sealed his last letter

preparatory to leaving. As he affixed the wafer, he was conscious of a

stir 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 his

chair to face them all. Miles O'Hara was the centre of a little group of

interested and welcoming clubmen, explaining his arrival.

"Sure, I was in town on a matter of business, and I thought I must come

to the club to see ye all while I was here, for 'tis not often I get the

chance--"

Richard rose, gathering up his letters and stared across at this man who

had been Jack's greatest friend. He took a step towards him. As he did

so, O'Hara turned and caught sight of him. Richard was about to hail

him, when he suddenly noticed the change in his expression. The good

humour 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 to

convey 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 the

handle.... O'Hara knew! He was in the passage, on the front steps, in

the road, shuddering. O'Hara knew, and he had looked at him as if--as

if--again he shuddered, and seeing an empty chair, hailed it, bidding

the men carry him to Grosvenor Square.... O'Hara despised

him!--reproached him! Then Jack was in trouble? He had seen him and

learnt the truth? God, but his brain was reeling! ...