CHAPTER VIII

THE BITER BIT

With John Carstares the winter had passed quite uneventfully. He

continued his highway robbery, but he made two bad blunders--not 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 naive apology. The old gentleman in the second episode

had defied him so gallantly that he had impulsively offered him the butt

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, assisted 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 Sussex, 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

though--eh, 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, sir--a-standing all by herself?"

inquired the man, surprised.

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

"Well! Seems to me a risky thing to leave a hoss--and a skittish hoss at

that--a-standing loose in the road. Ye won't be tying her to a post,

master?"

Carstares leaned his arms on the balustrade and looked down at them.

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

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 her--so 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 Sussex

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 pass 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 pricked 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 scraped and

saved rather than go under; how he had lived in one of the poorer

_quartiers_ of the city, alone, without friends--nameless.

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 passed 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 assumed 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, or--and 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 mare--J. the Third, as he laughingly dubbed

her--decided 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 want? 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 damned 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

assailed 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 identity,

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.

"Yessir?"

"Ye see that mare? I want ye to ride her home. Can ye do it?"

"Yessir!"

"I doubt it," murmured Jack.

So did Jenny. She refused point blank to allow this stranger to mount

her. Her master had left her in one spot, and there she would stand

until he chose to bid her move. In vain did the groom coax and coerce.

She ran round him and seemed a transformed creature. She laid her ears

flat and gnashed at the bit, ready to lash out furiously at the first

opportunity.

Jack watched the man's futile struggles with the ghost of a smile about

his lips.

"Jenny!" he said quietly, and O'Hara looked round at him sharply,

frowning. Unconsciously, he had spoken naturally, and the voice was

faintly familiar.

Jenny twitched the bridle from the perspiring groom and minced up to the

prisoner.

"Would ye allow me to have a hand free--sir?" he asked. "Mebbe I can

manage her."

Without a word Miles released him, and he caught the bridle, murmuring

something unintelligible to the now quiet animal.

O'Hara watched the beautiful hand stroke her muzzle reassuringly, and

frowned again. No ordinary highwayman this.

"Mount her now, will 'ee?" Jack flung at the groom, and kept a warning

hand on the rein as the man obeyed. With a final pat he turned away.

"She'll do now, sir."

O'Hara nodded.

"Ye've trained her well. Get in, please."

Jack obeyed, and in a minute or two O'Hara jumped in after him, and the

coach began to move forward.

For a while there was silence, Carstares keeping himself well under

control. It was almost unbearable to think that after this brief drive

he would never set eyes on his friend again, and he wanted so badly to

turn and grasp that strong hand....

Miles turned in his seat and tried to see the masked face in the

darkness.

"Ye are a gentleman?" he asked, going straight to the point.

Jack was prepared for this.

"Me, sir? Lor' no, sir!"

"I do not believe ye. Don't be forgettin' I've seen your hands!"

"Hands, sir?" in innocent bewilderment.

"Sure, ye don't think I'd be believing ye an ordinary rogue, with hands

like that?"

"I don't rightly understand ye, sir?"

"Bejabers then, ye'll be understanding me tomorrow!"

"To-morrow, sir?"

"Certainly. Ye may as well tell me now as then. I'm not such a daft fool

as I look, and I know a gentleman when I see one, even an he does growl

at me as you do!" he chuckled. "And I'd an odd feeling I knew ye when ye

spoke to the mare. I'd be loth to send a friend to the gallows."

How well Jack knew that soft, persuasive voice. His hands clenched as he

forced himself to answer:

"I don't think I've ever seen ye afore, sir."

"Maybe ye have not. We shall see to-morrow."

"What do ye mean by to-morrow, sir?" ventured Carstares uneasily.

"Sure, ye will have the honour of appearing before me, me friend."

"Before _you_, sir?"

"Why not? I'm a Justice of the Peace, heaven save the mark!"

There was a breathless pause, and then at last the funny side of it

struck Jack, and his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. The

exquisite irony of it was almost too much for him. He, the Earl of

Wyncham, was to be formally questioned by his friend Sir Miles O'Hara,

J.P.!

"What ails ye now, man? Ye find it amusing?" asked Miles, surprised.

"Oh, Lud, yes!" gasped Jack, and collapsed into his corner.