The Black Moth: A Romance of the XVIIIth Century
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?"