The Black Moth: A Romance of the XVIIIth Century
After the encounter with O'Hara, whatever peace of mind Richard had had,
left him. He knew not a moment's quiet; all day, and sometimes all
night, his brain worried round and round the everlasting question: John
or Lavinia? He had quite decided that it must be either the one or the
other; the idea that he might conceivably retain his wife _and_ confess
the truth, never occurred to him. So often had Lavinia assured him that
he had no right to expect her to share his disgrace, that now he
believed it. He thought that she would elope with Lovelace, whom, his
tortured mind decided, she really loved. Any attempt to frustrate such
an action would, he supposed wretchedly, be the essence of selfishness.
Of course he was not himself, and his brain was not working normally or
rationally; had he but known it, he was mentally ill, and if Lavinia had
thought to examine him closely she could not have failed to observe the
fever spots on each cheek, the unnaturally bright eyes and the dark
rings encircling them. Richard wore the look of one goaded beyond
endurance, and utterly tired and overwrought. As he told Mrs. Fanshawe,
when she exclaimed at his appearance--he could not rest; he must always
be moving, thinking. She saw that he was not entirely himself, and
counselled him to consult a doctor. His half-angry repudiation of all
illness did not surprise her, but she was considerably startled when, in
answer to her pleading that he should have a care for himself, he
vehemently said: "If I could die, I should be glad!" She wondered what
his wife was about not to see his condition, and wished that she might
do something. But she was not acquainted with Lady Lavinia, and she
felt it would be a piece of gross presumption on her part to speak to
her of Richard. If she had thought his malady to be physical, she
reflected, she might venture a word, but as she perceived it to be
mental, she could only hope that it would pass in time, and that he
would recover from his run-down condition.
Lady Lavinia was pursuing her butterfly existence, heeding nothing but
her own pleasure, bent on enjoying herself. She succeeded very well, on
the whole, but she could not help wishing that Dicky were a little more
cheerful and wishful to join in her gaiety. Of late he was worse than
ever, and although he supplied her wants uncomplainingly, she would
almost rather he had refused her and shown a little life, than give way
to her with this dreadful apathy.
Lovelace was out of town for a week, and Lavinia was surprised to find
how little she missed him. To be sure, playing with fire was very
pleasant, but when it was removed out of her reach, it really made no
odds. She missed Harry's adulation and his passionate love-making, for
she was one of those women who must always have admiration and
excitement, but she was not made miserable by his absence. She continued
to flutter round to all the entertainments of the season with one or
other of her brothers, and when Lovelace returned he was disturbed by
her casual welcome. However, she was undoubtedly pleased to see him, and
soon fell more or less under his spell, allowing him to be by her side
when Tracy was not near, and to charm her ears with compliments and
gallantry.
To do him justice, Captain Harold was really in love with her and was
quite ready to relinquish his commission if only she would run away with
him. He had private means of his own, and promised her that her every
whim should be satisfied. But Lavinia scolded him and shook her head.
Apart from any ulterior consideration, Richard was, after all, her
husband; he, too, loved her, and she was very, very fond of him,
although she did plague him dreadfully.
Lovelace assured her that her husband did not love her nearly as much as
he, and when she smiled her disbelief, lost his temper and cried that
all the town knew Carstares to be at Mrs. Fanshawe's feet!
Lavinia stiffened.
"Harold!"
"I am only surprised that you have been blind to it," he continued.
"Where do you think he goes every day for so long? White's? No. To 16,
Mount Street! Stapely called there and met him; another day Lady
Davenant saw him with her; Wilding has also met him at her house. He
spends nearly every afternoon with her!"
Lavinia was a Belmanoir, and she had all the Belmanoir pride. Rising to
her feet she drew her cloak about her with her most queenly air.
"You forget yourself, Harold," she said haughtily. "Never dare to speak
to me of my husband again in that tone! You may take me at once to my
brother."
He was very penitent, wording his apology most cleverly, smoothing her
ruffled plumage, withdrawing his words, but at the same time contriving
to leave their sting behind. She forgave him, yes, but he must never
offend her so again.
Although she had indignantly refused to believe the scandal, it
nevertheless rankled, and she found herself watching her husband with
jealous eyes, noticing his seeming indifference towards her and his
many absences from home. Then came a day when she caused her chair to be
borne down Mount Street at the very moment when Richard was coming out
of No. 16.
That was enough for Lavinia. So he was indeed tired of her! He loved
another woman!--some wretched widow! For the first time a real worry
plagued her. She stayed at home that evening and exerted all her arts to
captivate her husband. But Richard, seeing John unhappy, reproachful,
every way he turned, his head on fire, his brain seething with
conflicting arguments, hardly noticed her, and as soon as he might
politely do so, left her, to pace up and down the library floor, trying
to make up his mind what to do.
Lady Lavinia was stricken with horror. She had sickened him by her
megrims, as Tracy had prophesied she would! He no longer cared for her!
_This_ was why he continually excused himself from accompanying her when
she went out! For once in her life she faced facts, and the prospect
alarmed her. If it was not already too late, she must try to win back
his love, and to do this she realised she must cease to tease him for
money, and also cease to snap at him whenever she felt at all out of
sorts. She must charm him back to her. She had no idea how much she
cared for him until now that she thought he did not care for her. It was
dreadful: she had always been so sure of Dicky! Whatever she did,
however exasperating she might be, he would always adore her.
And all the time, Richard, far from making love to Mrs. Fanshawe, was
hearing anecdotes of his brother from her, little details of his
appearance, things he had said. He drank in all the information,
clutching eagerly at each fresh scrap of gossip, greedy to hear it if it
in any way concerned John. His brain was absorbed with this one
subject, and he never saw when Lavinia smiled upon him, nor did he seem
to hear her coaxing speeches. When she remarked, as she presently did,
on his pallor, he almost snapped at her, and left the room. Once she put
her arms about him and kissed him on the lips; he put her gently aside,
too worried to respond to the caress, but, had she known it--grateful
for it.
His Grace of Andover meeting his sister at Ranelagh Gardens, thought her
face looked pinched, and her eyes unhappy. He inquired the reason, but
Lady Lavinia refused to confide even in him, and pleaded a headache.
Andover, knowing her, imagined that she had been refused some kickshaw,
and thought no more about it.
He himself was very busy. Only two days before a groom had presented
himself at St. James's Square, bearing a missive from Harper, very
illegible and ill-spelt, but to the point:
"YR. GRACE,
"I have took the liberty of engageing this Man, Douglas, in Yr. Name. I
hope I shall soon be Able to have carrid out the Rest of yr. Grace's
Instructions, and trust my Connduct will met with Yr. Grace's Approvall.
Very Obed'tly,
M. HARPER."
* * * * *
Tracy confirmed the engagement and straightway dispatched the man to
Andover, where the head groom would undoubtedly find work for him to do.
He was amused at the blind way in which the man had walked into his
trap, and meditated cynically on the frailty of human nature, which
will always follow the great god Mammon.
Not three days later came another letter, this time from Mr. Beauleigh,
addressed to him at White's, under the name of Sir Hugh Grandison. It
asked for the man Harper's character.
His Grace of Andover answered it in the library of his own home, and
smiled sarcastically as he wrote Harper down "exceeding honest and
trustworthy, as I have always found."
He was in the middle of the letter when the door was unceremoniously
pushed open and Andrew lounged into the room.
His Grace looked up frowning. Not a whit dismayed by the coolness of his
reception, his brother kicked the door to and lowered his long limbs
into a chair.
"May I ask to what I owe the honour of this intrusion?" smiled Tracy
dangerously.
"Richard," was the cheerful reply, "Richard."
"As I am not interested in either him or his affairs--"
"How truly amiable you are to-day! But I think you'll be interested in
this, 'tis so vastly mysterious."
"Indeed? What is the matter?"
"Just what I want to know!"
Tracy sighed wearily.
"Pray come to the point, Andrew--if point there be. I have no time to
waste."
"Lord! Busy? Working? God ha' mercy!" The young rake stretched his legs
out before him and cast his eyes down their shapeliness. Then he
stiffened and sat up, staring at one white-stockinged ankle.
"Now, damn and curse it! where did that come from?" he expostulated
mildly.
"Where did _what_ come from?"
"That great splash of mud on my leg. Brand new on this morning, and I've
scarce set my nose without doors. Damn it, I say! A brand new--"
"Leg?"
"Hey? What's that you say?"
"Nought. When you have quite finished your eulogy, perhaps you would
consent to tell me your errand?"
"Oh, ay!--but twenty shillings the pair! Think of it! ... Well, the
point--there is one, you see--is this: it is Richard's desire that you
honour him with your presence at Wyncham on Friday week, at three in the
afternoon exactly. To which effect he sends you this." He tossed a
letter on to the desk. "You are like to have the felicity of meeting me
there."
Tracy ripped open the packet and spread the single sheet on the desk
before him. He read it through very deliberately, turned it over, as if
in search of more, re-read it, folded it, and dropped it into the
wastebasket at his side. He then picked up his quill and dipped it in
the ink again.
"What think you?" demanded Andrew, impatiently.
His Grace wrote tranquilly on to the end of the line.
"What think I of what?"
"Why, the letter, of course! What ails the man? 'Something of great
import to impart to us,' forsooth! What means he?"
"Yes, I noticed 'twas very badly worded," commented Tracy. "I have not
the vaguest notion as to his meaning."
"But what do you make of it? Lord, Tracy, don't be such a fish! Dick is
summoning quite a party!"
"You appear to be in his confidence, my dear Andrew. Allow me to
congratulate you. No doubt we shall know more--ah--on Friday week, at
three o'clock."
"Oh, you'll go, then?"
"Quite possibly." He went on writing unconcernedly.
"And you've no idea of what 'tis about? Dick is very strange. He hardly
listens to what one has to say, and fidget--Lord!"
"Ah!"
"I think he looks ill, an' 'pon my soul, so does Lavvy! Do you suppose
there is aught amiss?"
"I really have no idea. Pray do not let me detain you."
Andrew hoisted himself out of his chair.
"Oh, I'm not staying, never fear! ... I suppose you cannot oblige me
with--say--fifty guineas?"
"I should be loth to upset your suppositions," replied his Grace
sweetly.