The Black Moth by Georgette Heyer (best mobile ebook reader TXT) 📕
"Certainly, sir."
"Then do not keep up this pretence with me; no, nor look so hard neither! I've watched you grow up right from the cradle, and Master Dick too, and I know you both through and through. I know you never cheated at Colonel Dare's nor anywhere else! I could have sworn it at the time--ay, when I saw Master Dick's face, I knew at once that he it was who had played foul, and you had but taken the blame!"
"No!"
"I know better! Can you, Master Jack, look me in the face and truthfully deny what I have said? Can you? Can you?"
My lord sat silent.
With a sigh, Warburton sank on to the settle once more. He was flushed, and his eyes shone, but he spoke calmly again.
"Of course you cannot. I have never known you lie. You need not fear I shall betray you. I kept silence all these years for my lord's sake, and I will not speak now until you give me leave."
"Which I never shall."
"Master Ja
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“Nonsense! We went of our own accord. She had but returned from school.”
“Exactly. And whose doing was that but Tracy’s?”
Carstares opened his eyes rather wide and leant both arms on the table, crooking his fingers round the stem of his wine glass.
“Do the debts amount to much?”
“I can’t tell ye that. ‘Twas but by chance I found it out at all. The Belmanoirs were never moderate in their manner of living.”
“Nor were any of us. Don’t be so hard on them, Miles! … I knew, of course, that the Belmanoir estate was mortgaged, but I did not guess to what extent.”
“I don’t know that either, but Dick’s money does not go to pay it off. ‘Tis all frittered away on gambling and pretty women.”
My lord’s brow darkened ominously.
“Ye-s. I think I shall have a little score to settle with Tracy on that subject—some day.”
Miles said nothing.
“But how does Dick manage without touching my money?”
“I do not know.” O’Hara’s tone implied that he cared less.
“I hope he is not in debt himself,” mused Carstares, “‘Tis like enough he is in some muddle. I wish I might persuade him to accept the revenue.” He frowned and drummed his fingers on the table.
O’Hara exploded.
“Sure, ‘twould be like you to be doing the same. Let the man alone for the Lord’s sake, and don’t be after worrying your head over a miserable spalpeen that did ye more harm than—”
“Miles, I cannot allow you to speak so of Dick! You do not understand.”
“I understand well enough. ‘Tis too Christian ye are entirely. And let us have an end of this farce of yours! I know that Dick cheated as well as you do, and I say ‘tis unnatural for you to be wanting him to take your money after he’s done you out of honour and all else!”
Carstares sipped his wine quietly, waiting for Miles’ anger to evaporate, as it presently did, leaving him to glower balefully. Then he started to laugh.
“Oh, Miles, let me go my own road! I’m a sore trial to you, I know.” Then suddenly sobering: “But I want you not to think so hardly of Dick. You know enough of him to understand a little how it all came about. You know how extravagant he was and how often in debt—can you not pardon the impulse of a mad moment?”
“That I could pardon. What I cannot forgive is his—unutterable meanness in letting you bear the blame.”
“O’Hara, he was in love with Lavinia—”
“So were you.”
“Not so deeply. With me ‘twas a boy’s passion, but with him ‘twas serious.”
O’Hara remained silent, his mouth unusually hard.
“Put yourself in his place,” pleaded Jack. “If you—”
“Thank you!” O’Hara laughed unpleasantly. “No, Jack, we shall not agree on this subject, and we had best leave it alone. I do not think you need worry about him, though. I believe he is not in debt.”
“Does he have fair luck with his racing and his—”
O’Hara smiled grimly.
“Dick is a very changed man, John. He does not keep racehorses, neither does he play cards, save for appearance’s sake.”
“Dick not play! What then does he do?”
“Manages your estates and conducts his wife to routs. When in town,” bitterly, “he inhabits your house.”
“Well, there is none else to use it. But I cannot imagine Dick turned sober!”
“‘Tis easy to be righteous after the evil is done, I’m thinking!”
My lord ignored this remark. A curious smile played about his mouth.
“Egad, Miles, ‘tis very entertaining! I, the erstwhile sober member—what is the matter?—am now the profligate: I dice, I gamble, I rob. Dick the ne’er-do-weel is saint. He—er—lives a godly and righteous life, and—er—is robbed by his wife’s relations. After all, I do not think I envy him overmuch.”
“At least, you enjoy life more than he does,” said O’Hara, grinning. “For ye have no conscience to reckon with.”
Carstares’ face was inscrutable. He touched his lips with his napkin and smiled.
“As you say, I enjoy life the more—but as to conscience, I do not think it is that.”
O’Hara glanced at him sitting sideways in his chair, one arm flung over its back.
“Will ye be offended if I ask ye a question?”
“Of course not.”
“Then—do ye intend to go back to this highroad robbery?”
“I do not.”
“What then will you do?”
The shadows vanished, and my lord laughed.
“To tell you the truth, Miles, I’ve not yet settled that point. Fate will decide—not I.”
MR. BETTISON PROPOSES
MR. BETTISON could make nothing of Diana of late. Her demeanour, at first so charming and so cheerful, had become listless, and even chilling. She seemed hardly to listen to some of his best tales, and twice she actually forgot to laugh at what was surely a most witty pleasantry. It struck him that she regarded him with a resentful eye, as if she objected to his presence at Horton House, and had no desire to be courted. But Mr. Bettison was far too egotistic to believe such a thing, and he brushed the incredible suspicion away, deciding that her coldness was due to a very proper shyness. He continued his visits until they became so frequent that scarce a day passed without his strutting step being heard approaching the house and his voice inquiring for the Miss Beauleighs. Mr. Beauleigh, who secretly hoped for Mr. Bettison as a son-in-law, would not permit the ladies to deny themselves, and he further counselled Miss Betty to absent herself after the first few moments, leaving the young couple together. Thus it was that it so continually fell to Diana’s lot to receive the Squire and to listen to his never-ending monologues. She persistently snubbed him, hoping to ward off the impending proposal, but either her snubs were not severe enough, or Mr. Bettison’s skin was too thick to feel them; for not a fortnight after my lord’s departure, he begged her hand in marriage. It was refused him with great firmness, but, taking the refusal for coquettishness, he pressed his suit still more amorously, and with such a self-assured air that Mistress Di became indignant.
“Sir,” she cried, “it seems you have indeed misread my attitude towards you!”
Mr. Bettison was struck dumb with amazement. It had never entered his brain that Diana could seriously refuse him. He could hardly believe his ears at this quite unmistakable tone of voice, and sat gaping.
“I must beg,” continued Diana, “I must beg that you will discontinue your all-too-frequent visits here. Please do not deem me unkind, but your persecution of me—I can call it nothing else—is wearying—and—you will forgive the word—tiresome. I confess I am surprised that you had not perceived your attentions to be distasteful to me.”
“Distasteful!” cried Mr. Bettison, recovering after two or three unsuccessful attempts from his speechlessness. “Do you mean what you say, Miss Diana? That you will not wed me?”
She nodded.
“Yes, Mr. Bettison, I do.”
“And that my attentions are displeasing to you! Well, Miss Beauleigh! Well, indeed!”
Diana softened a little.
“I am indeed sorry that you should have misconstrued—”
“No misconstruction, madam!” snapped the Squire, who was fast losing control over his temper. “Do you dare aver that you did not encourage me to visit you?”
“I do, most emphatically!”
“Oh, I see what ‘tis! You cannot hoodwink me. ‘Twas never thus with you before that fellow came!”
“Mr. Bettison, I am entirely at a loss, but I desire you to leave this room before you say aught you may afterwards regret.”
He disregarded her.
“You are infatuated by that over-dressed popinjay—that insufferable Carr, who, from all I hear, is but a shady fellow, and who—”
With a sweeping movement Diana had risen and walked to the bell-rope. She now pulled it with such vigour that a great peal sounded throughout the house.
She stood perfectly still, a statue of Disdain, tall, beautiful and furious, with compressed lips and head held high. Mr. Bettison broke off and mopped his brow, glaring at her
Startled Thomas appeared at the door.
“Did you ring, madam?”
“Show Mr. Bettison out,” was the proud answer.
The Squire got up awkwardly.
“I am sure I apologise if I said aught that was untrue,” he mumbled. “I hope you will not take my words amiss—”
“I shall try to forget your insults, sir,” she replied. “The door, Thomas!”
Mr. Bettison went out, and his step had lost some of its self-confident swagger.
For a full minute after the great front door had shut behind him, Diana stood where she was, and then the colour suddenly flamed in her cheeks, and she turned and ran out of the room, up the stairs, to her own chamber, where she indulged in a luxurious fit of crying. From this enjoyable occupation she was interrupted by a rap on the door, and Miss Betty’s voice desiring to know if she was within.
She instantly started up and with hasty fingers straightened her tumbled curls.
“Pray enter!” she called, trying to sound jaunty. To complete the illusion, she started to hum. Her aunt entered.
“I came to see if you had my broidery. I cannot find it, and I am sure ‘twas you brought it in from the garden this morning.”
“Yes—oh, yes—I am so sorry! ‘Tis in that corner on the chair, I think,” replied Diana, keeping her face averted.
Miss Betty cast a shrewd glance at her, and sat down on the sofa with the air of one who means to stay.
“What is it, my love?” she demanded.
Diana pretended to search for something in a cupboard.
“Nothing, aunt! What should there be?”
“I do not know. ‘Tis what I want to find out,” answered Miss Betty placidly.
“There is nought amiss, I assure you!” To prove the truth of this statement, Diana essayed a laugh. It was a poor attempt, and wavered pitifully into a sob.
“My pet, don’t tell me! You are crying!”
“I—I’m n-not!” avowed Diana, hunting wildly for her pocket-handkerchief. “‘Tis a cold in the head I have had these three days.”
“Indeed, my love? Longer than that, I fear.”
“Yes—perhaps so—I— What do you mean?”
“I doubt but what you caught it the day that Mr. Carr left us.”
Diana started.
“P-pray, do not be ridiculous, auntie!”
“No, my dear. Come and sit beside me and tell me all about it,” coaxed Miss Betty.
Diana hesitated, gave a damp sniff, and obeyed.
Miss Betty drew her head down on to her shoulder soothingly.
“There, there! Don’t cry, my sweet! What has happened?”
“‘Tis that odious Mr. Bettison!” sobbed Diana “He—he had the audacity to ask me to m-marry him!”
“You don’t say so, my love! I thought I heard him arrive. So you sent him about his business?”
“N-not before he had time to insult m-me!”
“Insult you? Di!”
“He—he dared to insinuate—oh no! he accused me outright—of being infatuated by Mr. Carr! Infatuated!”
Over her head Miss Betty opened her eyes at her own reflection in the glass.
“The brute! But, of course, ‘tis true?”
No answer.
“Is it not?”
The sobs came faster.
“Of—of course ‘tis true, but h-how dared he say so?”
“Di, my love, you really are in love with that boy?”
“I—I—I asked him to marry me—and he wouldn’t!”
“Good gracious heavens!” Miss Betty was genuinely horrified. “My dear Diana!”
“N-not outright—b-but he understood—and—he loves me! And I’d do it again tomorrow, if I could—immodest or no! So there!”
“Yes, yes,” soothed Miss Betty hastily. “Tell me all about it.”
Diana lifted her head.
“That’s all. And he loves me—he does—he does!”
“Did he say so?”
“N-no—but I could tell. And I love him”—sob—“and I’d sooner die than live without him, and he won’t ask me b-because he has not got
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