She trembled and gave a sobbing little laugh. As suddenly as it had come, her anger left her.
“Oh, yes, yes! You do love me, Dicky?” She twined her arms about his neck and shrank closer.
“God help me, yes!” he groaned, thrusting her away. “And you—you care for no one save yourself!”
“No! No!” she cried, pressing up to him again. “Do not say that, Dick. Indeed, I love you, but I cannot live without gaiety—you know I cannot. Oh, I do not doubt but what I am very selfish, but ’tis the way I am fashioned, and I cannot change my nature. And now I have hurt you, and I did not mean to! I did not mean to!”
“My dear, I know you did not; but try to be less a child, I beg of you! You are so uncontrolled, so—”
“I knew you would say that,” she answered in a dead voice. “You do not understand me. You expect me to be good, and patient, and forbearing, and I tell you ’tis not in my nature.”
“But, Lavinia, you can control your passions,” he said gently.
“No! I cannot! We Belmanoirs—as God made us, so we are—and He made us spendthrift, and pleasure-loving, and mad!” She walked slowly to the door. “But you do not understand, and you try to make me staid, and thoughtful, and a good mother, when I am dying for life, and excitement, and care not that for housewifery!” She opened the door slowly. “And now my head aches, and you look grave and say ’tis my wicked temper, when I want you to be sorry, and to be ready to do anything to comfort me. Why can you not take me to London, when you know how I long to be there, instead of in this gloomy house with nought to do, save mind my child and my needle? I am so tired of it all! So very tired of it all!”
She would have left the room then, but he detained her.
“Wait, Lavinia! You say you are unhappy?”
She released the door handle and fluttered her hands expressively.
“Unhappy? No, I am dull. I am ill-tempered. I am discontented. I am aught you please, so do not be sad, Richard. I cannot bear you to be solemn. Oh, why do we quarrel?” With one of her impulsive movements she was again at his side, with her beautiful face upturned. “Love me, Richard! Take me to London and never mind an I do squander your money. Say you do not care! Say that nothing matters so long as I am happy! Why do you not say it? Does anything matter? Don’t be prudent, Dicky! Be wild! Be reckless! Be anything rather than grave and old!” Her arms crept up to his coaxingly. “Take me to London!”
Carstares smoothed the soft hair back from her forehead, very tenderly, but his eyes were worried.
“My dear, I will take you, but not just yet. There is so much to be done here. If you will wait a little longer—”
“Ah, if I will wait! If I will be patient and good! But I cannot! Oh, you don’t understand, Dicky—you don’t understand!”
“I am sorry, dear. I promise I will take you as soon as possible, and we will stay as long as you please.”
Her arms fell away.
“I want to go now!”
“Dear—”
“Very well—very well. We will go presently. Only don’t reason with me.”
He looked at her concernedly.
“You are overwrought, my love—and tired.”
“Yes,” she agreed listlessly. “Oh yes; I will go now and rest. Forgive me, Dick!” She kissed her fingertips and extended them to him. “I will be good one day.” She turned and hurried out of the room and up the stairs, leaving the door open behind her.
Richard stayed for a moment looking round at the signs of her late presence. Mechanically he stooped to pick up her embroidery and the pieces of her handkerchief. The two flowers were broken off short, and he threw them away. Then he left the room and went out on to the sunny terrace, gazing across the beautiful gardens into the blue distance.
Across the lawn came a child of four or five, waving a grimy hand.
“Father!”
Richard looked down at him and smiled.
“Well, John?”
The boy climbed up the terrace steps, calling his news all the way.
“ ’Tis Uncle Andrew, sir. He has rid over to see you, and is coming through the garden to find you.”
“Is he? Has he left his horse at the stables?”
“Ay, sir. So I came to tell you.”
“Quite right. Will you come with me to meet him?”
The little rosy face lighted up with pleasure.
“Oh, may I?” he cried and slipped his hand in Richard’s.
Together they descended the steps and made their way across the lawn.
“I have run away from Betty,” announced John with some pride. “There’s Uncle Andrew, sir!” He bounded away towards the approaching figure.
Lord Andrew Belmanoir was Richard’s brother-in-law, brother to the present Duke. He came up with John in his arms and tumbled him to the ground.
“Good day, Dick! ’Tis a spoilt child you have here!”
“Ay. He is but now escaped from his nurse.”
“Splendid! Come, John, you shall walk with us, and we’ll confound fat Betty!” He slipped his arm through Richard’s as he spoke. “Come, Dick! There’s a deal I have to say to you.” He grimaced ruefully.
The child ran on ahead towards the woods, a great bull-mastiff at his heels.
“What’s to do now?” asked Richard, looking round into the mobile, dissipated countenance.
“The devil’s in it this time, and no mistake,” answered his lordship with a rueful shake of his head.
“Debts?”
“Lord, yes! I was at Delaby’s last night, and the stakes were high. Altogether I’ve lost about three thousand—counting what I owe Carew. And devil take me an I know where ’tis to come from! Here’s Tracy turned saint and swears he’ll see me damned before he hands me another penny. I doubt he means it, too.”
Tracy was the Duke. Richard smiled a little cynically; he had already had to lend
