“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
