“Yes, yes?” urged Richard. “And then?”
“I do not remember. He came, as I said, often, mostly to talk to my husband, who was a great invalid, but sometimes to see me. He would hardly ever speak of England—I think he did not trust himself. He never mentioned any relations or any English friends, and when I spoke of home, he would shut his mouth very tightly, and look terribly sad. I saw that for some reason the subject pained him, so I never spoke of it if I could help it.
“He was a most entertaining companion, Mr. Carstares; he used to tell my husband tales that made him laugh as I had not heard him laugh for months. He was very lively, very witty, and almost finickingly well dressed, but what his occupation was I could not quite ascertain. He said he was a gentleman of leisure, but I do not think he was at all wealthy. He frequented all the gaming houses, and I heard tales of his marvellous luck, so one day I taxed him with it, and he laughed and said he lived by Chance—he meant dice. Yet I know, for I once had conversation with his servant, that his purse was at times very, very slender.”
“The time he aided you, Mrs. Fanshawe, when was that?”
She flushed.
“That was a few months after we first met him. I was—foolish; my married life was not—very happy, and I was—or, rather, I fancied myself—in love with an Austrian nobleman, who—who—well, sir, suffice it that I consented to dine with him one evening. I found then that he was not the galant homme I had thought him, but something quite different. I do not know what I should have done had not Sir Anthony arrived.”
“He did arrive then?”
“Yes. You see, he knew that this Austrian had asked me to dine—I told him—and he counselled me to refuse. But I—well, sir, I have told you, I was young and very foolish—I would not listen. When he called at our house and found that I was out, he at once guessed where I had gone, and he followed me to the Count’s house, gave an Austrian name, and was announced just as the Count tried to—tried to—kiss me. I think I shall never forget the relief of that moment! He was so safe, and so English! The Count was furious, and at first I thought he would have his lackeys throw Anthony out. But when he heard all that Anthony had to say, he realised that it was useless to try to detain me—and I was taken home. Anthony was very kind—he did not scold, neither had he told my husband. Two days after, he and the Count fought a duel, and the Count was wounded in the lung. That was all. But it made me very grateful to him and interested in his affairs. Mr. Fanshawe left Vienna a few weeks after that, and I have never seen my preux chevalier since.” She sighed and looked steadily across at Carstares. “And you—you are so like him!”
“You think so, madam?” was all he could find to say.
“I do, sir. And something more, which, perhaps, you will deem an impertinence. Is Anthony your brother?”
The suddenness of the attack threw Carstares off his guard. He went white.
“Madam!”
“Please be not afraid that mine is the proverbial woman’s tongue, sir. It does not run away with me, I assure you. When I saw you the other night for the first time, I was struck by the resemblance, and I asked my partner, Mr. Stapely, who you were. He told me, and much more beside, which I was not at the time desirous of hearing.”
“Trust Will Stapely!” exclaimed Richard, and mentally cursed the amiable gossipmonger.
“Among other things he told me of your elder brother-who—who—in fact, he told me the whole story. Of course, my mind instantly leapt to my poor Sir Anthony, despite that in appearance he is younger than you. Was I right?”
Richard rose to his feet and walked away to the window, standing with his back to her.
“Ay!”
“I was sure of it,” she nodded. “So that was why he would not speak of England? Poor boy!”
Richard’s soul writhed under the lash of her pity.
“So he will always be outcast,” she continued. “Alone, unhappy, without friends—”
“No!” he cried, turning. “ ’Fore Gad, no, madam!”
“Will society—cruel, hard society—receive him, then?” she asked.
“Society will—one day—receive him, Mrs. Fanshawe. You will see.”
“I long for that day,” she sighed. “I wish I had it in my power to help him—to repay in part the debt I owe him.”
At that he lifted his head.
“My brother, madam, would count it not a debt, but an honour,” he answered proudly.
“Yes,” she smiled. “You are like him; when you speak like that you might almost be he.”
“He is worth a thousand of me, Mrs. Fanshawe!” he replied vehemently, and broke off, staring down at the table.
“And his name?” she asked softly.
“John Anthony St. Ervine Delaney Carstares,” he said, “Earl of Wyncham.”
“So the Anthony was real! I am so glad, for he would always be Anthony to me.”
There was a long silence, broken at last by the lady.
“I fear I have made you sad, Mr. Carstares. You will drink a dish of Bohea with me, before you go? And we will not speak of this again.”
“You are very good, madam. Believe me, I am grateful to you for
