Authors: Rafael Sabatini
"Ha!" said she. "You admit so much, then?" And she laughed disdainfully. Then with a sudden sternness, a sudden nobility almost in the motherhood which she put forward—"Rotherby is my
son," she said, "and I'll not have my son the victim of your follies as well as of your injustice. We may curb the one and the other yet, my lord."
And she swept out, fan going briskly in one hand, her long ebony cane swinging as briskly in the other.
"O God!" groaned Ostermore, and sat down heavily.
Mr. Caryll helped himself copiously to snuff. "I think," said he, his voice so cool that it had an almost soothing influence, "I think your lordship has now another reason why you should go no
further in this matter."
"But if I do not—what other hopes have I? Damn me! I'm a ruined man either way."
"Nay, nay," Mr. Caryll reminded him. "Assuming even that you are correctly informed, and that his Grace of Wharton is determined to move against you, it is not to be depended that he will
succeed in collecting such evidence as he must need. At this date much of the evidence that may once have been available will have been dissipated. You are rash to despair so soon."
"There is that," his lordship admitted thoughtfully, a little hopefully, even; "there is that." And with the resilience of his nature—of men who form opinions on slight grounds, and,
therefore, are ready to change them upon grounds as slight—"I' faith! I may have been running to meet my trouble. 'Tis but a rumor, after all, that Wharton is for mischief, and—as you
say—as like as not there'll be no evidence by now. There was little enough at the time.
"Still, I'll make doubly sure. My letter to King James can do no harm. We'll talk of it again, when you are in case to travel."
It passed through Mr. Caryll's mind at the moment that Lady Ostermore and her son might between them brew such mischief as might seriously hinder him from travelling, and he was very near the
truth. For already her ladyship was closeted with Rotherby in her boudoir.
The viscount was dressed for travelling, intent upon withdrawing to the country, for he was well-informed already of the feeling of the town concerning him, and had no mind to brave the slights
and cold-shoulderings that would await him did he penetrate to any of the haunts of people of quality and fashion. He stood before his mother now, a tall, lank figure, his black face very gloomy,
his sensual lips thrust forward in a sullen pout. She, in a gilt arm-chair before her toilet-table, was telling him the story of what had passed, his father's fear of ruin and disgrace. He swore
between his teeth when he heard that the danger threatened from the Duke of Wharton.
"And your father's destitution means our destitution—yours and mine; for his gambling schemes have consumed my portion long since."
He laughed and shrugged. "I marvel I should concern myself," said he. "What can it avail me to save the rags that are left him of his fortune? He's sworn I shall never touch a penny that he may
die possessed of."
"But there's the entail," she reminded him. "If restitution is demanded, the Crown will not respect it. 'Twill be another sop to throw the whining curs that were crippled by the bubble, and who
threaten to disturb the country if they are not appeased. If Wharton carries out this exposure, we're beggars—utter beggars, that may ask an alms to quiet hunger."
"'Tis Wharton's present hate of me," said he thoughtfully, and swore. "The damned puppy! He'd make a sacrifice of me upon the altar of respectability, just as he made a sacrifice of the South
Sea bubblers. What else was the stinking rakehell seeking but to put himself right again in the eyes of a town that was nauseated with him and his excesses? The self-seeking toad that makes virtue
his profession—the virtue of others—and profligacy his recreation!" He smote fist into palm. "There's a way to silence him."
"Ah?" she looked up quickly, hopefully.
"A foot or so of steel," Rotherby explained, and struck the hilt of his sword. "I might pick a quarrel with him. 'Twould not be difficult. Come upon him unawares, say, and strike him. That
should force a fight."
"Tush, fool! He's all empanoplied in virtue where you are concerned. He'd use the matter of your affair with Caryll as a reason not to meet you, whatever you might do, and he'd set his grooms to
punish any indignity you might put upon him."
"He durst not."
"Pooh! The town would all approve him in it since your running Caryll through the back. What a fool you were, Charles."
He turned away, hanging his head, full conscious, and with no little bitterness, of how great had been his folly.
"Salvation may lie for you in the same source that has brought you to the present pass—this man Caryll," said the countess presently. "I suspect him more than ever of being a Jacobite
agent."
"I know him to be such."
"You know it?"
"All but; and Green is assured of it, too." He proceeded to tell her what he knew. "Ever since Green met Caryll at Maidstone has he suspected him, yet but that I kept him to the task he would
have abandoned it. He's in my pay now as much as in Lord Carteret's, and if he can run Caryll to earth he receives his wages from both sides."
"Well—well? What has he discovered? Anything?"
"A little. This Caryll frequented regularly the house of one Everard, who came to town a week after Caryll's own arrival. This Everard—Sir Richard Everard—is known to be a Jacobite.
He is the Pretender's Paris agent. They would have laid him by the heels before, but that by precipitancy they feared to ruin their chances of discovering the business that may have brought him
over. They are giving him rope at present. Meanwhile, by my cursed folly, Caryll's visits to him were interrupted. But there has been correspondence between them."
"I know," said her ladyship. "A letter was delivered him just now. I tried to smoke him concerning it. But he's too astute."
"Astute or not," replied her son, "once he leaves Stretton House it should not be long ere he betrays himself and gives us cause to lay him by the heels. But how will that help us?"
"Do you ask how? Why, if there is a plot, and we can discover it, we might make terms with the secretary of state to avoid any disclosure Wharton may intend concerning the South Sea matter."
"But that would be to discover my father for a Jacobite! What advantage should we derive from that? 'Twould be as bad as t'other matter."
"Let me die, but ye're a slow-witted clod, Charles. D'ye think we can find no way to disclose the plot and Mr. Caryll—and Everard, too, if you choose—without including your father?
My lord is timidly cautious, and you may depend he'll not have put himself in their hands to any extent just yet."
The viscount paced the chamber slowly in long strides, head bent in thought, hands clasped behind him. "It will need consideration," said he. "But it may serve, and I can count upon Green. He is
satisfied that Caryll befooled him at Maidstone, and that he kept the papers he carried despite the thoroughness of Green's investigations. Moreover, he was handled with some roughness by Caryll.
For that and the other matter he asks redress—thirsts for it. He's a very willing tool, as I have found."
"Then see that you use him adroitly to your work," said his mother. "Best not leave town at present, Charles."
"Why, no," said he. "I'll find me a lodging somewhere at hand, since my fond sire is determined I shall pollute no longer the sacrosanctity of his dwelling. Perhaps when I have pulled him out of
this quicksand, he will deign to mitigate the bitterness of his feelings for me. Though, faith, I find life endurable without the affection he should have consecrated to me."
"Ay," she said, looking up at him. "You are his son; too much his son, I fear. 'Tis why he dislikes you so intensely. He sees in you the faults to which he is blind in himself."
"Sweet mother!" said his lordship, bowing.
She scowled at him. She could deal in irony herself—and loved to—but she detested to have it dealt to her.
He bowed again; gained the door, and would have passed out but that she detained him.
"'Tis a pity, on some scores, to dispose so utterly of this Caryll," she said. "The pestilent coxcomb has his uses, and his uses, like adversity's, are sweet."
He paused to question her with his eyes.
"He might have made a husband for Hortensia, and rid me of the company of that white-faced changeling."
"Might he so?" quoth the viscount, face and voice expressionless.
"They were made for each other," her ladyship opined.
"Were they so?"
"Ay—were they. And I'faith they've discovered it. I would you had seen the turtles in the arbor an hour ago, when I surprised them."
His lordship attempted a smile, but achieved nothing more than a wry face and a change of color. His mother's eyes, observing these signs, grew on a sudden startled.
"Why, fool," quoth she, "do you hold there still? Art not yet cured of that folly?"
"What folly, ma'am?"
"This folly that already has cost you so much. 'Sdeath! As I'm a woman, if you'd so much feeling for the girl, I marvel ye did not marry her honestly and in earnest when the chance was
yours."
The pallor of his face increased. He clenched his hands. "I marvel myself that I did not," he answered passionately—and went out, slamming the door after him, and leaving her ladyship
agape and angry.
CHAPTER XV
LOVE AND RAGE
LORD ROTHERBY, descending from that interview with his mother, espied Hortensia crossing the hall below. Forgetting his dignity, he quickened his movements, and took the
remainder of the stairs two at a stride. But, then, his lordship was excited and angry, and considerations of dignity did not obtain with him at the time. For that matter, they seldom did.
"Hortensia! Hortensia!" he called to her, and at his call she paused.
Not once during the month that was past—and during which he had, for the most part, kept his room, to all intents a prisoner—had she exchanged so much as a word with him. Thus, not
seeing him, she had been able, to an extent, to exclude him from her thoughts, which, naturally enough, were reluctant to entertain him for their guest.
Her calm, as she paused now in acquiescence to his bidding, was such that it almost surprised herself. She had loved him once—or thought so, a little month ago—and at a single blow
he had slain that love. Now love so slain has a trick of resurrecting in the guise of hate; and so, she had thought at first had been the case with her. But this moment proved to her now that her
love was dead, indeed, since of her erstwhile affection not even a recoil to hate remained. Dislike she may have felt; but it was that cold dislike that breeds a deadly indifference, and seeks no
active expression, asking no more than the avoidance of its object.
Her calm, reflected in her face of a beauty almost spiritual, in every steady line of her slight, graceful figure, gave him pause a moment, and his hot glance fell abashed before the chill
indifference that met him from those brown eyes.
A man of deeper sensibilities, of keener perceptions, would have bowed and gone his way. But then a man of deeper sensibilities would never have sought this interview that the viscount was now
seeking. Therefore, it was but natural that he should recover swiftly from his momentary halt, and step aside to throw open the door of a little room on the right of the hall. Bowing slightly, he
invited her to enter.
"Grant me a moment ere I go, Hortensia," he said between command and exhortation.
She stood cogitating him an instant, with no outward sign of what might be passing in her mind; then she slightly inclined her head, and went forward as he bade her.
It was a sunny room, gay with light color and dainty furnishings, having long window-doors that opened to the garden. An Aubusson carpet of palest green, with a festoon pattern of pink roses,
covered two-thirds of the blocked, polished floor. The empanelled walls were white, with here a gilt mirror, flanked on either side by a girandole in ormolu. A spinet stood open in mid-chamber, and
upon it were sheets of music, a few books and a bowl of emerald-green ware, charged now with roses, whose fragrance lay heavy on the air. There were two or three small tables of very dainty,
fragile make, and the chairs were in delicately tinted tapestry illustrating the fables of La Fontaine.
It was an apartment looked upon by Hortensia as her own withdrawing-room, set apart for her own use, and as that the household—her very ladyship included—had ever recognized it.
His lordship closed the door with care. Hortensia took her seat upon the long stool that stood at the spinet, her back to the instrument, and with hands idle in her lap—the same cold
reserve upon her countenance—she awaited his communication.
He advanced until he was close beside her, and stood leaning an elbow on the corner of the spinet, a long and not ungraceful figure, with the black curls of his full-bottomed wig falling about
his swarthy, big-featured face.
"I have but my farewells to make, Hortensia," said he. "I am leaving Stretton House, today, at last."
"I am glad," said she, in a formal, level voice, "that things should have fallen out so as to leave you free to go your ways."
"You are glad," he answered, frowning slightly, and leaning farther towards her. "Ay, and why are you glad? Why? You are glad for Mr. Caryll's sake. Do you deny it?"
She looked up at him quite calm and fearlessly. "I am glad for your own sake, too."
His dark brooding eyes looked deep into hers, which did not falter under his insistent gaze. "Am I to believe you?" he inquired.
"Why not? I do not wish your death."
"Not my death—but my absence?" he sneered. "You wish for that, do you not? You would prefer me gone? My room is better than my company just now? 'Tis what you think, eh?"
"I have not thought of it at all," she answered him with a pitiless frankness.
He laughed, soft and wickedly. "Is it so very hopeless, then? You have not thought of it at all—by which you mean that you have not thought of me at all."