The Lion's Skin. Rafael SabatiniЧитать онлайн книгу.
that the parson is no parson.”
“The parson is no parson?” echoed his lordship, scowling more and more. “Then what the devil is the parson?”
Hortensia freed herself from his protecting arms. “He is a villain,” she said, “who was hired by my Lord Rotherby to come here and pretend to be a parson.” Her eyes flamed, her cheeks were scarlet. “God help me for a fool, my lord, to have put my faith in that man! Oh!” she choked. “The shame—the burning shame of it! I would I had a brother to punish him!”
Lord Ostermore was crimson, too, with indignation. Mr. Caryll was relieved to see that he was capable of so much emotion. “Did I not warn you against him, Hortensia?” said he. “Could you not have trusted that I knew him—I, his father, to my everlasting shame?” Then he swung upon Rotherby. “You dog!” he began, and there—being a man of little invention—words failed him, and wrath alone remained, very intense, but entirely inarticulate.
Rotherby moved forward till he reached the table, then stood leaning upon it, scowling at the company from under his black brows. “'Tis your lordship alone is to blame for this,” he informed his father, with a vain pretence at composure.
“I am to blame!” gurgled his lordship, veins swelling at his brow. “I am to blame that you should have carried her off thus? And—by God!—had you meant to marry her honestly and fittingly, I might find it in my heart to forgive you. But to practice such villainy! To attempt to put this foul trick upon the child!”
Mr. Caryll thought for an instant of another child whose child he was, and a passion of angry mockery at the forgetfulness of age welled up from the bitter soul of him. Outwardly he remained a very mirror for placidity.
“Your lordship had threatened to disinherit me if I married her,” said Rotherby.
“'Twas to save her from you,” Ostermore explained, entirely unnecessarily. “And you thought to—to—By God! sir, I marvel you have the courage to confront me. I marvel!”
“Take me away, my lord,” Hortensia begged him, touching his arm.
“Aye, we were best away,” said the earl, drawing her to him. Then he flung a hand out at Rotherby in a gesture of repudiation, of anathema. “But 'tis not the end on't for you, you knave! What I threatened, I will perform. I'll disinherit you. Not a penny of mine shall come to you. Ye shall starve for aught I care; starve, and—and—the world be well rid of a villain. I—I disown you. Ye're no son of mine. I'll take oath ye're no son of mine!”
Mr. Caryll thought that, on the contrary, Rotherby was very much his father's son, and he added to his observations upon human nature the reflection that sinners are oddly blessed with short memories. He was entirely dispassionate again by now.
As for Rotherby, he received his father's anger with a scornful smile and a curling lip. “You'll disinherit me?” quoth he in mockery. “And of what, pray? If report speaks true, you'll be needing to inherit something yourself to bear you through your present straitness.” He shrugged and produced his snuff-box with an offensive simulation of nonchalance. “Ye cannot cut the entail,” he reminded his almost apoplectic sire, and took snuff delicately, sauntering windowwards.
“Cut the entail? The entail?” cried the earl, and laughed in a manner that seemed to bode no good. “Have you ever troubled to ascertain what it amounts to? You fool, it wouldn't keep you in—in—in snuff!”
Lord Rotherby halted in his stride, half-turned and looked at his father over his shoulder. The sneering mask was wiped from his face, which became blank. “My lord—” he began.
The earl waved a silencing hand, and turned with dignity to Hortensia.
“Come, child,” said he. Then he remembered something. “Gad!” he exclaimed. “I had forgot the parson. I'll have him gaoled! I'll have him hanged if the law will help me. Come forth, man!”
Ignoring the invitation, Mr. Jenkins scuttled, ratlike, across the room, mounted the window-seat, and was gone in a flash through the open window. He dropped plump upon Mr. Green, who was crouching underneath. The pair rolled over together in the mould of a flowerbed; then Mr. Green clutched Mr. Jenkins, and Mr. Jenkins squealed like a trapped rabbit. Mr. Green thrust his fist carefully into the mockparson's mouth.
“Sh! You blubbering fool!” he snapped in his ear. “My business is not with you. Lie still!”
Within the room all stood at gaze, following the sudden flight of Mr. Jenkins. Then Lord Ostermore made as if to approach the winnow, but Hortensia restrained him.
“Let the wretch go,” she said. “The blame is not his. What is he but my lord's tool?” And her eyes scorched Rotherby with such a glance of scorn as must have killed any but a shameless man. Then turning to the demurely observant gentleman who had done her such good service, “Mr. Caryll” she said, “I want to thank you. I want my lord, here, to thank you.”
Mr. Caryll bowed to her. “I beg that you will not think of it,” said he. “It is I who will remain in your debt.”
“Is your name Caryll, sir?” quoth the earl. He had a trick of fastening upon the inconsequent, though that was scarcely the case now.
“That, my lord, is my name. I believe I have the honor of sharing it with your lordship.”
“Ye'll belong to some younger branch of the family,” the earl supposed.
“Like enough—some outlying branch,” answered the imperturbable Caryll—a jest which only himself could appreciate, and that bitterly.
“And how came you into this?”
Rotherby sneered audibly—in self-mockery, no doubt, as he came to reflect that it was he, himself, had had him fetched.
“They needed another witness,” said Mr. Caryll, “and hearing there was at the inn a gentleman newly crossed from France, his lordship no doubt opined that a traveller, here to-day and gone for good tomorrow, would be just the witness that he needed for the business he proposed. That circumstance aroused my suspicions, and—”
But the earl, as usual, seemed to have fastened upon the minor point, although again it was not so. “You are newly crossed from France?” said he. “Ay, and your name is the same as mine. 'Twas what I was advised.”
Mr. Caryll flashed a sidelong glance at Rotherby, who had turned to stare at his father, and in his heart he cursed the stupidity of my Lord Ostermore. If this proposed to be a member of a conspiracy, Heaven help that same conspiracy!
“Were you, by any chance, going to seek me in town, Mr. Caryll?”
Mr. Caryll suppressed a desire to laugh. Here was a way to deal with State secrets. “I, my lord?” he inquired, with an assumed air of surprise.
The earl looked at him, and from him to Rotherby, bethought himself, and started so overtly that Rotherby's eyes grew narrow, the lines of his mouth tightened. “Nay, of course not; of course not,” he blustered clumsily.
But Rotherby laughed aloud. “Now what a plague is all this mystery?” he inquired.
“Mystery?” quoth my lord. “What mystery should there be?”
“'Tis what I would fain be informed,” he answered in a voice that showed he meant to gain the information. He sauntered forward towards Caryll, his eye playing mockingly over this gentleman from France. “Now, sir,” said he, “whose messenger may you be, eh? What's all this—”
“Rotherby!” the earl interrupted in a voice intended to be compelling. “Come away, Mr. Caryll,” he added quickly. “I'll not have any gentleman who has shown himself a friend to my ward, here, affronted by that rascal. Come away, sir!”
“Not so fast! Not so fast, ecod!”
It was another voice that broke in upon them. Rotherby started round. Gaskell, in the shadows of the