Mr. Caryll needs explaining as he walks there in the moonlight; that
is, if we are at all to understand him--a matter by no means easy,
considering that he has confessed he did not understand himself. Did
ever man make a sincere declaration of sudden passion as flippantly as
he had done, or in terms-better calculated to alienate the regard he
sought to win? Did ever man choose his time with less discrimination,
or his words with less discretion? Assuredly not. To suppose that Mr.
Caryll was unaware of this, would be to suppose him a fool, and that he
most certainly was not.
His mood was extremely complex; its analysis, I fear, may baffle us.
It must have seemed to you--as it certainly seemed to Mistress
Winthrop--that he made a mock of her; that in truth he was the impudent,
fleering coxcomb she pronounced him, and nothing more. Not so. Mock he
most certainly did; but his mockery was all aimed to strike himself on
the recoil--himself and the sentiments which had sprung to being in his
soul, and to which--nameless as he was, pledged as he was to a task that
would most likely involve his ruin--he conceived that he had no right.
He gave expression to his feelings, yet chose for them the expression
best calculated to render them barren of all consequence where Mistress
Winthrop was concerned. Where another would have hidden those emotions,
Mr. Caryll elected to flaunt them half-derisively, that Hortensia might
trample them under foot in sheer disgust.
It was, perhaps, the knowledge that did he wait, and come to her as an
honest, devout lover, he must in honesty tell her all there was to know
of his odd history and of his bastardy, and thus set up between them a
barrier insurmountable. Better, he may have thought, to make from the
outset a mockery of a passion for which there could be no hope. And so,
under that mocking, impertinent exterior, I hope you catch some glimpse
of the real, suffering man--the man who boasted that he had the gift of
laughter.
He continued a while to pace the dewy lawn after she had left him, and
a deep despondency descended upon the spirit of this man who accounted
seriousness a folly. Hitherto his rancor against his father had been a
theoretical rancor, a thing educated into him by Everard, and accepted
by him as we accept a proposition in Euclid that is proved to us. In its
way it had been a make-believe rancor, a rancor on principle, for he had
been made to see that unless he was inflamed by it, he was not worthy
to be his mother's son. Tonight had changed all this. No longer was his
grievance sentimental, theoretical or abstract. It was suddenly become
real and very bitter. It was no longer a question of the wrong done his
mother thirty years ago; it became the question of a wrong done himself
in casting him nameless upon the world, a thing of scorn to cruel,
unjust humanity. Could Mistress Winthrop have guessed the bitter
self-derision with which he had, in apparent levity, offered her his
name, she might have felt some pity for him who had no pity for himself.
And so, to-night he felt--as once for a moment Everard had made him
feel--that he had a very real wrong of his own to avenge upon his
father; and the task before him lost much of the repugnance that it had
held for him hitherto.
All this because four hours ago he had looked into the brown depths of
Mistress Winthrop's eyes. He sighed, and declaimed a line of Congreve's:
“'Woman is a fair image in a pool; who leaps at it is sunk.'”
The landlord came to bid him in to supper. He excused himself. Sent his
lordship word that he was over-tired, and went off to bed.
They met at breakfast, at an early hour upon the morrow, Mistress
Winthrop cool and distant; his lordship grumpy and mute; Mr. Caryll
airy and talkative as was his habit. They set out soon afterwards. But
matters were nowise improved. His lordship dozed in a corner of the
carriage, while Mistress Winthrop found more interest in the flowering
hedgerows than in Mr. Caryll, ignored him when he talked, and did not
answer him when he set questions; till, in the end, he, too, lapsed into
silence, and as a solatium for his soreness assured himself by lengthy,
wordless arguments that matters were best so.
They entered the outlying parts of London some two hours later, and it
still wanted an hour or so to noon when the chaise brought up inside the
railings before the earl's house in Lincoln's Inn Fields.
There came a rush of footmen, a bustle of service, amid which they
alighted and entered the splendid residence that was part of the little
that remained Lord Ostermore from the wreck his fortunes had suffered on
the shoals of the South Sea.
Mr. Caryll paused a moment to dismiss Leduc to the address in Old Palace
Yard where he had hired a lodging. That done, he followed his lordship
and Hortensia within doors.
From the inner hall a footman ushered him across an ante-chamber to
a room on the right, which proved to be the library, and was his
lordship's habitual retreat. It was a spacious, pillared chamber, very
richly panelled in damask silk, and very richly furnished, having long
French windows that opened on a terrace above the garden.
As they entered there came a swift rustle of petticoats at their heels,
and Mr. Caryll stood aside, bowing, to give passage to a tall lady who
swept by with no more regard for him than had he been one of the
house's lackeys. She was, he observed, of middle-age, lean and
aquiline-featured, with an exaggerated chin, that ended squarely as
boot. Her sallow cheeks were raddled to a hectic color, a monstrous
head-dress--like that of some horse in a lord mayor's show--coiffed
her, and her dress was a mixture of extravagance and incongruity, the
petticoat absurdly hooped.
She swept into the room like a battleship into action, and let fly her
first broadside at Mistress Winthrop from the threshold.
“Codso!” she shrilled. “You have come back! And for what have you come
back? Am I to live in the same house with you, you shameless madam--that
have no more thought for your reputation than a slut in a smock-race?”
Hortensia raised indignant eyes from out of a face that was very pale.
Her lips were tightly pressed--in resolution, thought Mr. Caryll, who
was very observant of her--not to answer her ladyship; for Mr. Caryll
had little doubt as to the identity of this dragon.
“My love--my dear--” began his lordship, advancing a step, his tone a
very salve. Then, seeking to create a diversion, he waved a hand towards
Mr. Caryll. “Let me present--”
“Did I speak to you?” she turned to bombard him. “Have you not done harm
enough? Had you been aught but a fool--had you respected me as a husband
should--you had left well alone and let her go her ways.”
“There was my duty to her father, to say aught of--”
“And what of your duty to me?” she blazed, her eyes puckering most
malignantly. She reminded Mr. Caryll of nothing so much as a vulture.
“Had ye forgotten that? Have ye no thought for decency--no respect for
your wife?”
Her strident voice was echoing through the house and drawing a little
crowd of gaping servants to the hall. To spare Mistress Winthrop, Mr.
Caryll took it upon himself to close the door. The countess turned at
the sound.
“Who is this?” she asked, measuring the elegant figure with an evil eye.
And Mr. Caryll felt it in his bones that she had done him the honor to
dislike him at sight.
“It is a gentleman who--who--” His lordship thought it better,
apparently, not to explain the exact circumstances under which he had
met the gentleman. He shifted ground. “I was about to present him,
my love. It is Mr. Caryll--Mr. Justin Caryll. This, sir, is my Lady
Ostermore.”
Mr. Caryll made her a profound bow. Her ladyship retorted with a sniff.
“Is it a kinsman of yours, my lord?” and the contempt of the question
was laden with a suggestion that smote Mr. Caryll hard. What she implied
in wanton offensive mockery was no more than he alone present knew to be
the exact and hideous truth.
“Some remote kinsman, I make no doubt,” the earl explained. “Until
yesterday I had not the honor of his acquaintance. Mr. Caryll is from
France.”
“Ye'll be a Jacobite, no doubt, then,” were her first, uncompromising
words to the guest.
Mr. Caryll made her another bow. “If I were, I should make no secret
of it with your ladyship,” he answered with that irritating suavity in
which he clothed his most obvious sarcasms.
Her ladyship opened her eyes a little wider. Here was a tone she was
unused to. “And what may your business with his lordship be?”
“His lordship's business, I think,” answered Mr. Caryll in a tone of
such exquisite politeness and deference that the words seemed purged of
all their rudeness.
“Will you answer me so, sir?” she demanded, nevertheless, her voice
quivering.
“My love!” interpolated his lordship hurriedly, his florid face aflush.
“We are vastly indebted to Mr. Caryll, as you shall learn. It was he who
saved Hortensia.”
“Saved the drab, did he? And from what, pray?”
“Madam!” It was Hortensia who spoke. She had risen, pale with anger, and
she made appeal now to her guardian. “My lord, I'll not remain to be so
spoken of. Suffer me to go. That her ladyship should so speak of me to
my face--and to a stranger!”
“Stranger!” crowed her ladyship. “Lard! And what d'ye suppose will
happen? Are you so nice about a stranger hearing what I may have to say
of you--you that will be the talk of the whole lewd town for this fine
escapade? And what'll the town say of you?”
“My love!” his lordship sought again to soothe her. “Sylvia, let me
implore you! A little moderation! A little charity! Hortensia has been
foolish. She confesses so much, herself. Yet, when all is said, 'tis not
she is to blame.”
“Am I?”
“My love! Was it suggested?”
“I marvel it was not. Indeed, I marvel! Oh, Hortensia is not to blame,
the sweet, pure dove! What is she, then?”
“To be pitied, ma'am,” said his lordship, stirred to sudden anger, “that
she should have lent an ear to your disreputable son.”
“My son? My son?” cried her ladyship, her voice more and more strident,
her face flushing till the rouge upon it was put to shame, revealed in
all its unnatural hideousness. “And is he not your son, my lord?”
“There are moments,” he answered hardily, “when I find it difficult to
believe.”
It was much for him to say, and to her ladyship, of all people. It was
pure mutiny. She gasped for air; pumped her brain for words. Meantime,
his lordship continued with an eloquence entirely unusual in him and
prompted entirely by his strong feelings in the matter of his son. “He
is a disgrace to his name! He always has been. When a boy, he was a liar
and a thief, and had he had his deserts he had been lodged in Newgate
long ago--or worse. Now that he's a man, he's an abandoned profligate, a
brawler, a drunkard, a rakehell. So much I have long known him for; but
to-day he has shown himself for something even worse. I had thought that
my ward, at least, had been sacred from his villainy. That is the last
drop. I'll not condone it. Damn me! I can't condone it. I'll disown him.
He shall not set foot in house of mine again. Let him keep the company
of his Grace of Wharton and his other abandoned friends of the Hell Fire
Club; he keeps not mine. He keeps not mine, I say!”
Her ladyship swallowed hard. From red that she had been, she was now
ashen under her rouge. “And, is this wanton baggage to keep mine? Is she
to disgrace a household that has grown too nice to contain your son?”
“My lord! Oh, my lord, give me leave to go,” Hortensia entreated.
“Ay, go,” sneered her ladyship. “Go! You had best go--back to him. What
for did ye leave him? Did ye dream there could be aught to return to?”
Hortensia turned to her guardian again appealingly. But her ladyship
bore down upon her, incensed by this ignoring; she caught the girl's
wrist in her claw-like hand. “Answer me, you drab! What for did you
return? What is to be done with you now that y' are soiled goods? Where
shall we find a husband for you?”
“I do not want a husband, madam,” answered Hortensia.
“Will ye lead apes in hell, then? Bah! 'Tis not what ye want, my fine
madam; 'tis what we can get you; and where shall we find you a husband
now?”
Her eye fell upon Mr. Caryll, standing by one of the windows, a look
of profound disgust overplaying the usually immobile face. “Perhaps the
gentleman from France--the gentleman who saved you,” she sneered, “will
propose to take the office.”
“With all my heart, ma'am,” Mr. Caryll startled them and himself
by answering. Then, perceiving that he had spoken too much upon
impulse--given utterance to what was passing in his mind--“I but mention
it to show your ladyship how mistaken are your conclusions,” he added.
The countess loosed her hold of Hortensia's wrist in her amazement,
and looked the gentleman from France up and down in a mighty scornful
manner. “Codso!” she swore, “I may take it, then, that your saving
her--as ye call it--was no accident.”
“Indeed it was, ma'am--and a most fortunate accident for your son.”
“For my son? As how?”
“It saved him from hanging, ma'am,” Mr. Caryll informed her, and gave
her something other than the baiting of Hortensia to occupy her mind.
“Hang?” she gasped. “Are you speaking of Lord Rotherby?”
“Ay, of Lord Rotherby--and not a word more than is true,” put in the
earl. “Do you know--but you do not--the extent of your precious son's
villainy? At Maidstone, where I overtook them--at the Adam and Eve--he
had a make-believe parson, and he was luring this poor child into a
mock-marriage.”
Her ladyship stared. “Mock-marriage?” she echoed. “Marriage? La!” And
again she vented her unpleasant laugh. “Did she insist on that, the
prude? Y' amaze me!”
“Surely, my love, you do not apprehend. Had Lord Rotherby's parson not
been detected and unmasked by Mr. Caryll, here--”
“Would you ha' me believe she did not know the fellow was no parson?”
“Oh!” cried Hortensia. “Your ladyship has a very wicked soul. May God
forgive you!”
“And who is to forgive you?” snapped the countess.
“I need no forgiveness, for I have done no wrong. A folly, I confess to.
I was mad to have heeded such a villain.”
Her ladyship gathered forces for a fresh assault. But Mr. Caryll
anticipated it. It was no doubt a great impertinence in him; but he
saw Hortensia's urgent need, and he felt, moreover, that not even Lord
Ostermore would resent his crossing swords a moment with her ladyship.
“You would do well, ma'am, to remember,” said he, in his singularly
precise voice, “that Lord Rotherby even now--and as things have fallen
out--is by no means quit of all danger.”
She looked at this smooth gentleman, and his words burned themselves
into her brain. She quivered with mingling fear and anger.
“Wha'--what is't ye mean?” quoth she.
“That even at this hour, if the matter were put about, his lordship
might be brought to account for it, and it might fare very ill with
him. The law of England deals heavily with an offense such as Lord
Rotherby's, and the attempt at a mock-marriage, of which there is no
lack of evidence, would so aggravate the crime of abduction, if he were
informed against, that it might go very hard with him.”
Her jaw fell. She caught more than an admonition in his words. It almost
seemed to her that he was threatening.
“Who--who is to inform?” she asked point-blank, her tone a challenge;
and yet the odd change in it from its recent aggressiveness was almost
ludicrous.
“Ah--who?” said Mr. Caryll, raising his eyes and fetching a sigh. “It
would appear that a messenger from the Secretary of State--on another
matter--was at the Adam and Eve at the time with two of his catchpolls,
and he was a witness of the whole affair. Then again,” and he waved
a hand doorwards, “servants are servants. I make no doubt they are
listening, and your ladyship's voice has scarce been controlled. You can
never say when a servant may cease to be a servant, and become an active
enemy.”
“Damn the servants!” she swore, dismissing them from consideration. “Who
is this messenger of the secretary's? Who is he?”
“He was named Green. 'Tis all I know.”
“And where may he be found?”
“I cannot say.”
She turned to Lord Ostermore. “Where is Rotherby?” she inquired. She was
a thought breathless.
“I do not know,” said he, in a voice that signified how little he cared.
“He must be found. This fellow's silence must be bought. I'll not have
my son disgraced, and gaoled, perhaps. He must be found.”
Her alarm was very real now. She moved towards the door, then
paused, and turned again. “Meantime, let your lordship consider what
dispositions you are to make for this wretched girl who is the cause of
all this garboil.”
And she swept out, slamming the door violently after her.