Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “You mean?”

  “Art slow at inference, Dick. Sir Rowland has passed away in the odour of villainy.”

  Richard clasped nervous hands together and raised his colourless eyes to heaven.

  “May the Lord have mercy on his soul!” said he.

  “May He, indeed!” said Trenchard, when he had recovered from his surprise. “But,” he added pessimistically, “I doubt the rogue’s in hell.”

  Richard’s eyes kindled suddenly, and he quoted from the thirtieth Psalm, “‘I will extol thee, O Lord; for Thou hast lifted me up, and hast not made my foes to rejoice over me.’”

  Dumbfounded, wondering, indeed, was Westmacott’s mind unhinged, Trenchard scanned him narrowly. Richard caught the glance and misinterpreted it for one of reproof. He bethought him that his joy was unrighteous. He stifled it, and forced his lips to sigh “Poor Blake!”

  “Poor, indeed!” quoth Trenchard, and adapted a remembered line of his play-acting days to suit the case. “The tears live in an onion that shall water his grave. Though, perhaps, I am forgetting Swiney.” Then, in a brisker tone, “Come, Richard. What like is the muscadine you keep at Lupton House?”

  “I have abjured all wine,” said Richard.

  “A plague you have!” quoth Trenchard, understanding less and less. “Have you turned Mussulman, perchance?”

  “No,” answered Richard sternly; “Christian.”

  Trenchard hesitated, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. “Hum,” said he at length. “Peace be with you, then. I’ll leave you here to bay the moon to your heart’s content. Perhaps Jasper will know where to find me a brain-wash.” And with a final suspicious, wondering look at the whilom bibber, he passed into the house, much exercised on the score of the sanity of this family into which his friend Anthony had married.

  Outside, the twilight shadows were deepening.

  “Shall we home, sweet?” whispered Mr. Wilding. The shadows befriended her, a veil for her sudden confusion. She breathed something that seemed no more than a sigh, though more it seemed to Anthony Wilding.

  THE LION’S SKIN

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. THE FANATIC

  CHAPTER II. AT THE “ADAM AND EVE”

  CHAPTER III. THE WITNESS

  CHAPTER IV. Mr. GREEN

  CHAPTER V. MOONSHINE

  CHAPTER VI. HORTENSIA’S RETURN

  CHAPTER VII. FATHER AND SON

  CHAPTER VIII. TEMPTATION

  CHAPTER IX. THE CHAMPION

  CHAPTER X. SPURS TO THE RELUCTANT

  CHAPTER XI. THE ASSAULT-AT-ARMS

  CHAPTER XII. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

  CHAPTER XIII. THE FORLORN HOPE

  CHAPTER XIV. LADY OSTERMORE

  CHAPTER XV. LOVE AND RAGE

  CHAPTER XVI. MR. GREEN EXECUTES HIS WARRANT

  CHAPTER XVII. AMID THE GRAVES

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE GHOST OF THE PAST

  CHAPTER XIX. THE END OF LORD OSTERMORE

  CHAPTER XX. Mr. CARYLL’S IDENTITY

  CHAPTER XXI. THE LION’S SKIN

  CHAPTER XXII. THE HUNTERS

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE LION

  CHAPTER I. THE FANATIC

  Mr. Caryll, lately from Rome, stood by the window, looking out over the rainswept, steaming quays to Notre Dame on the island yonder. Overhead rolled and crackled the artillery of an April thunderstorm, and Mr. Caryll, looking out upon Paris in her shroud of rain, under her pall of thundercloud, felt himself at harmony with Nature. Over his heart, too, the gloom of storm was lowering, just as in his heart it was still little more than April time.

  Behind him, in that chamber furnished in dark oak and leather of a reign or two ago, sat Sir Richard Everard at a vast writing-table all a-litter with books and papers; and Sir Richard watched his adoptive son with fierce, melancholy eyes, watched him until he grew impatient of this pause.

  “Well?” demanded the old baronet harshly. “Will you undertake it, Justin, now that the chance has come?” And he added: “You’ll never hesitate if you are the man I have sought to make you.”

  Mr. Caryll turned slowly. “It is because I am the man that you — that God and you — have made me that I do hesitate.”

  His voice was quiet and pleasantly modulated, and he spoke English with the faintest slur — perceptible, perhaps, only to the keenest ear — of a French accent. To ears less keen it would merely seem that he articulated with a precision so singular as to verge on pedantry.

  The light falling full upon his profile revealed the rather singular countenance that was his own. It was not in any remarkable beauty that its distinction lay, for by the canons of beauty that prevail it was not beautiful. The features were irregular and inclined to harshness, the nose was too abruptly arched, the chin too long and square, the complexion too pallid. Yet a certain dignity haunted that youthful face, of such a quality as to stamp it upon the memory of the merest passer-by. The mouth was difficult to read and full of contradictions; the lips were full and red, and you would declare them the lips of a sensualist but for the line of stern, almost grim, determination in which they met; and yet, somewhere behind that grimness, there appeared to lurk a haunting whimsicality; a smile seemed ever to impend, but whether sweet or bitter none could have told until it broke. The eyes were as remarkable; wide-set and slow-moving, as becomes the eyes of an observant man, they were of an almost greenish color, and so level in their ordinary glance as to seem imbued with an uncanny penetration. His hair — he dared to wear his own, and clubbed it in a broad ribbon of watered silk — was almost of the hue of bronze, with here and there a glint of gold, and as luxuriant as any wig.

  For the rest, he was scarcely above the middle height, of an almost frail but very graceful slenderness, and very graceful, too, in all his movements. In dress he was supremely elegant, with the elegance of France, that in England would be accounted foppishness. He wore a suit of dark blue cloth, with white satin linings that were revealed when he moved; it was heavily laced with gold, and a ramiform pattern broidered in gold thread ran up the sides of his silk stockings of a paler blue. Jewels gleamed in the Brussels at his throat, and there were diamond buckles on his lacquered, red-heeled shoes.

  Sir Richard considered him with anxiety and some chagrin. “Justin!” he cried, a world of reproach in his voice. “What can you need to ponder?”

  “Whatever it may be,” said Mr. Caryll, “it will be better that I ponder it now than after I have pledged myself.”

  “But what is it? What?” demanded the baronet.

  “I am marvelling, for one thing, that you should have waited thirty years.”

  Sir Richard’s fingers stirred the papers before him in an idle, absent manner. Into his brooding eyes there leapt the glitter to be seen in the eyes of the fevered of body or of mind.

  “Vengeance,” said he slowly, “is a dish best relished when ’tis eaten cold.” He paused an instant; then continued: “I might have crossed to England at the time, and slain him. Should that have satisfied me? What is death but peace and rest?”

  “There is a hell, we are told,” Mr. Caryll reminded him.

  “Ay,” was the answer, “we are told. But I dursn’t risk its being false where Ostermore is concerned. So I preferred to wait until I could brew him such a cup of bitterness as no man ever drank ere he was glad to die.” In a quieter, retrospective voice he continued: “Had we prevailed in the ‘15, I might have found a way to punish him that had been worthy of the crime that calls for it. We did not prevail. Moreover, I was taken, and transported.

  “What think you, Justin, gave me courage to endure the rigors of the plantations, cunning and energy to escape after five such years of it as had assuredly killed a stronger man less strong of purpose? What but the task that was awaiting me? It imported that I should live and be free to call a reckoning in full with my Lord Ostermore before I go to my own account.

  “Opportunity has gone lame upon this journey. But it has arrived at last. Unless—” He paused, his voice sank from the
high note of exaltation to which it had soared; it became charged with dread, as did the fierce eyes with which he raked his companion’s face. “Unless you prove false to the duty that awaits you. And that I’ll not believe! You are your mother’s son, Justin.”

  “And my father’s, too,” answered Justin in a thick voice; “and the Earl of Ostermore is that same father.”

  “The more sweetly shall your mother be avenged,” cried the other, and again his eyes blazed with that unhealthy, fanatical light. “What fitter than the hand of that poor lady’s son to pull your father down in ruins?” He laughed short and fiercely. “It seldom chances in this world that justice is done so nicely.”

  “You hate him very deeply,” said Mr. Caryll pensively, and the look in his eyes betrayed the trend of his thoughts; they were of pity — but of pity at the futility of such strong emotions.

  “As deeply as I loved your mother, Justin.” The sharp, rugged features of that seared old face seemed of a sudden transfigured and softened. The wild eyes lost some of their glitter in a look of wistfulness, as he pondered a moment the one sweet memory in a wasted life, a life wrecked over thirty years ago — wrecked wantonly by that same Ostermore of whom they spoke, who had been his friend.

  A groan broke from his lips. He took his head in his hands, and, elbows on the table, he sat very still a moment, reviewing as in a flash the events of thirty and more years ago, when he and Viscount Rotherby — as Ostermore was then — had been young men at the St. Germain’s Court of James II.

  It was on an excursion into Normandy that they had met Mademoiselle de Maligny, the daughter of an impoverished gentleman of the chetive noblesse of that province. Both had loved her. She had preferred — as women will — the outward handsomeness of Viscount Rotherby to the sounder heart and brain that were Dick Everard’s. As bold and dominant as any ruffler of them all where men and perils were concerned, young Everard was timid, bashful and without assertiveness with women. He had withdrawn from the contest ere it was well lost, leaving an easy victory to his friend.

  And how had that friend used it? Most foully, as you shall learn.

  Leaving Rotherby in Normandy, Everard had returned to Paris. The affairs of his king gave him cause to cross at once to Ireland. For three years he abode there, working secretly in his master’s interest, to little purpose be it confessed. At the end of that time he returned to Paris. Rotherby was gone. It appeared that his father, Lord Ostermore, had prevailed upon Bentinck to use his influence with William on the errant youth’s behalf. Rotherby had been pardoned his loyalty to the fallen dynasty. A deserter in every sense, he had abandoned the fortunes of King James — which in Everard’s eyes was bad enough — and he had abandoned the sweet lady he had fetched out of Normandy six months before his going, of whom it seemed that in his lordly way he was grown tired.

  From the beginning it would appear they were ill-matched. It was her beauty had made appeal to him, even as his beauty had enamoured her. Elementals had brought about their union; and when these elementals shrank with habit, as elementals will, they found themselves without a tie of sympathy or common interest to link them each to the other. She was by nature blythe; a thing of sunshine, flowers and music, who craved a very poet for her lover; and by “a poet” I mean not your mere rhymer. He was downright stolid and stupid under his fine exterior; the worst type of Briton, without the saving grace of a Briton’s honor. And so she had wearied him, who saw in her no more than a sweet loveliness that had cloyed him presently. And when the chance was offered him by Bentinck and his father, he took it and went his ways, and this sweet flower that he had plucked from its Normandy garden to adorn him for a brief summer’s day was left to wilt, discarded.

  The tale that greeted Everard on his return from Ireland was that, broken-hearted, she had died — crushed neath her load of shame. For it was said that there had been no marriage.

  The rumor of her death had gone abroad, and it had been carried to England and my Lord Rotherby by a cousin of hers — the last living Maligny — who crossed the channel to demand of that stolid gentleman satisfaction for the dishonor put upon his house. All the satisfaction the poor fellow got was a foot or so of steel through the lungs, of which he died; and there, may it have seemed to Rotherby, the matter ended.

  But Everard remained — Everard, who had loved her with a great and almost sacred love; Everard, who swore black ruin for my Lord Rotherby — the rumor of which may also have been carried to his lordship and stimulated his activities in having Everard hunted down after the Braemar fiasco of 1715.

  But before that came to pass Everard had discovered that the rumor of her death was false — put about, no doubt, out of fear of that same cousin who had made himself champion and avenger of her honor. Everard sought her out, and found her perishing of want in an attic in the Cour des Miracles some four months later — eight months after Rotherby’s desertion.

  In that sordid, wind-swept chamber of Paris’ most abandoned haunt, a son had been born to Antoinette de Maligny two days before Everard had come upon her. Both were dying; both had assuredly died within the week but that he came so timely to her aid. And that aid he rendered like the noble-hearted gentleman he was. He had contrived to save his fortune from the wreck of James’ kingship, and this was safely invested in France, in Holland and elsewhere abroad. With a portion of it he repurchased the chateau and estates of Maligny, which on the death of Antoinette’s father had been seized upon by creditors.

  Thither he sent her and her child — Rotherby’s child — making that noble domain a christening-gift to the boy, for whom he had stood sponsor at the font. And he did his work of love in the background. He was the god in the machine; no more. No single opportunity of thanking him did he afford her. He effaced himself that she might not see the sorrow she occasioned him, lest it should increase her own.

  For two years she dwelt at Maligny in such peace as the broken-hearted may know, the little of life that was left her irradiated by Everard’s noble friendship. He wrote to her from time to time, now from Italy, now from Holland. But he never came to visit her. A delicacy, which may or may not have been false, restrained him. And she, respecting what instinctively she knew to be his feelings, never bade him come to her. In their letters they never spoke of Rotherby; not once did his name pass between them; it was as if he had never lived or never crossed their lives. Meanwhile she weakened and faded day by day, despite all the care with which she was surrounded. That winter of cold and want in the Cour des Miracles had sown its seeds, and Death was sharpening his scythe against the harvest.

  When the end was come she sent urgently for Everard. He came at once in answer to her summons; but he came too late. She died the evening before he arrived. But she had left a letter, written days before, against the chance of his not reaching her before the end. That letter, in her fine French hand, was before him now.

  “I will not try to thank you, dearest friend,” she wrote. “For the thing that you have done, what payment is there in poor thanks? Oh, Everard, Everard! Had it but pleased God to have helped me to a wiser choice when it was mine to choose!” she cried to him from that letter, and poor Everard deemed that the thin ray of joy her words sent through his anguished soul was payment more than enough for the little that he had done. “God’s will be done!” she continued. “It is His will. He knows why it is best so, though we discern it not. But there is the boy; there is Justin. I bequeath him to you who already have done so much for him. Love him a little for my sake; cherish and rear him as your own, and make of him such a gentleman as are you. His father does not so much as know of his existence. That, too, is best so, for I would not have him claim my boy. Never let him learn that Justin exists, unless it be to punish him by the knowledge for his cruel desertion of me.”

  Choking, the writing blurred by tears that he accounted no disgrace to his young manhood, Everard had sworn in that hour that Justin should be as a son to him. He would do her will, and he set upon it a more defi
nite meaning than she intended. Rotherby should remain in ignorance of his son’s existence until such season as should make the knowledge a very anguish to him. He would rear Justin in bitter hatred of the foul villain who had been his father; and with the boy’s help, when the time should be ripe, he would lay my Lord Rotherby in ruins. Thus should my lord’s sin come to find him out.

  This Everard had sworn, and this he had done. He had told Justin the story almost as soon as Justin was of an age to understand it. He had repeated it at very frequent intervals, and as the lad grew, Everard watched in him — fostering it by every means in his power — the growth of his execration for the author of his days, and of his reverence for the sweet, departed saint that had been his mother.

  For the rest, he had lavished Justin nobly for his mother’s sake. The repurchased estates of Maligny, with their handsome rent roll, remained Justin’s own, administered by Sir Richard during the lad’s minority and vastly enriched by the care of that administration. He had sent the lad to Oxford, and afterwards — the more thoroughly to complete his education — on a two years’ tour of Europe; and on his return, a grown and cultured man, he had attached him to the court in Rome of the Pretender, whose agent he was himself in Paris.

  He had done his duty by the boy as he understood his duty, always with that grim purpose of revenge for his horizon. And the result had been a stranger compound than even Everard knew, for all that he knew the lad exceedingly well. For he had scarcely reckoned sufficiently upon Justin’s mixed nationality and the circumstance that in soul and mind he was entirely his mother’s child, with nothing — or an imperceptible little — of his father. As his mother’s nature had been, so was Justin’s — joyous. But Everard’s training of him had suppressed all inborn vivacity. The mirth and diablerie that were his birthright had been overlaid with British phlegm, until in their stead, and through the blend, a certain sardonic humor had developed, an ironical attitude toward all things whether sacred or profane. This had been helped on by culture, and — in a still greater measure — by the odd training in worldliness which he had from Everard. His illusions were shattered ere he had cut his wisdom teeth, thanks to the tutelage of Sir Richard, who in giving him the ugly story of his own existence, taught him the misanthropical lesson that all men are knaves, all women fools. He developed, as a consequence, that sardonic outlook upon the world. He sought to take vos non vobis for his motto, affected to a spectator in the theatre of Life, with the obvious result that he became the greatest actor of them all.