The Lion's Skin

by Rafael Sabatini

  CHAPTER XVII. AMID THE GRAVES

  What time Sir Richard had been dying in the inner room, Mr. Green andtwo of his acolytes had improved the occasion by making a thoroughsearch in Sir Richard's writing-table and a thorough investigation ofevery scrap of paper found there. From which you will understand howmuch Mr. Green was a gentleman who set business above every otherconsideration.

  The man who had shot Sir Richard had been ordered by Mr. Green to takehimself off, and had been urged to go down on his knees, for once ina way, and pray Heaven that his rashness might not bring him to thegallows as he so richly deserved.

  His fourth myrmidon Mr. Green had dispatched with a note to my LordRotherby, and it was entirely upon the answer he should receive that itmust depend whether he proceeded or not, forthwith, to the apprehensionof Mr. Caryll. Meanwhile the search went on amain, and was extendedpresently to the very bedroom where the dead Sir Richard lay. Everynook and cranny was ransacked; the very mattress under the dead man wasremoved, and investigated, and even Mr. Caryll and Bentley had tosubmit to being searched. But it all proved fruitless. Not a line oftreasonable matter was to be found anywhere. To the certificates uponMr. Caryll the searcher made the mistake of paying but little heed inview of their nature.

  But if there were no proofs of plots and treasonable dealings, therewas, at least, abundant proof of Sir Richard's identity, and Mr. Greenappropriated these against any awkward inquiries touching the manner inwhich the baronet had met his death.

  Of such inquiries, however, there were none. It was formally swornto Lord Carteret by Green and his men that the secretary's messenger,Jerry--the fellow owned no surname--had shot Sir Richard inself-defence, when Sir Richard had produced firearms upon being arrestedon a charge of high treason, for which they held the secretary's ownwarrant.

  At first Lord Carteret considered it a thousand pities that they shouldnot have contrived matters better so as to take Sir Richard alive; butupon reflection he was careful not to exaggerate to himself the lossoccasioned by his death, for Sir Richard, after all, was a notoriouslystubborn man, not in the least likely to have made any avowals worthhaving. So that his trial, whilst probably resulting sterile of suchresults as the government could desire, would have given publicity tothe matter of a plot that was hatching; and such publicity at a timeof so much unrest was the last thing the government desired. WhereJacobitism was concerned, Lord Carteret had the wise discretion toproceed with the extremest caution. Publicity might serve to fan thesmouldering embers into a blaze, whereas it was his cunning aim quietlyto stifle them as he came upon them.

  So, upon the whole, he was by no means sure but that Jerry had donethe state the best possible service in disposing thus summarily of thatnotorious Jacobite agent, Sir Richard Everard. And his lordship saw toit that there was no inquiry and that nothing further was heard of thematter.

  As for Lord Rotherby, had the affair transpired twenty-four hoursearlier, he would certainly have returned Mr. Green a message to effectthe arrest of Mr. Caryll upon suspicion. But as it chanced, he hadthat very afternoon received a visit from his mother, who came in greatexcitement to inform him that she had forced from Lord Ostermore anacknowledgment that he was plotting with Mr. Caryll to go over to KingJames.

  So, before they could move further against Mr. Caryll, it behoovedthem to ascertain precisely to what extent Lord Ostermore might not beincriminated, as otherwise the arrest of Caryll might lead to exposuresthat would ruin the earl more thoroughly than could any South Sea bubblerevelations. Thus her ladyship to her son. He turned upon her.

  "Why, madam," said he, "these be the very arguments I used t'other daywhen we talked of this; and all you answered me then was to call me adull-witted clod, for not seeing how the thing might be done withoutinvolving my lord."

  "Tcha!" snapped her ladyship, beating her knuckles impatiently with herfan. "A dull-witted clod did I call you? 'Twas flattery--sheer flattery;for I think ye're something worse. Fool, can ye not see the differencethat lies betwixt your disclosing a plot to the secretary of state, andcausing this Caryll to disclose it--as might happen if he were seized?First discover the plot--find out in what it may consist, and then go toLord Carteret to make your terms."

  He looked at her, out of temper by her rebuke. "I may be as dull as yourladyship says--but I do not see in what the position now is differentfrom what it was."

  "It isn't different--but we thought it was different," she explainedimpatiently. "We assumed that your father would not have betrayedhimself, counting upon his characteristic caution. But it seems we aremistook. He has betrayed himself to Caryll. And before we can move inthis matter, we must have proofs of a plot to lay before the secretaryof state."

  Lord Rotherby understood, and accounted himself between Scylla andCharybdis, and when that evening Green's messenger found him, he gnashedhis teeth in rage at having to allow this chance to pass, at beingforced to temporize until he should be less parlously situated. Hereturned Mr. Green an urgent message to take no steps concerning Mr.Caryll until they should have concerted together.

  Mr. Green was relieved. Mr. Caryll arrested might stir up mattersagainst the slayer of Sir Richard, and this was a business which Mr.Green had prevision enough to see his master, Lord Carteret, wouldprefer should not be stirred up. He had a notion, for the rest, thatif Mr. Caryll were left to go his ways, he would not be likely to givetrouble touching that same matter. And he was right in this. Before hisoverwhelming sense of loss, Mr. Caryll had few thoughts to bestow uponthe manner in which that loss had been sustained. Moreover, if he had aquarrel with any one on that account, it was with the government whoserepresentative had issued the warrant for Sir Richard's arrest, and nomore with the wretched tipstaff who had fired the pistol than with thepistol itself. Both alike were but instruments, of slightly differentdegrees of insensibility.

  For twenty-four hours Mr. Caryll's grief was overwhelming in itspoignancy. His sense of solitude was awful. Gone was the only living manwho had stood to him for kith and kin. He was left alone in the world;utterly alone. That was the selfishness of his sorrow--the considerationof Sir Richard's death as it concerned himself.

  Presently an alloy of consolation was supplied by the reflection ofSir Richard's own case--as Sir Richard himself had stated it uponhis deathbed. His life had not been happy; it had been poisoned by amonomania, which, like a worm in the bud, had consumed the sweetnessof his existence. Sir Richard was at rest. And since he had beendiscovered, that shot was, indeed, the most merciful end that could havebeen measured out to him. The alternative might have been the gibbetand the gaping crowd, and a moral torture to precede the end. Better--athousand times better--as it was.

  So much did all this weigh with him that when on the following Mondayhe accompanied the body to its grave, he found his erstwhile passionategrief succeeded by an odd thankfulness that things were as they were,although it must be confessed that a pang of returning anguish smote himwhen he heard the earth clattering down upon the wooden box that heldall that remained of the man who had been father, mother, brother andall else to him.

  He turned away at last, and was leaving the graveyard, when some onetouched him on the arm. It was a timid touch. He turned sharply,and found himself looking into the sweet face of Hortensia Winthrop,wondering how came she there. She wore a long, dark cloak and hood, buther veil was turned back. A chair was waiting not fifty paces from themalong the churchyard wall.

  "I came but to tell you how much I feel for you in this great loss," shesaid.

  He looked at her in amazement. "How did you know?" he asked her.

  "I guessed," said she. "I heard that you were with him at the end, andI caught stray words from her ladyship of what had passed. Lord Rotherbyhad the information from the tipstaff who went to arrest Sir RichardEverard. I guessed he was your--your foster-father, as you called him;and I came to tell you how deeply I sorrow for you in your sorrow."

  He caught her hands in his and bore them to his lips, reckless of whomight see
the act. "Ah, this is sweet and kind in you," said he.

  She drew him back into the churchyard again. Along the wall there wasan avenue of limes--a cool and pleasant walk wherein idlers lounged onSundays in summer after service. Thither she drew him. He went almostmechanically. Her sympathy stirred his sorrow again, as sympathy sooften does.

  "I have buried my heart yonder, I think," said he, with a wave of hishand towards that spot amid the graves where the men were toiling withtheir shovels. "He was the only living being that loved me."

  "Ah, surely not," said she, sorrow rather than reproach in her gentlevoice.

  "Indeed, yes. Mine is a selfish grief. It is for myself that I sorrow,for myself and my own loneliness. It is thus with all of us. When weargue that we weep the dead, it would be more true to say that we bewailthe living. For him--it is better as it is. No doubt it is better so formost men, when all is said, and we do wrong to weep their passing."

  "Do not talk so," she said. "It hurts."

  "Ay--it is the way of truth to hurt, which is why, hating pain, we shuntruth so often." He sighed. "But, oh, it was good in you to seek me, tobring me word with your own lips of your sweet sympathy. If aught couldlighten the gloom of my sorrow, surely it is that."

  They stepped along in silence until they came to the end of the avenue,and turned. It was no idle silence: the silence of two beings who havenaught to say. It was a grave, portentous silence, occasioned by theunutterable much in the mind of one, and by the other's apprehension ofit. At last she spoke, to ask him what he meant to do.

  "I shall return to France," he said. "It had perhaps been better had Inever crossed to England."

  "I cannot think so," she said, simply, frankly and with no touch of acoquetry that had been harshly at discord with time and place.

  He shot her a swift, sidelong glance; then stopped, and turned. "I amglad on't," said he. "'Twill make my going the easier."

  "I mean not that," she cried, and held out her hands to him. "I meantnot what you think--you know, you know what 'twas I meant. You know--youmust--what impulse brought me to you in this hour, when I knew you mustneed comfort. And in return how cruel, were you not--to tell me thatyonder lay buried the only living being that--that loved you?"

  His fingers were clenched upon her arm. "Don't--don't!" he imploredhoarsely, a strange fire in his eyes, a hectic flush on either cheek."Don't! Or I'll forget what I am, and take advantage of this midsummerfolly that is upon you."

  "Is it no more than folly, Justin?" she asked him, brown eyes looking upinto gray-green.

  "Ay, something more--stark madness. All great emotions are. It willpass, and you will be thankful that I was man enough--strong enough--toallow it the chance of passing."

  She hung her head, shaking it sorrowfully. Then very softly: "Is it nomore than the matter of--of that, that stands between us?" she inquired.

  "No more than that," he answered, "and yet more than enough. I have noname to offer any woman."

  "A name?" she echoed scornfully. "What store do you think I lay by that?When you talk so, you obey some foolish prejudice; no more."

  "Obedience to prejudices is the whole art of living," he answered,sighing.

  She made a gesture of impatience, and went on. "Justin, you said youloved me; and when you said so much, you gave me the right--or so Iunderstood it--to speak to you as I am doing now. You are alone inthe world, without kith or kin. The only one you had--the one whorepresented all for you--lies buried there. Would you return thus,lonely and alone, to France?"

  "Ah, now I understand!" he cried. "Now I understand. Pity is the impulsethat has urged you--pity for my loneliness, is't not, Hortensia?"

  "I'll not deny that without the pity there might not have been thecourage. Why should I--since it is a pity that gives you no offense, apity that is rooted firmly in--in love for you, my Justin?"

  He set his hands upon her shoulders, and with glowing eyes regarded her."Ah, sweet!" said he, "you make me very, very proud."

  And then his arms dropped again limply to his sides. He sighed, andshook his head drearily. "And yet--reflect. When I come to beg your handin marriage of your guardian, what shall I answer him of the questionshe will ask me of myself--touching my family, my parentage and all therest that he will crave to know?"

  She observed that he was very white again. "Need you enter into that?A man is himself; not his father or his family." And then she checked."You make me plead too much," she said, a crimson flood in her faircheeks. "I'll say no more than I have said. Already have I said morethan I intended. And you have wanted mercy that you could drive me toit. You know my mind--my--my inmost heart. You know that I care nothingfor your namelessness. It is yours to decide what you will do. Come,now; my chair is staying for me."

  He bowed; he sought again to convey some sense of his appreciation ofher great nobility; then led her through the gate and to her waitingchair.

  "Whatever I may decide, Hortensia" was the last thing he said to her,"and I shall decide as I account best for you, rather than for myself;and for myself there needs no thought or hesitation--whatever I maydecide, believe me when I say from my soul that all my life shall be thesweeter for this hour."