What time Sir Richard had been dying in the inner room, Mr. Green and two of his acolytes had improved the occasion by making a thorough search in Sir Richard's writing-table and a thorough investigation of every scrap of paper found there. From which you will understand how much Mr. Green was a gentleman who set business above every other consideration.
The man who had shot Sir Richard had been ordered by Mr. Green to take himself off, and had been urged to go down on his knees, for once in a way, and pray Heaven that his rashness might not bring him to the gallows as he so richly deserved.
His fourth myrmidon Mr. Green had dispatched with a note to my Lord Rotherby, and it was entirely upon the answer he should receive that it must depend whether he proceeded or not, forthwith, to the apprehension of Mr. Caryll. Meanwhile the search went on amain, and was extended presently to the very bedroom where the dead Sir Richard lay. Every nook and cranny was ransacked; the very mattress under the dead man was removed, and investigated, and even Mr. Caryll and Bentley had to submit to being searched. But it all proved fruitless. Not a line of treasonable matter was to be found anywhere. To the certificates upon Mr. Caryll the searcher made the mistake of paying but little heed in view of their nature.
But if there were no proofs of plots and treasonable dealings, there was, at least, abundant proof of Sir Richard's identity, and Mr. Green appropriated these against any awkward inquiries touching the manner in which the baronet had met his death.
Of such inquiries, however, there were none. It was formally sworn to Lord Carteret by Green and his men that the secretary's messenger, Jerry—the fellow owned no surname—had shot Sir Richard in self-defence, when Sir Richard had produced firearms upon being arrested on a charge of high treason, for which they held the secretary's own warrant.
At first Lord Carteret considered it a thousand pities that they should not have contrived matters better so as to take Sir Richard alive; but upon reflection he was careful not to exaggerate to himself the loss occasioned by his death, for Sir Richard, after all, was a notoriously stubborn man, not in the least likely to have made any avowals worth having. So that his trial, whilst probably resulting sterile of such results as the government could desire, would have given publicity to the matter of a plot that was hatching; and such publicity at a time of so much unrest was the last thing the government desired. Where Jacobitism was concerned, Lord Carteret had the wise discretion to proceed with the extremest caution. Publicity might serve to fan the smouldering embers into a blaze, whereas it was his cunning aim quietly to stifle them as he came upon them.
So, upon the whole, he was by no means sure but that Jerry had done the state the best possible service in disposing thus summarily of that notorious Jacobite agent, Sir Richard Everard. And his lordship saw to it that there was no inquiry and that nothing further was heard of the matter.
As for Lord Rotherby, had the affair transpired twenty-four hours earlier, he would certainly have returned Mr. Green a message to effect the arrest of Mr. Caryll upon suspicion. But as it chanced, he had that very afternoon received a visit from his mother, who came in great excitement to inform him that she had forced from Lord Ostermore an acknowledgment that he was plotting with Mr. Caryll to go over to King James.
So, before they could move further against Mr. Caryll, it behooved them to ascertain precisely to what extent Lord Ostermore might not be incriminated, as otherwise the arrest of Caryll might lead to exposures that would ruin the earl more thoroughly than could any South Sea bubble revelations. Thus her ladyship to her son. He turned upon her.
“Why, madam,” said he, “these be the very arguments I used t'other day when we talked of this; and all you answered me then was to call me a dull-witted clod, for not seeing how the thing might be done without involving my lord.”
“Tcha!” snapped her ladyship, beating her knuckles impatiently with her fan. “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 difference that lies betwixt your disclosing a plot to the secretary of state, and causing 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 to Lord Carteret to make your terms.”
He looked at her, out of temper by her rebuke. “I may be as dull as your ladyship says—but I do not see in what the position now is different from what it was.”
“It isn't different—but we thought it was different,” she explained impatiently. “We assumed that your father would not have betrayed himself, counting upon his characteristic caution. But it seems we are mistook. He has betrayed himself to Caryll. And before we can move in this matter, we must have proofs of a plot to lay before the secretary of state.”
Lord Rotherby understood, and accounted himself between Scylla and Charybdis, and when that evening Green's messenger found him, he gnashed his teeth in rage at having to allow this chance to pass, at being forced to temporize until he should be less parlously situated. He returned 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 matters against the slayer of Sir Richard, and this was a business which Mr. Green had prevision enough to see his master, Lord Carteret, would prefer should not be stirred up. He had a notion, for the rest, that if Mr. Caryll were left to go his ways, he would not be likely to give trouble touching that same matter. And he was right in this. Before his overwhelming sense of loss, Mr. Caryll had few thoughts to bestow upon the manner in which that loss had been sustained. Moreover, if he had a quarrel with any one on that account, it was with the government whose representative had issued the warrant for Sir Richard's arrest, and no more with the wretched tipstaff who had fired the pistol than with the pistol itself. Both alike were but instruments, of slightly different degrees of insensibility.
For twenty-four hours Mr. Caryll's grief was overwhelming in its poignancy. His sense of solitude was awful. Gone was the only living man who 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 consideration of Sir Richard's death as it concerned himself.
Presently an alloy of consolation was supplied by the reflection of Sir Richard's own case—as Sir Richard himself had stated it upon his deathbed. His life had not been happy; it had been poisoned by a monomania, which, like a worm in the bud, had consumed the sweetness of his existence. Sir Richard was at rest. And since he had been discovered, that shot was, indeed, the most merciful end that could have been measured out to him. The alternative might have been the gibbet and the gaping crowd, and a moral torture to precede the end. Better—a thousand times better—as it was.
So much did all this weigh with him that when on the following Monday he accompanied the body to its grave, he found his erstwhile passionate grief succeeded by an odd thankfulness that things were as they were, although it must be confessed that a pang of returning anguish smote him when he heard the earth clattering down upon the wooden box that held all that remained of the man who had been father, mother, brother and all else to him.
He turned away at last, and was leaving the graveyard, when some one touched 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, but her veil was turned back. A chair was waiting not fifty paces from them along the churchyard wall.
“I came but to tell you how much I feel for you in this great loss,” she said.
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, and I caught stray words from her ladyship of what had passed. Lord Rotherby had the information from the tipstaff who went to arrest Sir Richard Everard. 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 who might 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 was an avenue of limes—a cool and pleasant walk wherein idlers lounged on Sundays in summer after service. Thither she drew him. He went almost mechanically. Her sympathy stirred his sorrow again, as sympathy so often does.
“I have buried my heart yonder, I think,” said he, with a wave of his hand towards that spot amid the graves where the men were toiling with their shovels. “He was the only living being that loved me.”
“Ah, surely not,” said she, sorrow rather than reproach in her gentle voice.
“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 we argue that we weep the dead, it would be more true to say that we bewail the living. For him—it is better as it is. No doubt it is better so for most 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 shun truth so often.” He sighed. “But, oh, it was good in you to seek me, to bring me word with your own lips of your sweet sympathy. If aught could lighten 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 have naught to say. It was a grave, portentous silence, occasioned by the unutterable much in the mind of one, and by the other's apprehension of it. 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 I never crossed to England.”
“I cannot think so,” she said, simply, frankly and with no touch of a coquetry that had been harshly at discord with time and place.
He shot her a swift, sidelong glance; then stopped, and turned. “I am glad on't,” said he. “'Twill make my going the easier.”
“I mean not that,” she cried, and held out her hands to him. “I meant not what you think—you know, you know what 'twas I meant. You know—you must—what impulse brought me to you in this hour, when I knew you must need comfort. And in return how cruel, were you not—to tell me that yonder lay buried the only living being that—that loved you?”
His fingers were clenched upon her arm. “Don't—don't!” he implored hoarsely, 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 midsummer folly that is upon you.”
“Is it no more than folly, Justin?” she asked him, brown eyes looking up into gray-green.
“Ay, something more—stark madness. All great emotions are. It will pass, and you will be thankful that I was man enough—strong enough—to allow it the chance of passing.”
She hung her head, shaking it sorrowfully. Then very softly: “Is it no more 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 no name 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 you loved me; and when you said so much, you gave me the right—or so I understood it—to speak to you as I am doing now. You are alone in the world, without kith or kin. The only one you had—the one who represented 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 impulse that has urged you—pity for my loneliness, is't not, Hortensia?”
“I'll not deny that without the pity there might not have been the courage. Why should I—since it is a pity that gives you no offense, a pity 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, and shook his head drearily. “And yet—reflect. When I come to beg your hand in marriage of your guardian, what shall I answer him of the questions he will ask me of myself—touching my family, my parentage and all the rest 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 fair cheeks. “I'll say no more than I have said. Already have I said more than I intended. And you have wanted mercy that you could drive me to it. You know my mind—my—my inmost heart. You know that I care nothing for 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 of her great nobility; then led her through the gate and to her waiting chair.
“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 may decide, believe me when I say from my soul that all my life shall be the sweeter for this hour.”
Temptation had seized Mr. Caryll in a throttling grip, and for two whole days he kept the house, shunning all company and wrestling with that same Temptation. In the end he took a whimsical resolve, entirely worthy of himself.
He would go to Lord Ostermore formally to ask in marriage the hand of Mistress Winthrop, and he would be entirely frank with the earl, stating his exact condition, but suppressing the names of his parents.
He was greatly taken with the notion. It would create a situation ironical beyond any, grotesque beyond belief; and its development should be stupendously interesting. It attracted him irresistibly. That he should leave it to his own father to say whether a man born as he was born might aspire to marry his father's ward, had in it something that savored of tragi-comedy. It was a pretty problem, that once set could not be left unsolved by a man of Mr. Caryll's temperament. And, indeed, no sooner was the idea conceived than it quickened into a resolve upon which he set out to act.
He bade Leduc call a chair, and, dressed in mourning, but with his habitual care, he had himself carried to Lincoln's Inn Fields.
Engrossed as he was in his own thoughts, he paid little heed to the hum of excitement about the threshold of Stretton House. Within the railed enclosure that fronted the mansion two coaches were drawn up, and a little knot of idlers stood by one of these in busy gossip.
Paying no attention to them, Mr. Caryll mounted the steps, nor noticed the gravity of the porter's countenance as he passed within.
In the hall he found a little flock of servants gathered together, and muttering among themselves like conspirators in a tragedy; and so engrossed that they paid no heed to him as he advanced, nor until he had tapped one of them on the shoulder with his cane—and tapped him a thought peremptorily.
“How now?” said he. “Does no one wait here?”
They fell apart a little, and stood at attention, with something curious in their bearing, one and all.
“My service to his lordship, and say that I desire to speak with him.”
They looked at one another in hesitation for a moment; then Humphries, the butler, came forward. “Your honor'll not have heard the news?” said he, a solemn gravity in face and tone.
“News?” quoth Mr. Caryll sharply, intrigued by so much show of mystery. “What news?”
“His lordship is very ill, sir. He had a seizure this morning when they came for him.”
“A seizure?” said Mr. Caryll. And then: “When they came for him?” he echoed, struck by something odd in the man's utterance of those five words. “When who came for him?”
“The messengers, sir,” replied the butler dejectedly. “Has your honor not heard?” And seeing the blank look on Mr. Caryll's face, he proceeded without waiting for an answer: “His lordship was impeached yesterday by his Grace of Wharton on a matter concerning the South Sea Company, and Lord Carteret—the secretary of state, your honor—sent this morning to arrest him.”
“'Sdeath!” ejaculated Mr. Caryll in his surprise, a surprise that was tempered with some dismay. “And he had a seizure, ye say?”
“An apoplexy, your honor. The doctors are with him now; Sir James, himself, is here. They're cupping him—so I hear from Mr. Tom, his lordship's man. I'd ha' thought your honor would ha' heard. 'Tis town talk, they say.”
Mr. Caryll would have found it difficult to have said exactly what impression this news made upon him. In the main, however, he feared it left him cold.
“'Tis very regrettable,” said he. He fell thoughtful a moment. Then: “Will you send word to Mistress Winthrop that I am here, and would speak with her, Humphries?”
Humphries conducted Mr. Caryll to the little white and gold withdrawing-room that was Hortensia's. There, in the little time that he waited, he revolved the situation as it now stood, and the temptation that had been with him for the past three days rose up now with a greater vigor. Should Lord Ostermore die, Temptation argued, he need no longer hesitate. Hortensia would be as much alone in the world as he was; worse, for life at Stretton House with her ladyship—from which even in the earl's lifetime she had been led to attempt to escape—must be a thing unbearable, and what alternative could he suggest but that she should become his wife?
She came to him presently, white-faced and with startled eyes. As she took his outstretched hands, she attempted a smile. “It is kind in you to come to me at such a time,” she said.
“You mistake,” said he, “as is but natural. I had not heard what had befallen. I came to ask your hand in marriage of his lordship.”
Some faint color tinged her cheeks. “You had decided, then?”
“I had decided that his lordship must decide,” he answered.
“And now?”
“And now it seems we must decide for ourselves if his lordship dies.”
Her mind swung to the graver matter. “Sir James has every hope,” she said, and added miserably: “I know not which to pray for, his recovery or his death.”
“Why that?”
“Because if he survive it may be for worse. The secretary's agent is even now seeking evidence against him among his own papers. He is in the library at this moment, going through his lordship's desk.”
Mr. Caryll started. That mention of Ostermore's desk brought vividly before his mind the recollection of the secret drawer wherein the earl had locked away the letter he had received from King James and his own reply, all packed as it was, with treason. If that drawer were discovered, and those papers found, then was Ostermore lost indeed, and did he survive this apoplexy, it would be to surrender his head upon the scaffold.
A moment he considered this, dispassionately. Then it broke upon his mind that were this to happen, Ostermore's blood would indirectly be upon his own head, since for the purpose of betrayal had he sought him out with that letter from the exiled Stuart—which, be it remembered, King James himself had no longer wished delivered.
It turned him cold with horror. He could not remain idle and let matters run their course. He must avert these discoveries if it lay within his power to do so, or else he must submit to a lifetime of remorse should Ostermore survive to be attainted of treason. He had made an end—a definite end—long since of his intention of working Ostermore's ruin; he could not stand by now and see that ruin wrought as a result of the little that already he had done towards encompassing it.
“His papers must be saved,” he said shortly. “I'll go to the library at once.”
“But the secretary's agent is there already,” she repeated.
“'Tis no matter for that,” said he, moving towards the door. “His desk contains that which will cost him his head if discovered. I know it,” he assured her, and left her cold with fear.
“But, then, you—you?” she cried. “Is it true that you are a Jacobite?”
“True enough,” he answered.
“Lord Rotherby knows it,” she informed him. “He told me it was so. If—if you interfere in this, it—it may mean your ruin.” She came to him swiftly, a great fear written or her winsome face.
“Sh,” said he. “I am not concerned to think of that at present. If Lord Ostermore perishes through his connection with the cause, it will mean worse than ruin for me—though not the ruin that you are thinking of.”
“But what can you do?”
“That I go to learn.”
“I will come with you, then.”
He hesitated a moment, looking at her; then he opened the door, and held it for her, following after. He led the way across the hall to the library, and they went in together.
Lord Ostermore's secretaire stood open, and leaning over it, his back towards them was a short, stiffly-built man in a snuff-colored coat. He turned at the sound of the closing door, and revealed the pleasant, chubby face of Mr. Green.
“Ha!” said Mr. Caryll. “Mr. Green again. I declare, sir, ye've the gift of ubiquity.”
The spy stood up to regard him, and for all that his voice inclined to sharpness when he spoke, the habitual grin sat like a mask upon the mobile features. “What d'ye seek here?”
“Tis what I was about to ask you—what you are seeking; for that you seek is plain. I thought perhaps I might assist you.”
“I nothing doubt you could,” answered Mr. Green with a fresh leer, that contained this time something ironic. “I nothing doubt it! But by your leave, I'll pursue my quest without your assistance.”
Mr. Caryll continued, nevertheless, to advance towards him, Mistress Hortensia remaining in the background, a quiet spectator, betraying nothing of the anxieties by which she was being racked.
“Ye're mighty curt this morning, Mr. Green,” said Mr. Caryll, very airy. “Ye're mighty curt, and ye're entirely wrong so to be. You might find me a very useful friend.”
“I've found you so before,” said Mr. Green sourly.
“Ye've a nice sense of humor,” said Mr. Caryll, head on one side, contemplating the spy with admiration in his glance.
“And a nicer sense of a Jacobite,” answered Mr. Green.
“He will have the last word, you perceive,” said Mr. Caryll to Hortensia.
“Harkee, Mr. Caryll,” quoth Mr. Green, quite grimly now. “I'd ha' laid you by the heels a month or more ago, but for certain friends o' mine who have other ends to serve.”
“Sir, what you tell me shocks me. It shakes the very foundations of my faith in human nature. I have esteemed you an honest man, Mr. Green, and it seems—on your own confessing—that ye're no better than a damned rogue who neglects his duty to the state. I've a mind to see Lord Carteret, and tell him the truth of the matter.”
“Ye shall have an opportunity before long, ecod!” said Mr. Green. “Good-morning to you! I've work to do.” And he turned back to the desk.
“'Tis wasted labor,” said Mr. Caryll, producing his snuff-box, and tapping it. “You might seek from now till the crack of doom, and not find what ye seek—not though you hack the desk to pieces. It has a secret, Mr. Green. I'll make a bargain with you for that secret.”
Mr. Green turned again, and his shrewd, bright eyes scanned more closely that lean face, whose keenness was all dissembled now in an easy, languid smile. “A bargain?” grumbled the spy. “I' faith, then, the secret's worthless.”
“Ye think that? Pho! 'Tis not like your usual wit, Mr. Green. The letter that I carried into England, and that you were at such splendid pains to find at Maidstone, is in here.” And he tapped the veneered top of the secretaire with his forefinger. “But ye'll not find it without my help. It is concealed as effectively—as effectively as it was upon my person when ye searched me. Now, sir, will ye treat with me? It'll save you a world of labor.”
Mr. Green still looked at him. He licked his lips thoughtfully, cat-like. “What terms d'ye make?” he inquired, but his tone was very cold. His busy brain was endeavoring to conjecture what exactly might be Mr. Caryll's object in this frankness which Mr. Green was not fool enough to believe sincere.
“Ah,” said Mr. Caryll. “That is more the man I know.” He tapped his snuff-box, and in that moment memory rather than inspiration showed him the thing he needed. “Did ye ever see 'The Constant Couple,' Mr. Green?” he inquired.
“'The Constant Couple'?” echoed Mr. Green, and though mystified, he must air his little jest. “I never saw any couple that was constant—leastways, not for long.”
“Ha! Ye're a roguish wag! But 'The Constant Couple' I mean is a play.”
“Oh, a play! Ay, I mind me I saw it some years ago, when 'twas first acted. But what has that to do with—”
“Ye'll understand in a moment,” said Mr. Caryll, with a smile the spy did not relish. “D'ye recall a ruse of Sir Harry Wildairs to rid himself of the company of an intrusive old fool who was not wanted? D'ye remember what 'twas he did?”
Mr. Green, his head slightly on one side, was watching Mr. Caryll very closely, and not without anxiety. “I don't,” said he, and dropped a hand to the pocket where a pistol lay, that he might be prepared for emergencies. “What did he do?”
“I'll show you,” said Mr. Caryll. “He did this.” And with a swift upward movement, he emptied his snuff-box full into the face of Mr. Green.
Mr. Green leapt back, with a scream of pain, hands to his eyes, and quite unconsciously set himself to play to the life the part of the intrusive old fellow in the comedy. Dancing wildly about the room, his eyes smarting and burning so that he could not open them, he bellowed of hell-fire and other hot things of which he was being so intensely reminded.
“'Twill pass,” Mr. Caryll consoled him. “A little water, and all will be well with you.” He stepped to the door as he spoke, and flung it open. “Ho, there! Who waits?” he called.
Two or three footmen sprang to answer him. He took Mr. Green, still blind and vociferous, by the shoulders, and thrust him into their care. “This gentleman has had a most unfortunate accident. Get him water to wash his eyes—warm water. So! Take him. 'Twill pass, Mr. Green. 'Twill soon pass, I assure you.”
He shut the door upon them, locked it, and turned to Hortensia, smiling grimly. Then he crossed quickly to the desk, and Hortensia followed him. He sat down, and pulled out bodily the bottom drawer on the right inside of the upper part of the desk, as he had seen Lord Ostermore do that day, a little over a week ago. He thrust his hand into the opening, and felt along the sides for some moments in vain. He went over the ground again slowly, inch by inch, exerting constant pressure, until he was suddenly rewarded by a click. The small trap disclosed itself. He pulled it up, and took some papers from the recess. He spread them before him. They were the documents he sought—the king's letter to Ostermore, and Ostermore's reply, signed and ready for dispatch. “These must be burnt,” he said, “and burnt at once, for that fellow Green may return, or he may send others. Call Humphries. Get a taper from him.”
She sped to the door, and did his bidding. Then she returned. She was plainly agitated. “You must go at once,” she said, imploringly. “You must return to France without an instant's delay.”
“Why, indeed, it would mean my ruin to remain now,” he admitted. “And yet—” He held out his hands to her.
“I will follow you,” she promised him. “I will follow you as soon as his lordship is recovered, or—or at peace.”
“You have well considered, sweetheart?” he asked her, holding her to him, and looking down into her gentle eyes.
“There is no happiness for me apart from you.”
Again his scruples took him. “Tell Lord Ostermore—tell him all,” he begged her. “Be guided by him. His decision for you will represent the decision of the world.”
“What is the world to me? You are the world to me,” she cried.
There was a rap upon the door. He put her from him, and went to open. It was Humphries with a lighted taper. He took it, thanked the man with a word, and shut the door in his face, ignoring the fact that the fellow was attempting to tell him something.
He returned to the desk. “Let us make quite sure that this is all,” he said, and held the taper so that the light shone into the recess. It seemed empty at first; then, as the light penetrated farther, he saw something that showed white at the back of the cachette. He thrust in his hand, and drew out a small package bound with a ribbon that once might have been green but was faded now to yellow. He set it on the desk, and returned to his search. There was nothing else. The recess was empty. He closed the trap and replaced the drawer. Then he sat down again, the taper at his elbow, Mistress Winthrop looking on, facing him across the top of the secretaire, and he took up the package.
The ribbon came away easily, and some half-dozen sheets fell out and scattered upon the desk. They gave out a curious perfume, half of age, half of some essence with which years ago they had been imbued. Something took Mr. Caryll in the throat, and he could never explain whether it was that perfume or some premonitory emotion, some prophetic apprehension of what he was about to see.
He opened the first of those folded sheets, and found it to be a letter written in French and in an ink that had paled to yellow with the years that were gone since it had been penned. The fine, pointed writing was curiously familiar to Mr. Caryll. He looked at the signature at the bottom of the page. It swam before his eyes—ANTOINETTE-“Celle qui l'adore, Antoinette,” he read, and the whole world seemed blotted out for him; all consciousness, his whole being, his every sense, seemed concentrated into his eyes as they gazed upon that relic of a deluded woman's dream.
He did not read. It was not for him to commit the sacrilege of reading what that girl who had been his mother had written thirty years ago to the man she loved—the man who had proved false as hell.
He turned the other letters over; opened them one by one, to make sure that they were of the same nature as the first, and what time he did so he found himself speculating upon the strangeness of Ostermore's having so treasured them. Perhaps he had thrust them into that secret recess, and there forgotten them; 'twas an explanation that sorted better with what Mr. Caryll knew of his father, than the supposition that so dull and practical and self-centered a nature could have been irradiated by a gleam of such tenderness as the hoarding of those letters might have argued.
He continued to turn them over, half-mechanically, forgetful of the urgent need to burn the treasonable documents he had secured, forgetful of everything, even Hortensia's presence. And meantime she watched him in silence, marvelling at this delay, and still more at the gray look that had crept into his face.
“What have you found?” she asked at last.
“A ghost,” he answered, and his voice had a strained, metallic ring. He even vented an odd laugh. “A bundle of old love-letters.”
“From her ladyship?”
“Her ladyship?” He looked up, an expression on his face which seemed to show that he could not at the moment think who her ladyship might be. Then as the picture of that bedaubed, bedizened and harsh-featured Jezebel arose in his mind to stand beside the sweet girl—image of his mother—as he knew her from the portrait that hung at Maligny—he laughed again. “No, not from her ladyship,” said he. “From a woman who loved him years ago.” And he turned to the seventh and last of those poor ghosts-the seventh, a fateful number.
He spread it before him; frowned down on it a moment with a sharp hiss of indrawn breath. Then he twisted oddly on his chair, and sat bolt upright, staring straight before him with unseeing eyes. Presently he passed a hand across his brow, and made a queer sound in his throat.
“What is it?” she asked.
But he did not answer; he was staring at the paper again. A while he sat thus; then with swift fevered fingers he took up once more the other letters. He unfolded one, and began to read. A few lines he read, and then—“O God!” he cried, and flung out his arms under stress of 'his emotions. One of them caught the taper that stood upon the desk; and swept it, extinguished, to the floor. He never heeded it, never gave a thought to the purpose for which it had been fetched, a purpose not yet served. He rose. He was white as the dead are white, and she observed that he was trembling. He took up the bundle of old letters, and thrust them into an inside pocket of his coat.
“What are you doing?” she cried, seeking at last to arouse him from the spell under which he appeared to have fallen. “Those letters—”
“I must see Lord Ostermore,” he answered wildly, and made for the door, reeling like a drunkard in his walk.
In the ante-room communicating with Lord Ostermore's bedroom the countess was in consultation with Rotherby, who had been summoned by his mother when my lord was stricken.
Her ladyship occupied the window-seat; Rotherby stood beside her, leaning slightly against the frame of the open window. Their conversation was earnest and conducted in a low key, and one would naturally have conjectured that it had for subject the dangerous condition of the earl. And so it had—the dangerous condition of the earl's political, if not physical, affairs. To her ladyship and her son, the matter of their own future was of greater gravity than the matter of whether his lordship lived or died—which, whatever it may be, is not unreasonable. Since the impeachment of my lord and the coming of the messengers to arrest him, the danger of ruin and beggary were become more imminent—indeed, they impended, and measures must be concerted to avert these evils. By comparison with that, the earl's succumbing or surviving was a trivial matter; and the concern they had manifested in Sir James' news—when the important, well-nourished physician who had bled his lordship came to inform them that there was hope—was outward only, and assumed for pure decorum's sake.
“Whether he lives or dies,” said the viscount pertinently, after the doctor had departed to return to his patient, “the measures to be taken are the same.” And he repeated the substance of their earlier discussions upon this same topic. “If we can but secure the evidence of his treason with Caryll,” he wound up, “I shall be able to make terms with Lord Carteret to arrest the proceedings the government may intend, and thus avert the restitution it would otherwise enforce.”
“But if he were to die,” said her ladyship, as coldly, horribly calculating as though he were none of hers, “there would be an end to this danger. They could not demand restitution of the dead, nor impose fines upon him.”
Rotherby shook his head. “Believe not that, madam,” said he. “They can demand restitution of his heirs and impose their fines upon the estate. 'Twas done in the case of Chancellor Craggs, though he shot himself.”
She raised a haggard face to his. “And do you dream that Lord Carteret would make terms with you?”
“If I can show him—by actual proof—that a conspiracy does exist, that the Stuart supporters are plotting a rising. Proof of that should be of value to Lord Carteret, of sufficient value to the government to warrant the payment of the paltry price I ask—that the impeachment against my father for his dealings with the South Sea Company shall not be allowed.
“But it might involve the worse betrayal of your father, Charles, and if he were to live—”
“'Sdeath, mother, why must you harp on that? I a'n't the fool you think me,” he cried. “I shall make it a further condition that my father have immunity. There will be no lack of victims once the plot is disclosed; and they may begin upon that coxcomb Caryll—the damned meddler who is at the bottom of all this garboil.”
She sat bemused, her eyes upon the sunlit gardens below, where a faint breeze was stirring the shrub tops.
“There is,” she said presently, “a secret drawer somewhere in his desk. If he has papers they will, no doubt, be there. Had you not best be making search for them?”
He smiled darkly. “I have seen to that already,” he replied.
“How?” excitedly. “You have got the papers?”
“No; but I have set an experienced hand to find them, and one, moreover, who has the right by virtue of his warrant—the messenger of the secretary of state.”
She sat up, rigid. “'Sdeath! What is't ye mean?”
“No need for alarm,” he reassured her. “This fellow Green is in my pay, as well as in the secretary's, and it will profit him most to keep faith with me. He's a self-seeking dog, content to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, so that there be profit in it, and he'd sacrifice his ears to bring Mr. Caryll to the gallows. I have promised him that and a thousand pounds if we save the estates from confiscation.”
She looked at him, between wonder and fear. “Can ye trust him?” she asked breathlessly.
He laughed softly and confidently. “I can trust him to earn a thousand pounds,” he answered. “When he heard of the impeachment, he used such influence as he has to be entrusted with the arrest of his lordship; and having obtained his warrant, he came first to me to tell me of it. A thousand pounds is the price of him, body and soul. I bade him seek not only evidence of my lord's having received that plaguey stock, but also papers relating to this Jacobite plot into which his lordship has been drawn by our friend Caryll. He is at his work at present. And I shall hear from him when it is accomplished.”
She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You have very well disposed, Charles,” she approved him. “If your father lives, it should not be a difficult matter—”
She checked suddenly and turned, while Rotherby, too, looked up and stepped quickly from the window-embrasure where he had stood.
The door of the bedroom had been suddenly pulled open, and Sir James came out, very pale and discomposed.
“Madam—your ladyship—my lord!” he gasped, his mouth working, his hands waving foolishly.
The countess rose to confront him, tall, severe and harsh. The viscount scowled a question. Sir James quailed before them, evidently in affliction.
“Madam—his lordship,” he said, and by his eloquent gesture of dejection announced what he had some difficulty in putting into words.
She stepped forward, and took him by the wrist. “Is he dying?” she inquired.
“Have courage, madam,” the doctor besought her.
The apparent irrelevancy of the request at such a moment, angered her. Her mood was dangerously testy. And had the doctor but known it, sympathy was a thing she had not borne well these many years.
“I asked you was he dying,” she reminded him, with a cold sternness that beat aside all his attempts at subterfuge.
“Your ladyship—he is dead,” he faltered, with lowered eyes.
“Dead?” she echoed dully, and her hand went to the region of her heart, her face turned livid under its rouge. “Dead?” she said again, and behind her, Rotherby echoed the dread word in a stupor almost equal to her own. Her lips moved to speak, but no words came. She staggered where she stood, and put her hand to her brow. Her son's arms were quickly about her. He supported her to a chair, where she sank as if all her joints were loosened.
Sir James flew for restoratives; bathed her brow with a dampened handkerchief; held strong salts to her nostrils, and murmured words of foolish, banal consolation, whilst Rotherby, in a half-dreaming condition, stunned by the suddenness of the blow, stood beside her, mechanically lending his assistance and supporting her.
Gradually she mastered her agitation. It was odd that she should feel so much at losing what she valued so little. Leastways, it would have been odd, had it been that. It was not—it was something more. In the awful, august presence of death, stepped so suddenly into their midst, she felt herself appalled.
For nigh upon thirty years she had been bound by legal and churchly ties in a loveless union with Lord Ostermore—married for the handsome portion that had been hers, a portion which he had gamed away and squandered until, for their station, their circumstances were now absolutely straitened. They had led a harsh, discordant life, and the coming of a son, which should have bridged the loveless gulf between them, seemed but to have served to dig it wider. And the son had been just the harsh, unfeeling offspring that might be looked for from such a union. Thirty years of slavery had been her ladyship's, and in those thirty years her nature had been soured and warped, and what inherent sweetness it may once have known had long since been smothered and destroyed. She had no cause to love that man who had never loved her, never loved aught of hers beyond her jointure. And yet, there was the habit of thirty years. For thirty years they had been yoke-fellows, however detestable the yoke. But yesterday he had been alive and strong, a stupid, querulous thing maybe, but a living. And now he was so much carrion that should be given to the earth. In some such channel ran her ladyship's reflections during those few seconds in which she was recovering. For an instant she was softened. The long-since dried-up springs of tenderness seemed like to push anew under the shock of this event. She put out a hand to take her son's.
“Charles!” she said, and surprised him by the tender note.
A moment thus; then she was herself again. “How did he die?” she asked the doctor; and the abruptness of the resumption of her usual manner startled Sir James more than aught in his experience of such scenes.
“It was most sudden, madam,” answered he. “I had the best grounds for hope. I was being persuaded we should save him. And then, quite suddenly, without an instant's warning, he succumbed. He just heaved a sigh, and was gone. I could scarcely believe my senses, madam.”
He would have added more particulars of his feelings and emotions—for he was of those who believe that their own impressions of a phenomenon are that phenomenon's most interesting manifestations—but her ladyship waved him peremptorily into silence.
He drew back, washing his hands in the air, an expression of polite concern upon his face. “Is there aught else I can do to be of service to your ladyship?” he inquired, solicitous.
“What else?” she asked, with a fuller return to her old self. “Ye've killed him. What more is there you can do?”
“Oh, madam—nay, madam! I am most deeply grieved that my—my—”
“His lordship will wait upon you to the door,” said she, designating her son.
The eminent physician effaced himself from her ladyship's attention. It was his boast that he could take a hint when one was given him; and so he could, provided it were broad enough, as in the present instance.
He gathered up his hat and gold-headed cane—the unfailing insignia of his order—and was gone, swiftly and silently.
Rotherby closed the door after him, and returned slowly, head bowed, to the window where his mother was still seated. They looked at each other gravely for a long moment.
“This makes matters easier for you,” she said at length.
“Much easier. It does not matter now how far his complicity may be betrayed by his papers. I am glad, madam, to see you so far recovered from your weakness.”
She shivered, as much perhaps at his tone as at the recollections he evoked. “You are very indifferent, Charles,” said she.
He looked at her steadily, then slightly shrugged. “What need to wear a mask? Bah! Did he ever give me cause to feel for him?” he asked. “Mother, if one day I have a son of my own, I shall see to it that he loves me.”
“You will be hard put to it, with your nature, Charles,” she told him critically. Then she rose. “Will you go to him with me?” she asked.
He made as if to acquiesce, then halted. “No,” he said, and there was repugnance in his tone and face. “Not—not now.”
There came a knocking at the door, rapid, insistent. Grateful for the interruption, Rotherby went to open.
Mr. Green staggered forward with swollen eyes, his face inflamed with rage, and with something else that was not quite apparent to Rotherby.
“My lord!” he cried in a loud, angry voice.
Rotherby caught his wrist and checked him. “Sh! sir,” he said gravely. “Not here.” And he pushed him out again, her ladyship following them.
It was in the gallery—above the hall, in which the servants still stood idly about—that Mr. Green spattered out his wrathful tale of what had befallen in the library.
Rotherby shook him as if he had been a rat. “You cursed fool!” he cried. “You left him there—at the desk?”
“What help had I?” demanded Green with spirit. “My eyes were on fire. I couldn't see, and the pain of them made me helpless.”
“Then why did ye not send word to me at once, you fool?”
“Because I was concerned only to stop my eyes from burning,” answered Mr. Green, in a towering rage at finding reproof where he had come in quest of sympathy. “I have come to you at the first moment, damn you!” he burst out, in full rebellion. “And you'll use me civilly now that I am come, or—ecod!—it'll be the worse for your lordship.”
Rotherby considered him through a faint mist that rage had set before his eyes. To be so spoken to—damned indeed!—by a dirty spy! Had he been alone with the man, there can be little doubt but that he would have jeopardized his very precarious future by kicking Mr. Green downstairs. But his mother saved him from that rashness. It may be that she saw something of his anger in his kindling eye, and thought it well to intervene.
She set a hand on his sleeve. “Charles!” she said to him in a voice that was dead cold with warning.
He responded to it, and chose discretion. He looked Green over, nevertheless. “I vow I'm very patient with you,” said he, and Green had the discretion on his side to hold his tongue. “Come, man, while we stand talking here that knave may be destroying precious evidence.”
And his lordship went quickly down the stairs, Mr. Green following hard upon his heels, and her ladyship bringing up the rear.
At the door of the library Rotherby came to a halt, and turned the handle. The door was locked. He beckoned a couple of footmen across the hall, and bade them break it open.