The Lion's Skin. Rafael Sabatini

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      “Hoity-toity!” quoth his lordship, between petulance and simulated amusement. “What's all the pother? Hortensia, dear—”

      “I'll not be married!” she repeated firmly, her wide brown eyes meeting his in absolute defiance, head thrown back, face pale but fearless.

      “I don't believe,” ventured Mr. Caryll, “that you could be if you desired it. Leastways not here and now and by this.” And he jerked a contemptuous thumb sideways at Mr. Jenkins, toward whom he had turned his shoulder. “Perhaps you have realized it for yourself.”

      A shudder ran through her; color flooded into her face and out again, leaving it paler than before; yet she maintained a brave front that moved Mr. Caryll profoundly to an even greater admiration of her.

      Rotherby, his great jaw set, his hands clenched and eyes blazing, stood irresolute between her and Mr. Caryll. Jenkins, in sheer terror, now sank limply to a chair, whilst Gaskell looked on—a perfect servant—as immovable outwardly and unconcerned as if he had been a piece of furniture. Then his lordship turned again to Caryll.

      “You take a deal upon yourself, sir,” said he menacingly.

      “A deal of what?” wondered Mr. Caryll blandly.

      The question nonplussed Rotherby. He swore ferociously. “By God!” he fumed, “I'll have you make good your insinuations. You shall disabuse this lady's mind. You shall—damn you!—or I'll compel you!”

      Mr. Caryll smiled very engagingly. The matter was speeding excellently—a comedy the like of which he did not remember to have played a part in since his student days at Oxford, ten years and more ago.

      “I had thought,” said he, “that the woman who summoned me to be a witness of this—this—ah wedding”—there was a whole volume of criticism in his utterance of the word—“was the landlady of the 'Adam and Eve.' I begin to think that she was this lady's good angel; Fate, clothed, for once, matronly and benign.” Then he dropped the easy, bantering manner with a suddenness that was startling. Gallic fire blazed up through British training. “Let us speak plainly, my Lord Rotherby. This marriage is no marriage. It is a mockery and a villainy. And that scoundrel—worthy servant of his master—is no parson; no, not so much as a hedge-parson is he. Madame,” he proceeded, turning now to the frightened lady, “you have been grossly abused by these villains.”

      “Sir!” blazed Rotherby at last, breaking in upon his denunciation, hand clapped to sword. “Do ye dare use such words to me?”

      Mr. Jenkins got to his feet, in a slow, foolish fashion. He put out a hand to stay his lordship. The lady, in the background, looked on with wide eyes, very breathless, one hand to her bosom as if to control its heave.

      Mr. Caryll proceeded, undismayed, to make good his accusation. He had dropped back into his slightly listless air of thinly veiled persiflage, and he appeared to address the lady, to explain the situation to her, rather than to justify the charge he had made.

      “A blind man could have perceived, from the rustling of his prayer book when he fumbled at it, that the contents were strange to him. And observe the volume,” he continued, picking it up and flaunting it aloft. “Fire-new; not a thumbmark anywhere; purchased expressly for this foul venture. Is there aught else so clean and fresh about the scurvy thief?”

      “You shall moderate your tones, sir—” began his lordship in a snarl.

      “He sets you each on the wrong side of him,” continued Mr. Caryll, all imperturbable, “lacking even the sense to read the directions which the book contains, and he has no thought for the circumstance that the time of day is uncanonical. Is more needed, madame?”

      “So much was not needed,” said she, “though I am your debtor, sir.”

      Her voice was marvelously steady, ice-cold with scorn, a royal anger increasing the glory of her eyes.

      Rotherby's hand fell away from his sword. He realized that bluster was not the most convenient weapon here. He addressed Mr. Caryll very haughtily. “You are from France, sir, and something may be excused you. But not quite all. You have used expressions that are not to be offered to a person of my quality. I fear you scarcely apprehend it.”

      “As well, no doubt, as those who avoid you, sir,” answered Mr. Caryll, with cool contempt, his dislike of the man and of the business in which he had found him engaged mounting above every other consideration.

      His lordship frowned inquiry. “And who may those be?”

      “Most decent folk, I should conceive, if this be an example of your ways.”

      “By God, sir! You are a thought too pert. We'll mend that presently. I will first convince you of your error, and you, Hortensia.”

      “It will be interesting,” said Mr. Caryll, and meant it.

      Rotherby turned from him, keeping a tight rein upon his anger; and so much restraint in so tempestuous a man was little short of wonderful. “Hortensia,” he said, “this is fool's talk. What object could I seek to serve?” She drew back another step, contempt and loathing in her face. “This man,” he continued, flinging a hand toward Jenkins, and checked upon the word. He swung round upon the fellow. “Have you fooled me, knave?” he bawled. “Is it true what this man says of you—that ye're no parson at all?”

      Jenkins quailed and shriveled. Here was a move for which he was all unprepared, and knew not how to play to it. On the bridegroom's part it was excellently acted; yet it came too late to be convincing.

      “You'll have the license in your pocket, no doubt, my lord,” put in Mr. Caryll. “It will help to convince the lady of the honesty of your intentions. It will show her that ye were abused by this thief for the sake of the guinea ye were to pay him.”

      That was checkmate, and Lord Rotherby realized it. There remained him nothing but violence, and in violence he was exceedingly at home—being a member of the Hell Fire Club and having served in the Bold Bucks under his Grace of Wharton.

      “You damned, infernal marplot! You blasted meddler!” he swore, and some other things besides, froth on his lips, the veins of his brow congested. “What affair was this of yours?”

      “I thought you desired me for a witness,” Mr. Caryll reminded him.

      “I did, let me perish!” said Rotherby. “And I wish to the devil I had bit my tongue out first.”

      “The loss to eloquence had been irreparable,” sighed Mr. Caryll, his eyes upon a beam of the ceiling.

      Rotherby stared and choked. “Is there no sense in you, you gibbering parrot?” he inquired. “What are you—an actor or a fool?”

      “A gentleman, I hope,” said Mr. Caryll urbanely. “What are you?”

      “I'll learn you,” said his lordship, and plucked at his sword.

      “I see,” said Mr. Caryll in the same quiet voice that thinly veiled his inward laughter—“a bully!”

      With more oaths, my lord heaved himself forward. Mr. Caryll was without weapons. He had left his sword above-stairs, not deeming that he would be needing it at a wedding. He never moved hand СКАЧАТЬ