The Lion's Skin

  CHAPTER VII. FATHER AND SON

  Mr. Caryll stayed to dine at Stretton House. Although they had journeyedbut from Croydon that morning, he would have preferred to have gonefirst to his lodging to have made--fastidious as he was--a suitablechange in his apparel. But the urgency that his task dictated caused himto waive the point.

  He had a half-hour or so to himself after the stormy scene with herladyship, in which he had played again--though in a lesser degree--thepart of savior to Mistress Winthrop, a matter for which the lady hadrewarded him, ere withdrawing, with a friendly smile, which caused himto think her disposed to forgive him his yesternight's folly.

  In that half-hour he gave himself again very seriously to thecontemplation of his position. He had no illusions on the score of LordOstermore, and he rated his father no higher than he deserved. But hewas just and shrewd in his judgment, and he was forced to confess thathe had found this father of his vastly different from the man he hadbeen led to expect. He had looked to find a debauched old rake, a vilecreature steeped in vice and wickedness. Instead, he found a weak,easy-natured, commonplace fellow, whose worst sin seemed to bethe selfishness that is usually inseparable from those othercharacteristics. If Ostermore was not a man of the type that inspiresstrong affection, neither was he of the type that provokes strongdislike. His colorless nature left one indifferent to him.

  Mr. Caryll, somewhat to his dismay, found himself inclined to extendthe man some sympathy; caught himself upon the verge of pitying him forbeing burdened with so very unfilial a son and so very cursed a wife. Itwas one of his cherished beliefs that the evil that men do has a trickof finding them out in this life, and here, he believed, as shrew-riddenhusband and despised father, the Earl of Ostermore was being made toexpiate that sin of his early years.

  Another of Mr. Caryll's philosophies was that, when all is said, man islittle of a free agent. His viciousness or sanctity is temperamental;and not the man, but his nature--which is not self-imbued--must bear theresponsibility of a man's deeds, be they good or bad.

  In the abstract such beliefs are well enough; they are excellentstandards by which to judge where other sufferers than ourselves areconcerned. But when we ourselves are touched, they are discounted by themeasure in which a man's deeds or misdeeds may affect us. And althoughto an extent this might be the case now with Mr. Caryll, yet, in spiteof it, he found himself excusing his father on the score of the man'sweakness and stupidity, until he caught himself up with the reflectionthat this was a disloyalty to Everard, to his training, and to hismother. And yet--he reverted--in such a man as Ostermore, sheerstupidity, a lack of imagination, of insight into things as they reallyare, a lack of feeling that would disable him from appreciating theextent of any wrong he did, seemed to Mr. Caryll to be extenuatingcircumstances.

  He conceived that he was amazingly dispassionate in his judgment, andhe wondered was he right or wrong so to be. Then the thought of histask arose in his mind, and it bathed him in a sweat of horror. Over inFrance he had allowed himself to be persuaded, and had pledged himselfto do this thing. Everard, the relentless, unforgiving fanatic ofvengeance, had--as we have seen--trained him to believe that theavenging of his mother's wrongs was the only thing that could justifyhis own existence. Besides, it had all seemed remote then, and easy asremote things are apt to seem. But now--now that he had met in the fleshthis man who was his father--his hesitation was turned to very horror.It was not that he did not conceive, in spite of his odd ideas upontemperament and its responsibilities, that his mother's' wrongs criedout for vengeance, and that the avenging of them would be a righteous,fitting deed; but it was that he conceived that his own was not the handto do the work of the executioner upon one who--after all--was still hisown father. It was hideously unnatural.

  He sat in the library, awaiting his lordship and the announcement ofdinner. There was a book before him; but his eyes were upon the window,the smooth lawns beyond, all drenched in summer sunshine, and histhoughts were introspective. He looked into his shuddering soul, and sawthat he could not--that he would not--do the thing which he was come todo. He would await the coming of Everard, to tell him so. There wouldbe a storm to face, he knew. But sooner that than carry this vile thingthrough. It was vile--most damnably vile--he now opined.

  The decision taken, he rose and crossed to the window. His mind had beenin travail; his soul had known the pangs of labor. But now that thisstrong resolve had been brought forth, an ease and peace were his thatseemed to prove to him how right he was, how wrong must aught else havebeen.

  Lord Ostermore came in. He announced that they would be dining alonetogether. "Her ladyship," he explained, "has gone forth in person toseek Lord Rotherby. She believes that she knows where to find him--insome disreputable haunt, no doubt, whither her ladyship would havebeen better advised to have sent a servant. But women are waywardcattle--wayward, headstrong cattle! Have you not found them so, Mr.Caryll?"

  "I have found that the opinion is common to most husbands," said Mr.Caryll, then added a question touching Mistress Winthrop, and wonderedwould she not be joining them at table.

  "The poor child keeps her chamber," said the earl. "She isoverwrought--overwrought! I am afraid her ladyship--" He broke offabruptly, and coughed. "She is overwrought," he repeated in conclusion."So that we dine alone."

  And alone they dined. Ostermore, despite the havoc suffered by hisfortunes, kept an excellent table and a clever cook, and Mr. Caryll wasglad to discover in his sire this one commendable trait.

  The conversation was desultory throughout the repast; but when the clothwas raised and the table cleared of all but the dishes of fruit andthe decanters of Oporto, Canary and Madeira, there came a moment ofexpansion.

  Mr. Caryll was leaning back in his chair, fingering the stem of hiswine-glass, watching the play of sunlight through the ruddy amber of thewine, and considering the extraordinarily odd position of a man sittingat table, by the merest chance, almost, with a father who was not awarethat he had begotten him. A question from his lordship came to stir himpartially from the reverie into which he was beginning to lapse.

  "Do you look to make a long sojourn in England, Mr. Caryll?"

  "It will depend," was the vague and half-unconscious answer, "upon thesuccess of the matter I am come to transact."

  There ensued a brief pause, during which Mr. Caryll fell again into hisabstraction.

  "Where do you dwell when in France, sir?" inquired my lord, as if tomake polite conversation.

  Mr. Caryll lulled by his musings into carelessness, answered truthfully,"At Maligny, in Normandy."

  The next moment there was a tinkle of breaking glass, and Mr. Caryllrealized his indiscretion and turned cold.

  Lord Ostermore, who had been in the act of raising his glass, fetchedit down again so suddenly that the stem broke in his fingers, and themahogany was flooded with the liquor. A servant hastened forward, andset a fresh glass for his lordship. That done, Ostermore signed to theman to withdraw. The fellow went, closing the door, and leaving thosetwo alone.

  The pause had been sufficient to enable Mr. Caryll to recover, and forall that his pulses throbbed more quickly than their habit, outwardly hemaintained his lazily indifferent pose, as if entirely unconscious thatwhat he had said had occasioned his father the least disturbance.

  "You--you dwelt at Maligny?" said his lordship, the usual high color allvanished from his face. And again: "You dwelt at Maligny, and--and--yourname is Caryll."

  Mr. Caryll looked up quickly, as if suddenly aware that his lordship wasexpressing surprise. "Why, yes," said he. "What is there odd in that?"

  "How does it happen that you come to live there? Are you at allconnected with the family of Maligny? On your mother's side, perhaps?"

  Mr. Caryll took up his wine-glass. "I take it," said he easily, "thatthere was some such family at some time. But it is clear it must havefallen upon evil days." He sipped at his wine. "There are none leftnow," he explained, as he set down his glass. "The last of them died,
I believe, in England." His eyes turned full upon the earl, but theirglance seemed entirely idle. "It was in consequence of that that myfather was enabled to purchase the estate."

  Mr. Caryll accounted it no lie that he suppressed the fact that thefather to whom he referred was but his father by adoption.

  Relief spread instantly upon Lord Ostermore's countenance. Clearly,he saw, here was pure coincidence, and nothing more. Indeed, what elseshould there have been? What was it that he had feared? He did not know.Still he accounted it an odd matter, and said so.

  "What is odd?" inquired Mr. Caryll. "Does it happen that your lordshipwas acquainted at any time with that vanished family?"

  "I was, sir--slightly acquainted--at one time with one or two of itsmembers. 'Tis that that is odd. You see, sir, my name, too, happens tobe Caryll."

  "True--yet I see nothing so oddly coincident in the matter, particularlyif your acquaintance with these Malignys was but slight."

  "Indeed, you are right. You are right. There is no such greatcoincidence, when all is said. The name reminded me of a--a folly of myyouth. 'Twas that that made impression."

  "A folly?" quoth Mr. Caryll, his eyebrows raised.

  "Ay, a folly--a folly that went near undoing me, for had it come tomy father's ears, he had broke me without mercy. He was a hard man, myfather; a puritan in his ideas."

  "A greater than your lordship?" inquired Mr. Caryll blandly, masking therage that seethed in him.

  His lordship laughed. "Ye're a wag, Mr. Caryll--a damned wag!" Thenreverting to the matter that was uppermost in his mind. "'Tis a fact,though--'pon honor. My father would ha' broke me. Luckily she died."

  "Who died?" asked Mr. Caryll, with a show of interest.

  "The girl. Did I not tell you there was a girl? 'Twas she was thefolly--Antoinette de Maligny. But she died--most opportunely, egad!'Twas a very damned mercy that she did. It--cut the--the--what d'ye callit--knot?"

  "The Gordian knot?" suggested Mr. Caryll.

  "Ay--the Gordian knot. Had she lived and had my father smoked theaffair--Gad! he would ha' broke me; he would so!" he repeated, andemptied his glass.

  Mr. Caryll, white to the lips, sat very still a moment. Then he did acurious thing; did it with a curious suddenness. He took a knife fromthe table, and hacked off the lowest button from his coat. This hepushed across the board to his father.

  "To turn to other matters," said he; "there is the letter you wereexpecting from abroad."

  "Eh? What?" Lord Ostermore took up the button. It was of silk,interwoven with gold thread. He turned it over in his fingers, lookingat it with a heavy eye, and then at his guest. "Eh? Letter?" hemuttered, puzzled.

  "If your lordship will cut that open, you will see what his majesty hasto propose." He mentioned the king in a voice charged with suggestion,so that no doubt could linger on the score of the king he meant.

  "Gad!" cried his lordship. "Gad! 'Twas thus ye bubbled Mr. Green?Shrewd, on my soul. And you are the messenger, then?"

  "I am the messenger," answered Mr. Caryll coldly.

  "And why did you not say so before?"

  For the fraction of a second Mr. Caryll hesitated. Then: "Because I didnot judge that the time was come," said he.