Read Online Lord Tony's Wife by Emmuska Orczy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emmuska Orczy
Ads: Link
hold my right hand into those flames until it hath burned to a cinder than to forgo the hope of that vengeance which has eaten into my soul. It would hurt much less.’
He had spoken thus at great length, but with extraordinary restraint. Never once did he raise his voice or indulge in gesture. He spoke in even, monotonous tones, like one who is reciting a lesson; and he sat straight in front of the fire, his elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his hand and his eyes fixed upon the flames.
Chauvelin had listened in perfect silence. The scorn, the resentful anger, the ill-concealed envy of the fallen man for the successful upstart had died out of his glance. Martin-Roget’s story, the intensity of feeling betrayed in that absolute, outward clam had caused a chord of sympathy to vibrate in the other’s atrophied heart. How well he understood that vibrant passion of hate, that longing to exact an eye for an eye, an outrage for an outrage! Was not his own life given over now to just such a longing?—a mad aching desire to be even once with that hated enemy, that maddening, mocking, elusive Scarlet Pimpernel who had fooled and baffled him so often?
VI
Some few moments had gone by since Martin-Roget’s harsh, monotonous voice had ceased to echo through the low raftered room: silence had fallen between the two men–there was indeed nothing more to say; the one had unburthened his overfull heart and the other had understood. They were of a truth made to understand one another, and the silence between them betokened sympathy.
Around them all was still, the stillness of a mist-laden night; in the house no one stirred: the shutter even had ceased to creak; only the crackling of the wood fire broke that silence which soon became oppressive.
Martin-Roget was the first to rouse himself from this trance-like state wherein memory was holding such ruthless sway: he brought his hands sharply down on his knees, turned to look for a moment on his companion, gave a short laugh and finally rose, saying briskly the while:
‘And now, citizen, I shall have to bid you adieu and make my way back to Bath. The nags have had the rest they needed and I cannot spend the night here.’
He went to the door and opening it called a loud ‘Hallo, there!’
The same woman who had waited on him on his arrival came slowly down the stairs in response.
‘The man with the horses,’ commanded Martin-Roget peremptorily. ‘Tell him I’ll be ready in two minutes.’
He returned to the room and proceeded to struggle into his heavy coat, Chauvelin as before making no attempt to help him. He sat once more huddled up in the ingle-nook hugging his elbows with his thin white hands. There was a smile half scornful, but not wholly dissatisfied around his bloodless lips. When Martin-Roget was ready to go he called out quietly after him:
‘The Hollandia remember! At Portishead on the last day of the month. Captain K U Y P E R.’
‘Quite right,’ replied Martin-Roget laconically. ‘I’m not like to forget.’
He then picked up his hat and riding whip and went out.
VII
Outside in the porch he found the woman bending over the recumbent figure of his guide.
‘He be azleep, Mounzeer,’ she said placidly, ‘fast azleep, I do believe.’
‘Asleep?’ cried Martin-Roget roughly, ‘we’ll soon see about waking him up.’
He gave the man a violent kick with the toe of his boot. The man groaned, stretched himself, turned over and rubbed his eyes. The light of the swinging lanthorn showed him the wrathful face of his employer. He struggled to his feet very quickly after that.
‘Stir yourself, man,’ cried Martin-Roget savagely, as he gripped the fellow by the shoulder and gave him a vigorous shaking. ‘Bring the horse along now, and don’t keep me waiting, or there’ll be trouble.’
‘All right, Mounzeer, all right,’ muttered the man placidly, as he shook himself free from the uncomfortable clutch on his shoulder and leisurely made his way
He had spoken thus at great length, but with extraordinary restraint. Never once did he raise his voice or indulge in gesture. He spoke in even, monotonous tones, like one who is reciting a lesson; and he sat straight in front of the fire, his elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his hand and his eyes fixed upon the flames.
Chauvelin had listened in perfect silence. The scorn, the resentful anger, the ill-concealed envy of the fallen man for the successful upstart had died out of his glance. Martin-Roget’s story, the intensity of feeling betrayed in that absolute, outward clam had caused a chord of sympathy to vibrate in the other’s atrophied heart. How well he understood that vibrant passion of hate, that longing to exact an eye for an eye, an outrage for an outrage! Was not his own life given over now to just such a longing?—a mad aching desire to be even once with that hated enemy, that maddening, mocking, elusive Scarlet Pimpernel who had fooled and baffled him so often?
VI
Some few moments had gone by since Martin-Roget’s harsh, monotonous voice had ceased to echo through the low raftered room: silence had fallen between the two men–there was indeed nothing more to say; the one had unburthened his overfull heart and the other had understood. They were of a truth made to understand one another, and the silence between them betokened sympathy.
Around them all was still, the stillness of a mist-laden night; in the house no one stirred: the shutter even had ceased to creak; only the crackling of the wood fire broke that silence which soon became oppressive.
Martin-Roget was the first to rouse himself from this trance-like state wherein memory was holding such ruthless sway: he brought his hands sharply down on his knees, turned to look for a moment on his companion, gave a short laugh and finally rose, saying briskly the while:
‘And now, citizen, I shall have to bid you adieu and make my way back to Bath. The nags have had the rest they needed and I cannot spend the night here.’
He went to the door and opening it called a loud ‘Hallo, there!’
The same woman who had waited on him on his arrival came slowly down the stairs in response.
‘The man with the horses,’ commanded Martin-Roget peremptorily. ‘Tell him I’ll be ready in two minutes.’
He returned to the room and proceeded to struggle into his heavy coat, Chauvelin as before making no attempt to help him. He sat once more huddled up in the ingle-nook hugging his elbows with his thin white hands. There was a smile half scornful, but not wholly dissatisfied around his bloodless lips. When Martin-Roget was ready to go he called out quietly after him:
‘The Hollandia remember! At Portishead on the last day of the month. Captain K U Y P E R.’
‘Quite right,’ replied Martin-Roget laconically. ‘I’m not like to forget.’
He then picked up his hat and riding whip and went out.
VII
Outside in the porch he found the woman bending over the recumbent figure of his guide.
‘He be azleep, Mounzeer,’ she said placidly, ‘fast azleep, I do believe.’
‘Asleep?’ cried Martin-Roget roughly, ‘we’ll soon see about waking him up.’
He gave the man a violent kick with the toe of his boot. The man groaned, stretched himself, turned over and rubbed his eyes. The light of the swinging lanthorn showed him the wrathful face of his employer. He struggled to his feet very quickly after that.
‘Stir yourself, man,’ cried Martin-Roget savagely, as he gripped the fellow by the shoulder and gave him a vigorous shaking. ‘Bring the horse along now, and don’t keep me waiting, or there’ll be trouble.’
‘All right, Mounzeer, all right,’ muttered the man placidly, as he shook himself free from the uncomfortable clutch on his shoulder and leisurely made his way
Similar Books
