“But if I do not—what other hopes have I? Damn me! I'm a ruined man either way.”
“Nay, nay,” Mr. Caryll reminded him. “Assuming even that you are correctly informed, and that his Grace of Wharton is determined to move against you, it is not to be depended that he will succeed in collecting such evidence as he must need. At this date much of the evidence that may once have been available will have been dissipated. You are rash to despair so soon.”
“There is that,” his lordship admitted thoughtfully, a little hopefully, even; “there is that.” And with the resilience of his nature—of men who form opinions on slight grounds, and, therefore, are ready to change them upon grounds as slight—“I' faith! I may have been running to meet my trouble. 'Tis but a rumor, after all, that Wharton is for mischief, and—as you say—as like as not there'll be no evidence by now. There was little enough at the time.
“Still, I'll make doubly sure. My letter to King James can do no harm. We'll talk of it again, when you are in case to travel.”
It passed through Mr. Caryll's mind at the moment that Lady Ostermore and her son might between them brew such mischief as might seriously hinder him from travelling, and he was very near the truth. For already her ladyship was closeted with Rotherby in her boudoir.
The viscount was dressed for travelling, intent upon withdrawing to the country, for he was well-informed already of the feeling of the town concerning him, and had no mind to brave the slights and cold-shoulderings that would await him did he penetrate to any of the haunts of people of quality and fashion. He stood before his mother now, a tall, lank figure, his black face very gloomy, his sensual lips thrust forward in a sullen pout. She, in a gilt arm-chair before her toilet-table, was telling him the story of what had passed, his father's fear of ruin and disgrace. He swore between his teeth when he heard that the danger threatened from the Duke of Wharton.
“And your father's destitution means our destitution—yours and mine; for his gambling schemes have consumed my portion long since.”
He laughed and shrugged. “I marvel I should concern myself,” said he. “What can it avail me to save the rags that are left him of his fortune? He's sworn I shall never touch a penny that he may die possessed of.”
“But there's the entail,” she reminded him. “If restitution is demanded, the Crown will not respect it. 'Twill be another sop to throw the whining curs that were crippled by the bubble, and who threaten to disturb the country if they are not appeased. If Wharton carries out this exposure, we're beggars—utter beggars, that may ask an alms to quiet hunger.”
“'Tis Wharton's present hate of me,” said he thoughtfully, and swore. “The damned puppy! He'd make a sacrifice of me upon the altar of respectability, just as he made a sacrifice of the South Sea bubblers. What else was the stinking rakehell seeking but to put himself right again in the eyes of a town that was nauseated with him and his excesses? The self-seeking toad that makes virtue his profession—the virtue of others—and profligacy his recreation!” He smote fist into palm. “There's a way to silence him.”