The Snare. Rafael Sabatini
masculine men for just such fragile and excessively feminine women, afforded this confirmation with all the enthusiasm of sincere conviction.
Thus until Mullins broke in upon them with the announcement of a visit from Count Samoval, an announcement more welcome to Lady O’Moy than to either of her companions.
The Portuguese nobleman was introduced. He had attained to a degree of familiarity in the adjutant’s household that permitted of his being received without ceremony there at that breakfast-table spread in the open. He was a slender, handsome, swarthy man of thirty, scrupulously dressed, as graceful and elegant in his movements as a fencing master, which indeed he might have been; for his skill with the foils was a matter of pride to himself and notoriety to all the world. Nor was it by any means the only skill he might have boasted, for Jeronymo de Samoval was in many things, a very subtle, supple gentleman. His friendship with the O’Moys, now some three months old, had been considerably strengthened of late by the fact that he had unexpectedly become one of the most hostile critics of the Council of Regency as lately constituted, and one of the most ardent supporters of the Wellingtonian policy.
He bowed with supremest grace to the ladies, ventured to kiss the fair, smooth hand of his hostess, undeterred by the frosty stare of O’Moy’s blue eyes whose approval of all men was in inverse proportion to their approval of his wife—and finally proffered her the armful of early roses that he brought.
“These poor roses of Portugal to their sister from England,” said his softly caressing tenor voice.
“Ye’re a poet,” said O’Moy tartly.
“Having found Castalia here,” said, the Count, “shall I not drink its limpid waters?”
“Not, I hope, while there’s an agreeable vintage of Port on the table. A morning whet, Samoval?” O’Moy invited him, taking up the decanter.
“Two fingers, then—no more. It is not my custom in the morning. But here—to drink your lady’s health, and yours, Miss Armytage.” With a graceful flourish of his glass he pledged them both and sipped delicately, then took the chair that O’Moy was proffering.
“Good news, I hear, General. Antonio de Souza’s removal from the Government is already bearing fruit. The mills in the valley of the Mondego are being effectively destroyed at last.”
“Ye’re very well informed,” grunted O’Moy, who himself had but received the news. “As well informed, indeed, as I am myself.” There was a note almost of suspicion in the words, and he was vexed that matters which it was desirable be kept screened as much as possible from general knowledge should so soon be put abroad.
“Naturally, and with reason,” was the answer, delivered with a rueful smile. “Am I not interested? Is not some of my property in question?” Samoval sighed. “But I bow to the necessities of war. At least it cannot be said of me, as was said of those whose interests Souza represented, that I put private considerations above public duty—that is the phrase, I think. The individual must suffer that the nation may triumph. A Roman maxim, my dear General.”
“And a British one,” said O’Moy, to whom Britain was a second Rome.
“Oh, admitted,” replied the amiable Samoval. “You proved it by your uncompromising firmness in the affair of Tavora.”
“What was that?” inquired Miss Armytage.
“Have you not heard?” cried Samoval in astonishment.
“Of course not,” snapped O’Moy, who had broken into a cold perspiration. “Hardly a subject for the ladies, Count.”
Rebuked for his intention, Samoval submitted instantly.
“Perhaps not; perhaps not,” he agreed, as if dismissing it, whereupon O’Moy recovered from his momentary breathlessness. “But in your own interests, my dear General, I trust there will be no weakening when this Lieutenant Butler is caught, and—”
“Who?”
Sharp and stridently came that single word from her ladyship.
Desperately O’Moy sought to defend the breach.
“Nothing to do with Dick, my dear. A fellow named Philip Butler, who—”
But the too-well-informed Samoval corrected him. “Not Philip, General—Richard Butler. I had the name but yesterday from Forjas.”
In the scared hush that followed the Count perceived that he had stumbled headlong into a mystery. He saw Lady O’Moy’s face turn whiter and whiter, saw her sapphire eyes dilating as they regarded him.
“Richard Butler!” she echoed. “What of Richard Butler? Tell me. Tell me at once.”
Hesitating before such signs of distress, Samoval looked at O’Moy, to meet a dejected scowl.
Lady O’Moy turned to her husband. “What is it?” she demanded. “You know something about Dick and you are keeping it from me. Dick is in trouble?”
“He is,” O’Moy admitted. “In great trouble.”
“What has he done? You spoke of an affair at Evora or Tavora, which is not to be mentioned before ladies. I demand to know.” Her affection and anxiety for her brother invested her for a moment with a certain dignity, lent her a force that was but rarely displayed by her.
Seeing the men stricken speechless, Samoval from bewildered astonishment, O’Moy from distress, she jumped to the conclusion, after what had been said, that motives of modesty accounted for their silence.
“Leave us, Sylvia, please,” she said. “Forgive me, dear. But you see they will not mention these things while you are present.” She made a piteous little figure as she stood trembling there, her fingers tearing in agitation at one of Samoval’s roses.
She waited until the obedient and discreet Miss Armytage had passed from view into the wing that contained the adjutant’s private quarters, then sinking limp and nerveless to her chair:
“Now,” she bade them, “please tell me.”
And O’Moy, with a sigh of regret for the lie so laboriously concocted which would never now be uttered, delivered himself huskily of the hideous truth.
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