PAGE 8
Actors All
by
She had heard him, with defiant eyes; her head was flung back and she laughed. “You thought I had come to destroy the Jacobite petition! Heavens, what had I to do with all such nonsense? You had promised me Frank’s pardon, and the other men I had never seen. Harkee, my Lord Duke, do all you politicians jump so wildly in your guess work? Did you in truth believe that the poor fool who lies dead below would have entrusted the paper which meant life and wealth to the keeping of a flimsy despatch-box?”
“Indeed, no,” his Grace of Ormskirk replied, and appeared a thought abashed; “I was certain it would be concealed somewhere about his person, and I have already given Benyon orders to search for it. Still, I confess that for the moment your agitation misled me into believing these were the important papers; and I admit, my dear creature, that unless you came hither prompted by a mad design somehow to destroy the incriminating documents and thereby to ensure your lover’s life–why, otherwise, I repeat, I am quite unable to divine your motive.”
She was silent for a while. Presently, “You told me this afternoon,” she began, in a dull voice, “that you anticipated much amusement from your perusal of Mr. Vanringham’s correspondence. All his papers were to be seized, you said; and they all were to be brought to you, you said. And so many love-sick misses write to actors, you said.”
“As I recall the conversation,” his Grace conceded, “that which you have stated is quite true.” He spoke with admirable languor, but his countenance was vaguely troubled.
And now the girl came to him and laid her finger-tips ever so lightly upon his. “Trust me,” she pleaded. “Give me again the trust I have not merited. Ay, in spite of reason, my Lord Duke, restore to me these papers unread, that I may destroy them. For otherwise, I swear to you that without gain to yourself–without gain, O God!–you wreck alike the happiness of an innocent woman and of an honest gentleman. And otherwise–O infatuate!” she wailed, and wrung impotent hands.
But Ormskirk shook his head. “I cannot leap in the dark.”
She found no comfort in his face, and presently lowered her eyes. He remained motionless. The girl went to the farther end of the apartment, and then, her form straightening on a sudden, turned and came back toward him.
“I think God has some grudge against you,” Dorothy said, without any emotion, “and–hardens your heart, as of old He hardened Pharaoh’s heart, to your own destruction. I have done my utmost to save you. My woman’s modesty I have put aside, and death and worse than death I have dared to encounter to-night,–ah, my Lord, I have walked through hell this night for your sake and another’s. And in the end ’tis yourself who rob me of what I had so nearly gained. Beyond doubt God has some grudge against you. Take your fate, then.”
“Integer vitæ–” said the Duke of Ormskirk; and with more acerbity, “Go on!” For momentarily she had paused.
“The man who lies dead below was loved by many women. God pity them! But women are not sensible like men, you know. And always the footlights made a halo about him; and when you saw him as Castalio or Romeo, all beauty and love and vigor and nobility, how was a woman to understand his splendor was a sham, taken off with his wig, removed with his pinchbeck jewelry, and as false? No, they thought it native, poor wretches. Yet one of them at least, my Lord–a young girl–found out her error before it was too late. The man was a villain through and through. God grant he sups in hell to-night!”
“Go on,” said Ormskirk. But by this time he knew all that she had to tell.
“Afterward he demanded money of her. He had letters, you understand–mad, foolish letters,–and these he offered to sell back to her at his own price. And their publicity meant ruin. And, my Lord, we had so nearly saved the money–pinching day by day, a little by a little, for his price was very high, and it was necessary the sum be got in secrecy,–and that in the end they should be read by you–” Her voice broke.