"I cannot imagine Jimmy Spence a traitor. If it were only the book,
that could be, I think, easily explained, for I sent him all my notes
of travel and materials; but I cannot understand him taking the medals
or degrees."
The girl made a quick gesture of impatience.
"Such things," she said, "cannot be explained. You must confront him
and expose him."
"No," said Ormond, "I shall not confront him. I must think over the
matter for a time. I am not quick at thinking, at least just now, in
the face of this difficulty. Everything seemed plain and simple before,
but if Jimmy Spence has stepped into my shoes, he is welcome to them.
Ever since I came out of Africa I seem to have lost all ambition.
Nothing appears to be worth while now."
"Oh!" cried the girl, "that is because you are in ill-health. You will
be yourself again when you reach England. Don't let this trouble you
now--there is plenty of time to think it all out before we arrive. I am
sorry I spoke about it; but, you see, I was taken by surprise when you
mentioned your name."
"I am very glad you spoke to me," said Ormond, in a more cheerful
voice. "The mere fact that you have talked with me has encouraged me
wonderfully. I cannot tell how much this conversation has been to me. I
am a lone man, with only one friend in the world--I am afraid I must
add now, without even one friend in the world. I am grateful for your
interest in me, even though it was only compassion for a wreck--for a
derelict, floating about on the sea of life."
There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she did not speak for a
moment, then she laid her hand softly on Ormond's arm, and said, "You
are not a wreck, far from it. You sit alone too much, and I am afraid
that what I have thoughtlessly said has added to your troubles." The
girl paused in her talk, but after a moment added--
"Don't you think you could walk the deck for a little?"
"I don't know about walking," said Ormond, with a little laugh, "but
I'll come with you if you don't mind an encumbrance."
He rose somewhat unsteadily, and she took his arm.
"You must look upon me as your physician," she said cheerfully, "and I
shall insist that my orders are obeyed."
"I shall be delighted to be under your charge," said Ormond, "but may I
not know my physician's name?"
The girl blushed deeply when she realised that she had had such a long
conversation with one to whom she had never been introduced. She had
regarded him as an invalid, who needed a few words of cheerful
encouragement, but as he stood up she saw that he was much younger than
his face and appearance had led her to suppose.
"My name is Mary Radford," she said.
"_Miss_ Mary Radford?" inquired Ormond.
"Miss Mary Radford."
That walk on the deck was the first of many, and it soon became evident
to Ormond that he was rapidly becoming his old self again. If he had
lost a friend in England, he had certainly found another on board ship
to whom he was getting more and more attached as time went on. The only
point of disagreement between them was in regard to the confronting of
Jimmy Spence. Ormond was determined in his resolve not to interfere
with Jimmy and his ill-gotten fame.
As the voyage was nearing its end, Ormond and Miss Radford stood
together leaning over the rail conversing quietly. They had become very
great friends indeed.
"But if you will not expose this man," said Miss Radford, "what then is
your purpose when you land? Are you going back to the stage again?"
"I don't think so," replied Ormond. "I shall try to get something to do
and live quietly for awhile."
"Oh!" cried the girl, "I have no patience with you."
"I am sorry for that, Mary," said Ormond, "for, if I can make a living,
I intend asking you to be my wife."
"Oh!" cried the girl breathlessly, turning her head away.
"Do you think I would have any chance?" asked Ormond.
"Of making a living?" inquired the girl, after a moment's silence.
"No. I am sure of making a living, for I have always done so; therefore
answer my question. Mary, do you think I would have any chance?" and he
placed his hand softly over hers, which lay on the ship's rail. The
girl did not answer, but she did not withdraw her hand; she gazed down
at the bright green water with its tinge of foam.
"I suppose you know," she said at length, "that you have every chance,
and you are merely pretending ignorance to make it easier for me,
because I have simply flung myself at your head ever since we began the
voyage."
"I am not pretending, Mary," he said. "What I feared was that your
interest was only that of a nurse in a somewhat backward patient. I was
afraid I had your sympathy, but not your love. Perhaps such was the
case at first."
"Perhaps such was the case--at first, but it is far from being the
truth now--Sidney."
The young man made a motion to approach nearer to her, but the girl
drew away, whispering--
"There are other people besides ourselves on deck, remember."
"I don't believe it," said Ormond, gazing fondly at her. "I can see no
one but you. I believe we are floating alone on the ocean together, and
that there is no one else in the wide world but our two selves. I
thought I went to Africa for fame, but I see I really went to find you.
What I sought seems poor compared to what I have found."
"Perhaps," said the girl, looking shyly at him, "Fame is waiting as
anxiously for you to woo her as--as another person waited. Fame is a
shameless hussy, you know."
The young man shook his head.
"No. Fame has jilted me once. I won't give her another chance."
So those who were twain sailed gently into Southampton Docks, resolved
to be one when the gods were willing.
Mary Radford's people were there to meet her, and Ormond went up to
London alone, beginning his short railway journey with a return of the
melancholy that had oppressed him during the first part of his long
voyage. He felt once more alone in the world, now that the bright
presence of his sweetheart was withdrawn, and he was saddened by the
thought that the telegram he had hoped to send to Jimmy Spence,
exultingly announcing his arrival, would never be sent. In a newspaper
he bought at the station, he saw that the African traveller, Sidney
Ormond, was to be received by the Mayor and Corporation of a Midland
town, and presented with the freedom of the city. The traveller was to
lecture on his exploits in the town so honouring him, that day week.
Ormond put down the paper with a sigh, and turned his thoughts to the
girl from whom he had so lately parted. A true sweetheart is a
pleasanter subject for meditation than a false friend.
Mary also saw the announcement in the paper, and anger tightened her
lips and brought additional colour to her cheeks. Seeing how averse her
lover was to taking any action against his former friend, she had
ceased to urge him, but she had quietly made up her own mind to be
herself the goddess of the machine.
On the night the bogus African traveller was to lecture in the Midland
town, Mary Radford was a unit in the very large audience that greeted
him. When he came on the platform she was so amazed at his personal
appearance that she cried out, but fortunately her exclamation was lost
in the applause that greeted the lecturer. The man was the exact
duplicate of her betrothed.
She listened to the lecture in a daze; it seemed to her that even the
tones of the lecturer's voice were those of her lover. She paid little
heed to the matter of his discourse, but allowed her mind to dwell more
on the coming interview, wondering what excuses the fraudulent
traveller would make for his perfidy.
When the lecture was over, and the usual vote of thanks had been
tendered and accepted, Mary Radford still sat there while the rest of
the audience slowly filtered out of the large hall. She rose at last,
nerving herself for the coming meeting, and went to the side door,
where she told the man on duty that she wished to see the lecturer. The
man said that it was impossible for Mr. Ormond to see any one at that
moment; there was to be a big supper; he was to meet the Mayor and
Corporation; and so the lecturer had said he could see no one.
"Will you take a note to him if I write it?" asked the girl.
"I will send it in to him; but it's no use, he won't see you. He
refused to see even the reporters," said the door-keeper, as if that
were final, and a man who would deny himself to the reporters would not
admit Royalty itself.
Mary wrote on a slip of paper the words, "The affianced wife of the
real Sidney Ormond would like to see you for a few moments," and this
brief note was taken in to the lecturer.
The door-keeper's faith in the constancy of public men was rudely
shaken a few minutes later, when the messenger returned with orders
that the lady was to be admitted at once.
When Mary entered the green-room of the lecture hall she saw the double
of her lover standing near the fire, her note in his hand and a look of
incredulity on his face.
The girl barely entered the room, and, closing the door, stood with her
back against it. He was the first to speak.
"I thought Sidney had told me everything; I never knew he was
acquainted with a young lady, much less engaged to her."
"You admit, then, that you are not the true Sidney Ormond?"
"I admit it to you, of course, if you were to have been his wife."
"I am to be his wife, I hope."
"But Sidney, poor fellow, is dead; dead in the wilds of Africa."
"You will be shocked to learn that such is not the case, and that your
imposture must come to an end. Perhaps you counted on his friendship
for you, and thought that even if he did return he would not expose
you. In that you were quite right, but you did not count on me. Sidney
Ormond is at this moment in London, Mr. Spence."
Jimmy Spence, paying no attention to the accusations of the girl, gave
a war-whoop which had formerly been so effective in the second act of
"Pocahontas," in which Jimmy had enacted the noble savage, and then he
danced a jig that had done service in _Colleen Bawn_. While the
amazed girl watched these antics, Jimmy suddenly swooped down upon her,
caught her around the waist, and whirled her wildly around the room.
Setting her down in a corner, Jimmy became himself again, and dabbed
his heated brow with his handkerchief carefully, so as not to disturb
the makeup.
"Sidney in England again? That's too good news to be true. Say it
again, my girl, I can hardly believe it. Why didn't he come with you?
Is he ill?"
"He has been very ill."
"Ah, that's it, poor fellow. I knew nothing else would have kept him.
And then when he telegraphed to me at the old address, on landing, of
course, there was no reply, because, you see, I had disappeared. But
Sid wouldn't know anything about that, and so he must be wondering what
has become of me. I'll have a great story to tell him when we meet;
almost as good as his own African experiences. We'll go right up to
London to-night, as soon as this confounded supper is over. And what is
your name, my girl?"
"Mary Radford."
"And you're engaged to old Sid, eh? Well! well! well! well! This is
great news. You mustn't mind my capers, Mary, my dear; you see, I'm the
only friend Sid has, and I'm old enough to be your father. I look young
now, but you wait till the paint comes off. Have you any money? I mean,
to live on when you're married; because I know Sidney never had much."
"I haven't very much either," said Mary, with a sigh.
Jimmy jumped up and paced the room in great glee, laughing and slapping
his thigh.
"That's first rate," he cried. "Why, Mary, I've got over £20,000
in the bank saved up for you two. The book and lectures, you know. I
don't believe Sid himself could have done as well, for he always was
careless with money--he's often lent me the last penny he had, and
never kept any account of it; and I never thought of paying it back,
either, until he was gone, and then it worried me."
The messenger put his head into the room, and said the Mayor and the
Corporation were waiting.
"Oh, hang the Mayor and the Corporation!" cried Jimmy; then, suddenly
recollecting himself, he added, hastily, "No, don't do that. Just give
them Jimmy--I mean Sidney--Ormond's compliments, and tell his Worship
that I have just had some very important news from Africa, but will be
with him directly."
When the messenger was gone Jimmy continued in high feather. "What a
time we shall have in London. We'll all three go to the old familiar
theatre, yes, and by Jove, we'll pay for our seats; _that_ will be
a novelty. Then we will have supper where Sid and I used to eat. Sidney
shall talk, and you and I will listen; then I shall talk, and you and
Sid will listen. You see, my dear, I've been to Africa too. When I got
Sidney's letter saying he was dying I just moped about and was of no
use to anybody. Then I made up my mind what to do. Sid had died for
fame, and it wasn't just he shouldn't get what he paid so dearly for. I
gathered together what money I could and went to Africa, steerage. I
found I couldn't do anything there about searching for Sid, so I
resolved to be his understudy and bring fame to him, if it were
possible. I sank my own identity and made up as Sidney Ormond, took his
boxes and sailed for Southampton. I have been his understudy ever
since, for, after all, I always had a hope he would come back some day,
and then everything would be ready for him to take the principal, and
let the old understudy go back to the boards again and resume competing
with the reputation of Macready. If Sid hadn't come back in another
year, I was going to take a lecturing trip in America, and when that
was done, I intended to set out in great state for Africa, disappear
into the forest as Sidney Ormond, wash the paint off and come out as
Jimmy Spence. Then Sidney Ormond's fame would have been secure, for
they would be always sending out relief expeditions after him and not
finding him, while I would be growing old on the boards and bragging
what a great man my friend, Sidney Ormond, was."
There were tears in the girl's eyes as she rose and took Jimmy's hand.
"No man has ever been so true a friend to his friend as you have been,"
she said.
"Oh, bless you, yes," cried Jimmy, jauntily. "Sid would have done the
same for me. But he is luckier in having you than in having his friend,
although I don't deny I've been a good friend to him. Yes, my dear, he
is lucky in having a plucky girl like you. I missed that somehow when I
was young, having my head full of Macready nonsense, and I missed being
a Macready too. I've always been a sort of understudy, so you see the
part comes easy to me. Now I must be off to that confounded Mayor and
Corporation, I had almost forgotten them, but I must keep up the
character for Sidney's sake. But this is the last act, my dear. To-
morrow I'll turn over the part of explorer to the real actor ... to the
star."
"OUT OF THUN."