REVEALS A SECRET
An hour later Vera Langford sat alone in her father’s study.
At first, it is true, the lawyer had made a very stout fight with
Ventris Blake, declaring that no power on earth would compel him to
make himself so ridiculous in the eyes of his colleagues as to attend
the opening of an inquest in the north of Yorkshire; but, suddenly,
the millionaire had bent down and whispered something threatening in
his ear, and, all at once, the barrister had collapsed like a pricked
balloon, and, in a comparatively few minutes afterwards, had got his
bag packed and taken Blake’s own carriage to catch the late train down
to York and Scarborough.
In doing this, he had only made one stipulation:
“If you, Blake,” said he, “are going to come out of this scandal with
any degree of propriety you must not shew yourself in public like
this. Go home to your place in Park Lane, and play the part of the
bereaved and distracted widower to the life. To-morrow you will not be
required at the inquest at all, or you would have been warned by the
police. As a matter of fact, only evidence of identification of this
poor creature will be given, and that can well be supplied by one of
her maids. Just wait. At the right dramatic moment we’ll produce the
certificate of her marriage with Hudson, and, if necessary, we’ll
bring up the witnesses of the ceremony, but if you put in the document
before, the public will not believe that you only discovered it by
accident the night of the murder, but will fancy that you have known
about it all the time and have preferred to blind your eyes to it for
some wicked or sinister purpose of your own. Therefore be persuaded by
me--and just for a day or two let things go on as they were before the
crime.”
“I will,” Blake had answered. “You know more about the British
character no doubt than I do. Half my life has been spent in the rough
mining life of Australia and the Transvaal, and there, when we had to
hit a man between the eyes, we got up and did so, and afterwards
picked up and reckoned the pieces. Here, it seems to me, one can do
all the same kind of hammering and get all the public sympathy right
enough, only one musn’t be in a hurry, musn’t strike before the ground
has been well baited, and even then must observe all the old snug
conventions with which our grand-mothers used to delude themselves.”
“And a jolly good thing too,” interposed Langford, who was above all
things a stickler for the proprieties, and also a rank opportunist.
“It gives the men who know the game their right advantage. Otherwise
everybody would be equally matched, and then what would the poor
lawyers do?” And, with this cheap piece of cynicism, he had made his
exit, closely followed by Blake, who, when he had found Vera was not
in the drawing-room, had taken his way home on foot.
At that precise moment, as a matter of fact, Vera herself was with
Winifred who was telling her frankly and simply the terrible blow that
had fallen on her happiness. The lawyer’s daughter, however, was
obviously distracted by other thoughts, and so had contented herself
with a vague expression of her sorrow, and then had quickly slipped
away to the study and, carefully locking the door, had gone to her
father’s telephone, the bell of which communicating with the public
exchange she had rung sharply.
“59769a Gerrard,” she told the operator, and, as the lines were fairly
clear at that late hour, she soon got the answer she sought.
“Is that the Belsize Theatre?” she queried, and on receiving the reply
in the desired affirmative she went on:--“Has Mr. Jules Prendergast
come off the stage yet? No? The curtain not run down yet? Well,
directly it is, ask him to come round and see Mr. Russell Langford,
will you? Tell him not to delay though. He is wanted on a matter of
business;” and, with a quick impatient shrug, she replaced the
receiver and sat down at her father’s writing table to await with all
the fortitude she could command the arrival of the man who, truth to
tell, she loved better than honour itself.
How slowly the minutes crept by after that! At first she tried to
occupy her mind by thinking of Winifred, but her mind would not fix
itself on any troubles but her own. Then she started drawing grotesque
forms and faces on the blotting paper in front of her but somehow
nothing seemed to go right--the lines, the pen, or the figures; and
soon, with a deep exclamation of disgust, she threw the quill aside,
and began to pace impatiently up and down the room.
Once again her wild gipsy blood appeared in the ascendant. Indeed,
there was something almost panther-like in her movements as she
stepped backward and forward, backward and forward in a costume of
black and gold that, emblazoned as it was with diamonds, showed every
line of her superb figure to advantage.
At one time, as she stopped to listen to the bell of an approaching
hansom, she reminded one almost irresistibly of Cleopatra. And then,
as the soft tinkle died away in the distance, her features and her
bearing changed, and she was just a woman racked by jealousy, torn by
emotion, with mouth distorted, and fingers pressed cruelly into the
palms of her hand to save herself from rushing into the street to see
for herself why he did not come.
Nobody, unfortunately, who knew Jules Prendergast at all well would
have thought that he was worth this attention.
Two years ago he had been an obscure but tolerated member of a
well-known touring Shakesperean Company that had an earnest, a gifted,
and a painstaking actor at its head. By chance, it happened that they
had come to town, to do a brief season at one of the least-known
West-End theatres; and Vera had gone to one of their performances with
Lady Desborough, who rather tried to play the part of the Lady
Bountiful to the crowd in question. Quite unexpectedly Vera had fallen
passionately in love with this tall, dark, and romantic-looking actor,
Prendergast. He had quickly, with Lady Desborough’s help, followed up
this advantage, and, as Vera had a small fortune of her own from an
aunt long since deceased, nobody who knows the way plays are financed
in London will be surprised to hear that after this Jules Prendergast
quickly became a welcome performer in some uncommonly “fat” parts at
the best houses--and finally blossomed out as an actor-manager himself
at the Belsize Theatre.
His first appearance in his own house, of course, had been as
“Hamlet,” and, strange to say, he had scored quite a success with
this, and yet, in a way, it was not strange, for he had simply taken
all the ideas and study of his old chief in the touring company and
had passed them off on the fashionable crowd that had flocked to the
Belsize as his own.
“A new reading of ‘Hamlet’,” cried the mob and the critics, and yet if
one of them had gone to the small theatres in towns like Leeds, or
York, or Sheffield, or Plymouth, they would have found that
Prendergast’s conception was not new--was not original--but, on the
contrary, was much better done by in the provinces.
Luckily or unluckily, the West End knows little or nothing of
theatrical things outside the metropolis, and so Prendergast
flourished until the time came for him to change the bill, and he
invoked the assistance of a “star” actress named Flora Kaufmann, and
put on “with a scale of magnificence never hitherto seen on any
stage,” etc., etc., the old but eternally young “Romeo and Juliet.”
For that time certainly Shakespeare lived up to his name in the
dramatic world and spelt “ruin” to Jules Prendergast and his
financier. In vain were the public coaxed and cajoled and derided. In
vain were the old press notices served in a style as hot as any that
had come from the theatrical press. The public literally would not
look at Flora Kaufmann as “Juliet,” and, had not Ventris Blake thought
fit, for his own private reasons, to allow Vera to make that £3,500
out of him in the most childish way after she had unbosomed herself of
her real difficulties, Jules Prendergast’s season would, certainly,
long ago have ended.
As it was, things had again come to a very bad financial pass owing to
the heavy expenditure necessary for Jules’ next mammoth production of
“Othello,” and this, too, was complicated by Vera’s insane jealousy of
Flora Kaufmann, who had got a very strictly drawn contract with Jules
and could not be easily got rid of.
Beset by difficulties on all sides, Prendergast himself had that day
made another appeal for money to Vera, and had been repulsed with some
scorn and a good deal of quite unnecessary bitterness. As a
consequence, the girl was not at all sure he would obey her summons,
which, by custom, had been couched in her father’s name, and yet she
felt she must see him that night, if only to assure herself that he
was as true to her as he had sworn to be in the old days when he had
neither position nor reputation, and they had never had squalid
squabbles like the one of that afternoon.
At last, however, she heard a hansom stop outside the flats; a moment
later an electric bell sounded, and, in accordance with her
directions, the actor, who was clad in an opera cloak and carried a
crush-hat, with the make-up still thick upon his features, hastened
into the room.
For some reason, for the first time in her experience, his manner was
openly sulky and inwardly defiant. No sooner, indeed, had he thrown
off his cloak than he turned on her almost with a snarl.
“Well, and what is the matter now, Vera?” he demanded. “Haven’t we
said sufficient hideous things to each other to-day without you
ringing me up and sending for me unexpectedly like this, and wanting
to go over them again and count them?”
“Yes. That is not my reason. How was business to-night?”
“Bad, deuced bad. There wasn’t a ten pound note in all parts.”
“Then you must get rid of Kaufmann. She is ruining you!”
The man paused and pretended to feel in his pockets for a cigarette.
Instinctively he knew that he was on dangerous ground.
“I can’t,” he declared with a pitiful attempt at being light and airy.
“The lawyers forbid it. Pressed too far, she might even shut up the
shop altogether by an injunction.”
“Then let her,” cried Vera fiercely, sweeping forward and facing the
actor. “I am sick of her airs, her graces, her tricks to ensnare your
affections,” and then playing her trump card she went on:
“Let the whole thing go, and let us be married as we had arranged next
week. My father is, as lawyers go, a very wealthy man. He could easily
spare us twenty-five thousand pounds to run a season at the Lyceum, or
the Haymarket, or even the Garrick. If he saw we were man and wife he
could not refuse us! He really loves me with all the force of his
nature. He has never refused me a thing in my life.”
“Oh, couldn’t he though,” snapped Jules. “That’s all you know. He
might be delighted at what you had done, disown you, and marry again!”
Vera’s eyes blazed. “That is untrue, Jules,” she gasped, “and you know
it’s untrue! more than that, it is rude--it is cruel to me. You speak
now under that woman’s influence. I see it in every
word--look--gesture. You never dreamt of talking to me like this
before you met her. I demand that you shall never act with her again!”
The man swung round with a smothered oath, and for a second it looked
as though he would repay her defiance with defiance, scorn by scorn.
Then a crafty avaricious look came into his face, and his tone
changed.
“Come, Vera,” he said gently, trying to put an arm round her waist,
“don’t drive me in a corner like this! Just be reasonable. I simply
can’t damn myself and my whole career to please you or anybody else.
Just now it’s money I want and must have. If you can’t get it--”
“Flora Kaufmann will, I suppose!” exclaimed Vera passionately,
although she didn’t believe her words for an instant.
“Yes,” said the hypocrite, snatching at so good a pretext. “You have
guessed it. Flora Kaufmann believes in me and my future, and has
offered to finance me!”
For a moment Vera looked as though she would kill him. A bottle marked
“Chloroform; Poison,” which she had been using earlier in the day for
toothache stood on the mantelpiece, and gripping this she made a
movement as though she would pour the spirit on her handkerchief and
smother him.
Then her mood changed. A reckless laugh broke from her lips, and, with
the strange fatuity of many women in love, she set out deliberately to
hoodwink herself.
“I--I am glad you have told me,” she stammered. “As a matter of fact,
I was only testing you. Never mind about Flora Kaufmann or her
finances. I--I can assist you to-morrow to the extent of five thousand
pounds if you like!”
“You angel!” cried the actor ecstatically, dropping on one knee and
theatrically pressing the hem of her garment to his lips; and the
fervour of his movement was not lessened by the fact that he knew
Flora Kaufmann was a most extravagant, if fascinating woman, and had
nothing to her name except some £1,500 worth of debts. “Tell me how
you have managed it?”
“Ah, that is my secret,” said Vera archly, now bending down and
kissing him passionately on the forehead. “Just meet me at the Bond
Street tea room as usual about half past three to-morrow and you shall
have the money easily enough!”
“And you will keep its source from me,” said the humbug reproachfully.
“Surely you do not feel now you cannot trust me!”
“Perhaps,” said Vera evasively; “but, of course, I shall stipulate
Flora Kaufmann must go!”
“Even if it costs a bribe of £1,000!”
“Even if we have to pay her £2,000 to tear up her agreement,”
repeated the girl firmly; and to support her she raised the bottle of
chloroform, the contents of which she inhaled.
“Very well,” declared Jules pretending to assent, and rising he kissed
Vera with a great show of fervour. Then having pulled out his watch
and declared the hour was disgracefully late, he drew his cloak over
his shoulders and seized his hat.
Vera accompanied him to the door of the flat, but just as he was going
to leave he remembered something he had previously forgotten and his
face clouded.
“Oh! by the way, Vera,” said he. “I told them at the theatre to send
on here a certain telegram which I expected. I won’t wait for it now
but directly it comes I want you to ask the boy to bring it on to me
to the Green Room Club in Leicester Square!”
“All right!” Vera replied, and waving him adieu, she hurried back to
the study to be alone and to think.
Now, however, she was seated alone in her father’s room, she had more
than scope to recollect what she had promised in a moment of intense
mental anguish. £5,000 to-morrow afternoon at 3.30! And her account
at Coutts’ was already over-drawn to the extent of £250! Where--where
was so big a sum to come from?
Her father, she knew, was away in Scarborough. He could not possibly
return before mid-night the next day, and, even if she knelt in front
of him and begged this favour from him, she had no reason to believe
he would grant it. He did not like actors or the theatres. He had only
seen Jules Prendergast once--and then he called him “a forcibly-feeble
copyist!”
As for having any idea that in about seven days’ time this man would
be--for better or worse--his son-in-law and that no power on earth
could keep him out of the position, he had none, absolutely none. Had
he any suspicion of the truth Vera now was certain that his rage would
be terrible and his obstinacy insurmountable. Looked at from whatever
point she chose, there was no hope of £5,000 from him.
Lady Desborough was equally impossible. True, she was rich, but she
was also very mean, and would cheerfully spend £500 in hospitality to
get the run of a theatre for three months for nothing. No, there only
remained one chance of success, the one chance she had clutched at
when she saw it was, in sober truth, but the toss of a coin whether
she or Flora Kaufmann would triumph in that insane undignified
struggle for the affection of Jules Prendergast. That chance
personified itself in Ventris Blake--and even Vera shivered at the
awful alternative which passion and fate had combined together to
force her to take.
For, as a matter of fact, Vera knew well enough why Ventris Blake went
out of his way to make her indebted to him. It wasn’t from
kindness--respect--or affection. It was simply because he had become
the victim of a wild devouring passion for Winifred Pontifex, and she
perfectly understood that if he advanced her this sum, it would be
only on terribly harsh conditions--that she would assist him in his
schemes to make her poor tortured cousin his--to any extent he chose
to dictate.
Was it worth it?
To be quite fair to her--Vera recognised it was not. True, she had no
real affection for Winifred. The girl had often caused her acute pangs
of jealousy, and in nature and habit and outlook was totally opposed
to herself. Still, she also knew Ventris Blake--and she could not
conceive a worse fate than to fall into the power of so desperate and
resourceful a scoundrel who indeed she knew, from Winifred’s
confidences of that night, had already spread his net of treachery and
lies in front of her and her sweetheart.
And then again, would it answer?
All at once her jealousy broke into flame again and she thought of her
rival Flora Kaufmann. Suppose, after all, Jules broke his word to her,
and let that creature remain in the company and assume the part of
“Desdemona”? Why the piece might even succeed--might even make a very
big hit. It would be in vain for her to storm or to threaten then.
Jules would be free from his financial embarrassments, and would
certainly pursue a selfish line of his own, for had he not often told
her that art had no room for old-fashioned principles, but was ever a
law unto itself--and its followers?
Then, as the torture increased, she asked herself, what was the
mystery behind the telegram which the actor had said must go on to him
at once? Why couldn’t it wait until the morning when business would be
resumed, or until the afternoon when she could have the childish
pleasure of bringing it with her, and of handing it to him herself?
After all, by one method or another, she decided suddenly she must see
that telegram. Horrible though the suspicion was, it might even be
from some feminine friend of Jules whom she had never heard him
mention; and she leaped to her feet as though a red hot cinder had
darted out of the fire against her breast, and scorched her close to
the heart.
Then came the expected ring at the bell--the sound of voices--and Vera
clasped her medicine-bottle tightly to suppress all traces of her
anguish.
A servant entered. “A telegraph boy has come with a telegram for Mr.
Jules Prendergast,” he said. “Did he leave any message?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Shew the lad in!”
A bright-looking lad clad in the regulation uniform entered, closed
the door behind him and touched his cap.
“I have a message for Mr. Prendergast, Miss,” he said. “They sent me
on here from the Belsize Theatre. Is he in?”
“No,” said Vera sweetly. “He asked me to take it up for him. Please
give it to me!” and she held out her hand.
The boy’s face clouded. “I am afraid, miss, I can’t do that,” he
muttered. “It’s against the regulations.”
“Nonsense,” persisted Vera lightly, treating the affair as one of
small concern. “Give the telegram to me, I tell you. Nobody will know
a word about it. And look here, here’s a shilling for your trouble!”
And she took a coin off her father’s desk and displaying it temptingly
before the youngster’s gaze.
“I can’t, miss, indeed I can’t. It’s more than my place is worth I--I
should have to go to prison if I did,” he stammered, his cheeks going
white with fear. “Please let me go and report the matter to my
superintendent.”
“And betray me,” hissed Vera, now all at once realising her own peril.
“Oh, you viper. You shall not do it,” and her eye catching sight of
the chloroform bottle a fiendish idea took possession of her.
With one bound she caught the boy by the throat. Then in a flash she
smashed the bottle against the desk even as the lad kicked and
struggled to free himself, and, pouring the chloroform on her
handkerchief she stuffed the spirit into the poor boy’s face until
with a moan he sank to the floor utterly senseless.