A CONDITION
Lord Ronsdale hesitated; his thin jaws were set so that the bones of the
cheek showed; his eyes gleamed. When he did move it was as if blindly,
precipitately, to carry out his first impulse.
"I wouldn't!" What John Steele held vaguely included, in the radius of
its possibilities, Mr. Gillett. "Unless--"
"You wouldn't dare!" Lord Ronsdale trembled, but with impotent passion,
not fear. "It would be--"
"Self-defense! The paper would remain--full vindication. In fact the
paper already is mine. Whether I kill you or not is merely incidental.
And to tell you the truth I don't much care how you decide!"
Again Lord Ronsdale seemed almost to forget caution; almost, but not
quite; perhaps he was deterred by the look on John Steele's face,
scornful, mocking, as half-inviting him to cast all prudence to the
winds. This bit of evidence that he had not calculated upon, it was hard
to give it up; but no other course remained. Besides, another, Gillett,
knew of its existence; Lord Ronsdale felt he could not depend on that
person in an emergency of this kind; the police agent's manner was not
reassuring. He seemed inclined to be more passive than aggressive;
perhaps he had been somewhat overcome by this unexpected revelation and
the deep waters he who boasted of an "eminently respectable and
reputable agency" had unwittingly drifted into; in climaxes of this
character one's thoughts are likely to center on self, to the exclusion
of patron or employer, however noble. The police agent looked at
Ronsdale and waited to see what he would do.
The nobleman moved toward the desk; the paper fluttered from his cold
fingers; when once more John Steele buttoned his coat the affidavit had
again found lodgment in his waistcoat pocket.
It seemed a tame, commonplace end; but it was the end; all three men
knew it. John Steele's burning glance swept from Lord Ronsdale to
Gillett; lingered with mute contemplation. What now remained to be done
should be easily, it seemed almost too easily, accomplished. He felt
like one lingering on the stage after the curtain had gone down; the
varied excitement, the fierce play of emotion was over; the actors
hardly appeared interesting.
What he said was for Lord Ronsdale alone; after Gillett had gone, he
laid down a condition. In certain respects it was a moment of triumph;
but he experienced no exultation, only a supreme weariness, an anxiety
to be done with the affair, to go. But the one point had first to be
made, emphasized; to be accepted by the other violently, quietly,
resignedly,--John Steele did not care what his attitude might be; what
he chiefly felt was that he did not wish to waste much time on him.
"And if I refuse to let you dictate in a purely private concern?" Lord
Ronsdale, white with passion, had answered.
"The end will be the same for you. As matters stand, Sir Charles no
doubt thinks still that you would make a desirable _parti_ for his
niece. His wife, Lady Wray, unquestionably shares that opinion. Their
combined influence might in time prevail, and Jocelyn Wray yield to
their united wishes. This misfortune," with cutting deadliness of tone,
"it is obvious must be averted. You will consent to withdraw all
pretensions in that direction, or you will force me to make public this
paper. A full exposition of the case I think would materially affect Sir
Charles and Lady Wray's attitude as to the desirability of an alliance
between their family and yours."
"And yourself? You forget," with a sneer, "how it would affect you!"
"Myself!" John Steele laughed. "You fool! Do you imagine I would
hesitate for that reason?"
The nobleman looked at him, at the glowing, contemptuous eyes.
"Hesitate? Perhaps not! You love her yourself, and--"
John Steele stepped toward him. "Stop, or--I have once been almost on
the point of killing you to-night--don't--" he broke off. "The
condition? You consent or not?"
"And if I--? You would--?"
"Keep your cowardly secret? Yes!"
To this the other had replied; of necessity the scene had dragged along
a little farther; then John Steele found himself on the stairway, going
down.
It was over, this long, stubborn contest; he hardly heard or saw a cab
drive up and stop before the house as he went out to the street, was
scarcely conscious of some one leaving it, some one about to enter who
suddenly stopped at sight of him and exclaimed eagerly, warmly. He was
not surprised; with apathy he listened to the new-comer's words;
rambling, disconnected, about a letter that had intercepted him at
Brighton and brought him post-haste to London.
A letter? John Steele had entered the cab; he sank back; when had he
written a letter? Weeks ago; he looked at this face, familiar, far-off;
the fog was again rising around him. He could hardly see; he was glad he
did not have to stir; he seemed to breathe with difficulty.
"Where--are we going?"
"To Rosemary Villa."
"I--should prefer--my own chambers"--John Steele spoke with an
effort--"it is nearer--and I'm a bit done up. Besides, after a little
rest, there are--some business matters--to be attended to--that will
need looking after as soon as--"
His head fell forward; Captain Forsythe looked at him; called up loudly,
excitedly to the driver.
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