“At the commencement I did profit, as did many others. Had I been content with my gains, had I been less of a trusting fool, it had been well. I was dazzled, maybe, by the glare of so much gold. I needed more; and so I lost all. That is evil enough. But there is worse. I may be called upon to make restitution of what I had from the company without paying for it—I may give all that's left me and barely cover the amount, and I may starve and be damned thereafter.”
Her ladyship's face was ghastly. Horror stared from her pale eyes. She had known, from the beginning, of that twenty thousand pounds' worth of stock, and she had had—with his lordship—her anxious moments when the disclosures were being made six months ago that had brought the Craggses, Aislabie and a half-dozen others to shame and ruin.
His lordship looked at her a moment. “And if this shipwreck comes, as it now threatens,” he continued, “it is my son I shall have to thank for't.”
She found voice to ask: “How so?” courage to put the question scornfully. “Is it not rather Rotherby you have to thank that the disclosures did not come six months ago? What was it saved you but the friendship his Grace of Wharton had for Charles?”
“Why, then,” stormed his lordship, “did he not see to't that he preserved that friendship? It but needed a behavior of as much decency and honor as Wharton exacts in his associates—and the Lord knows how much that is!” he sneered. “As it is, he has gone even lower than that abandoned scourer; so low that even this rakehell duke must become his enemy for his own credit's sake. He attempts mock-marriages with ladies of quality; and he attempts murder by stabbing through the back a gentleman who has spared his worthless life. Not even the president of the Hell Fire Club can countenance these things, strong stomach though he have for villainy. It is something to have contrived to come so low that even his Grace of Wharton must turn upon him, and swear his ruin. And so that he may ruin him, his grace is determined to ruin me. Now you understand, madam—and you, Mr. Caryll.”
Mr. Caryll understood. He understood even more than his lordship meant him to understand; more than his lordship understood, himself. So, too, did her ladyship, if we may judge from the reply she made him.
“You fool,” she railed. “You vain, blind, selfish fool! To blame Rotherby for this. Rather should Rotherby, blame you that by your damned dishonesty have set a weapon against him in his enemy's hands.”
“Madam!” he roared, empurpling, and coming heavily to his feet. “Do you know who I am?”
“Ay—and what you are, which is something you will never know. God! Was there ever so self-centered a fool? Compassionate me, Heaven!” She rose, too, and turned to Mr. Caryll. “You, sir,” she said to him, “you have been dragged into this, I know not why.”
She broke off suddenly, looking at him, her eyes a pair of gimlets now for penetration. “Why have you been dragged into it?” she demanded. “What is here? I demand to know. What help does my lord expect from you that he tells you this? Does he—” She paused an instant, a cunning smile breaking over her wrinkled, painted face. “Does he propose to sell himself to the king over the water, and are you a secret agent come to do the buying? Is that the answer to this riddle?”