CHAPTER II.
At the front entrance of Ashley Court, an automobile quivered and grumbled in impatient expectation of departure. A stoic-faced chauffeur stared patiently into space, and an equally impassive footman, laden with rugs and wraps, waited at a discreet distance. Evidently they were intended to form a color scheme. The motor had been enameled a delicate bêche, and the liveries were a scarcely perceptible shade darker, and elaborately braided. Chassis, chauffeur, and footman gave the impression of having been created in a grown-up toy shop, and the young man standing on the steps viewed them with a mild satisfaction of ownership. He himself was got up with a painful regard for sartorial correctness, and his small, clean-shaven face, adorned with an eyeglass, which seemed curiously inevitable, gave the last touch to the general appearance of overemphasized spruceness.
Enid Ashley, coming up quietly through the hall, viewed the scene with an expression wholly inscrutable; then she laughed, and the young man swung round.
“I thought you'd given me the slip,” he blurted out as he took her carelessly extended hand. “It's awfully good of you. I know you would have preferred to have ridden.”
“And yet you worried me for an hour to drive,” she observed, smiling.
“That's because I'm a selfish brute.” He motioned the footman to one side, and held open the door for her. “Won't you get in? We shall be late. I know you hate being late.”
She hesitated, looking from him to the chauffeur with the same whimsical inscrutability.
“Can't I sit in front?”
“Well, I'm afraid not—unless you mean to give Thomas the benefit of your company.”
“Drive yourself,” she commanded. “Thomas can come on in the dogcart.”
He looked up, smiled a little, his cheerful blue eye fixed on her with the frank persistency which is an eyeglass' attribute.
“I don't drive,” he said quietly. “I can't. I tried once, but I lost my head, and ran into a wall. I shouldn't like to do that with you. I haven't got any nerve for that sort of thing.”
“Oh!” She looked away from him as though from something she did not wish to see, and then, without further comment, took her place in the now exultantly rumbling car. Peter de Warren jumped in beside her, and drew the rugs over her knee.
“Are you comfortable? Very well. Fire away, Thomas.”
They glided smoothly along the avenue, and swerved through the lodge gate into the highroad. Peter de Warren's small white hand clutched convulsively at the upholstered side of the car, and then relaxed. He gave a little high-pitched laugh.
“I hate the way these chauffeur fellows take corners,” he said. “It jars me all down my spine. You don't mind, do you? I suppose you even like it?”
“Yes, I like it,” she answered tranquilly; then added, in the same tone of polite indifference: “This is the new car, isn't it? I don't remember seeing it before.”
“Yes, it's new. The liveries match. Did you notice?”
“Yes, I noticed.”
Her delicate, clear-cut profile was perfectly serious. He looked at her doubtfully.
“I don't believe you like it. Well, it wasn't my idea. The pater wanted it, and I don't mind much. Of course, if I set up my own establishment it would be different. I—I should have things as—as my wife liked them.”
“Are you going to get married, then?”
She turned her head a little in order to have a better view of his face. This time he kept his eyes fixed ahead.
“I don't know; it depends.”
“On 'her,' I suppose?”
“Yes. To tell you the truth, I'm afraid to ask.”
“You seem to be afraid of a lot of things.” She spoke lightly and carelessly, more interested now in the scenery which flashed past them than in the white, earnest face beside her. Peter de Warren stiffened. His small jockey's figure seemed to brace itself to a sudden nervous effort.
“You would be afraid if you had so little to offer,” he said.
“Oh, I don't know. You have money—that counts for a lot nowadays; and De Warren is quite a nice-sounding name.”
“But the 'de' is not genuine,” he broke out. “I mean—the pater paid any amount to add it on. Before, we were just 'Warren'—'Rabbit' Warren I used to be called when they wanted to ring the change from Peter, the insignificant. Anybody could find that out.”
“Still, there is no necessity to tell the already-mentioned and all-important 'her,'” Enid Ashley returned.
“I have told 'her'—now.”
There was a moment's startled silence. They had come in sight of the “meet,” and moving points of cheerful red were sprinkled over the brown fields. From the distance, a note from a horn drifted to them on the cold, biting air. It seemed to arouse Enid Ashley from her bewilderment. She turned to her companion with a haughty, impetuous movement, and then, as she saw his face, burst into a gay laugh.
“Oh, Peter!” she said. “How silly you are!”
He nodded, white-lipped.
“Yes, I know. I'm an awful fool.”
The car pulled up smoothly behind a row of motors and dogcarts which lined the highroad, and in an instant a dozen eager riders had turned in the direction of the new arrivals. But they came too late. Even before Peter could move, a man standing by the hedge had reached the step and had helped Enid to the ground. Unlike the rest of the gathering, he wore ordinary clothes—a rough tweed suit, which had seen better days; and the cap which he had lifted in curt greeting was frayed and weather-stained. Yet he held his broad-shouldered, somewhat massive figure with a certain resolute self-confidence which silenced criticism and enforced respect.
“You see—I have come,” he said quietly.
“I thought you would.” Her eyes met his with a grave recognition. “I have learned to know that what you say you do. I am glad.” She turned a little. “I ought to introduce you. Mr. de Warren—Mr. Otway.”
The two men bowed unsmilingly, measuring each other.
“Your name is familiar to me,” Peter de Warren observed. “Have we met before, I wonder?”
“My father was once in Mr. de Warren's office,” was the cold answer. “You probably heard the name there.”
Then he turned back to Enid. In that moment his whole voice and bearing changed. The bulldog defiance with which he had faced the well-dressed and well-mounted assembly gave place to a sudden victorious ease and happiness of manner. He smiled down into his companion's fair face, and Peter de Warren, seeing it, winced and turned away.
“Well?” Enid questioned.
Otway walked at her side toward the groom who stood in charge of the beautifully built hunter. No one who saw them could have guessed what suspense quivered in the woman's quietly put question. Even Otway glanced down at her with a surprised pleasure.
“It's Doctor Otway now,” he said quietly.
“Then you have passed?”
“Yes; well—brilliantly.”
He spoke without arrogance, but with the measured impartiality of a judge. Nevertheless, a dull red had crept into his cheeks, and the thin, determined mouth tightened. Regardless of all onlookers, she caught his arm and pressed it passionately,
“How glad, how proud, I am!” she said, in a low, broken voice. “When I saw you I hardly dared ask. It meant so much—so terribly much.”
“If I had failed, I should not have come,” he answered. “I should have gone away. I should never have seen you again. The disparity between us would have been too great. Now there is your wealth and station against my—my ability. We are equal. I am not afraid to ask you to be my wife.”
She stood still. He had only outspoken that which had been long and silently acknowledged between them, and yet it came to her as something wonderfully, bewilderingly new. She looked up at him. The manner of his wooing was like himself—determined, reckless of circumstances, yet clear-headed and practical. His lean, hard-featured face was calm enough save for the eyes, which burned down to meet hers. She read desire and will power to which all desire was subservient.
“We are less than equal,” she returned, with a gentle dignity. “My position is nothing; my wealth nothing. I am glad I am rich, but only because I shall save you from the rut. You will be able to give all your mind to your work—to your research.”
He nodded.
“Yes. I have thought of that. I know I can be frank with you, for you are not like other women. My work comes first in my life. It must if I am worthy of it. I believe that I am on the track of something new, but to follow it up I must be free of all financial trouble. If you had been poor I could not have married you. It would have been a betrayal of those whom I am to serve.”
She looked away from him. If there were tears in her eyes, her voice at least was quiet and steady.
“I understand. You have a mission in life, and no one must stand in your way. I remember when you told me about the serum you were experimenting with. I dubbed it the Great Discovery, and I knew then—what it meant to you. I want to tell you now—I am quite satisfied if—if I come second in your heart, Wilfred.”
“I love you,” he answered quietly. “My work and you—that is all I care for.”
A horn signal warned them that the hounds were at work, and, without answering, Enid allowed herself to be lifted into the saddle. As the groom was busy tightening the girths, she bent down to Otway.
“Ride with me,” she begged. “I want you, Wilfred. I am a silly, weak woman, but I feel I cannot do without you to-day, dear. Come!”
He made a little movement of comic despair.
“How can I? I don't belong to the hunt; I haven't a horse; my clothes are”
“You won't ride the worse for a tweed suit. I know you better. Take the spare horse. The master won't mind. We are hunting over father's land; and, besides, father's subscription heads the list. I defy any one to object.” She laughed with a smothered excitement. “To celebrate!” she whispered.
Still he hesitated. Then, looking up, he saw that Warren, mounted on a chestnut, had taken his place on Enid's off side. For the second time, the two men studied each other in silence. Warren's face was whiter than usual; there were lines about his small face which suggested that every muscle was drawn taut. His gaze dropped before Otway's—or, rather, shifted—wandering over the wide sweep of country with an expression which Otway did not understand. But it decided him.
“I'll come,” he said curtly.
A cheery shout let loose the waiting group of red-coated riders, who spread out in joyous gallop over the fields. Otway caught the groom's horse, and swung himself into the saddle. Enid and Warren had the start, but he overtook them at the first hedge. Even in that moment of glorious physical exhilaration, Otway's powers of observation were not in abeyance. Something in Warren's riding caught his attention. It was nervous, fidgety. At the jump the chestnut, who had been going well, swerved, and, falling short, struck Enid's mount against the haunch. The hunter stumbled, recovered, and broke away, Otway following with difficulty, his own animal failing to keep the mare's headlong progress.
“Steady!” he shouted. “Pull her in—keep to the right—the wall!”
Enid nodded. She had seen the danger toward which they were rushing the moment the first warning had passed Otway's lips—the high wall which stretched like a white ribbon along the field—and in her mind she already pictured the ditch beyond. She turned a little in her saddle. As in a confused dream, she saw the distended nostrils of Otway's horse close to her girths; she saw Otway's face, grim and set, his eyes fixed on her bridle in calculating intensity.
“Keep back!” she called to him. “She has bolted. Keep back, dear—you can't help!”
He made no answer. The space between them and what seemed to her the end had narrowed to a few yards. She felt, with the instinct of the born rider, how the animal beneath her gathered itself together for the reckless flight; and she, too, nerved herself. They rose like an arrow, and she closed her eyes. But there was no hideous crash of masonry, no sudden stumbling break in their passage. With an inch to spare, the mare had cleared the ditch, and now raced on, sobered, herself quivering with her own daring. Halfway across the field she yielded to the bridle, and, breaking from a canter to a walk, stood still.
Enid looked round. She had felt no fear, but as she saw Otway beside her she reeled a little in her saddle, overtaken by a sickening realization of what might have been. He stretched out his arm, and held her.
“Enid!” he said quietly, authoritatively.
Her eyes opened and met his.
“It's nothing. Only the thought of—what you risked. Wilfred, thank God you are safe! If I had known you were following me”
“Did you think I should leave you?” he interrupted. “Do you think I cared so much for my own neck?”
She gave a low, shaken laugh.
“No; you are brave. I believed that before. Now I know. I am very proud of you.” She drew herself gently from the support of his arm. “Where is Mr. de Warren?” she asked.
Otway turned his head.
“There—coming through the gate,” he answered.
In those few words she heard a concentrated contempt which was reflected on his face. In silence they waited. De Warren came on at a slow canter, as though his very beast felt a share of the ignominy. His face was white, and as he drew nearer they saw a nervous, all-betraying twitch of the lips.
“My God! I hardly dared come round,” he said hoarsely. “It was awful! No one has ever dared that wall before. And you” He passed his shaking hand over his forehead. “I can't tell you what I felt when I saw you safe and sound,” he added.
And this time he looked full at Enid.
“If Miss Ashley is safe, it's no thanks to you,” Otway observed, in a tone of suppressed passion.
Warren glanced at him as though he saw him for the first time.
“You mean—it was my fault?”
“Your horse struck Miss Ashley's.”
“She stumbled. I”
“You pulled her in.”
The two men stared at each other, eye to eye. Every drop of color had gone out of Warren's lips.
“You funked a four-foot hedge,” Otway went on cuttingly. “You don't ride straight. You ought to have some one to open the gates for you.”
Enid, who had seen Warren's face, held out a protecting, appealing hand. The sporting spirit in her revolted at this chastisement of an already beaten man. Warren, not Otway, saw the movement. He pulled himself up. There was a touch of dignity in his bearing, and the quiver about his lips stiffened.
“Yes, it was my fault,” he said simply. “I don't ride straight. I funk things; I can't help it. It's my confounded nerves.”
Enid Ashley turned her horse's head. The excuse chilled the momentary warmth of pity.
“Nowadays 'nerves' explains everything,” she said. “A few years ago it would have been given another name. Come, Wilfred, I am going home.”
Otway obeyed, riding close to her side as though in protection. From the center of the field, Warren, a curiously lonely figure, watched them until they had disappeared.