Ainslee's Magazine/The Great Discovery/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
Enid came into her husband's study with a soft, mysterious rustle of silk and chiffon which roused him where the more noisy entrance of the butler had passed unheeded. He had been seated by the fire, apparently absorbed in the soundless movements of the reflections; but he got up instantly, and stood with his back to the light, looking at her. The faint glow was on her face, on her hair, and on the pale, indefinable beauty of her dress, whose folds had found their source of grace in the perfect lines of her figure. She, too, seemed to be caught in a sudden net of embarrassment, the white, almost frightened admiration depicted in his attitude taking her by surprise, for she did not move, and for a full minute did not speak. It was Peter who broke the silence.
“Are you going out?” he asked.
“Yes; it is the Edlingers' reception. I came to say good night.”
“That was good of you.” His hands were behind his back, clenched so that the knuckles stood out like polished ivory, and his face was woodenly expressionless. “Will you be late?”
“I don't know. There is something I want to say to you before I go. May I?”
“Of course. What is it? Won't you sit down?”
“No, no. What I have to say is quickly said. It's about that—that money for Doctor Otway.”
“The two hundred pounds? Isn't it enough for the present?”
“It's not that.” She was playing restlessly with her gloves, her eyes on the firelight, and her sentences came out in quick, broken breaths. “It's on my conscience, Peter. I haven't been fair to you. I have a feeling that I have deceived you. I ought to have explained something.”
He held out his hand in protest.
“You don't owe me any explanation.”
“Yes. You may not want it, but I must give it. I told you that I gave the money to Doctor Otway for his discovery. It's true—but he was my friend.”
Peter nodded a grave assent.
“It's quite natural that one should want to help a friend.”
“Peter, that's not it. He was once more than a friend. Once we were to have been married.”
She looked at him with the old haughty defiance, and he looked back at her, the eyes under the fair lashes peculiarly steady.
“I know,” he said.
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday.”
She flushed, the color rising in a rich flood to the roots of her fair hair.
“I am sorry. I should have preferred to tell you myself.”
“Why? It is of no consequence. I gave my informant to understand that I knew already. As a matter of fact, I was sure you would tell me when the matter occurred to you.” He paused a moment, his gaze turned placidly to the firelight. “By the way,” he went on, “it seems a shame to spoil the ship for the proverbial pennyworth; two hundred pounds won't help Doctor Otway far. He must have influence to get attention paid to him, and influence is expensive. I spoke to my father about it yesterday. I think between us we shall get Otway going in fine style.”
She caught her breath. A white, slender hand was outstretched as though to touch him, but he did not see it, and it was withdrawn.
“You are going to do all that?”
“Yes. Why not? It is a privilege to help genius.”
“Hasn't it struck you—I mean—doesn't it occur to you that you are doing something dangerous? Are you so sure of me? After all that has once been” She stopped, crimson with an anger which he did not understand.
“Yes, I know what you mean. One can't root things out of one's life so easily. It hurts me that you should suffer through my fault. But I am not in the least afraid.”
It sounded very simple, very matter of fact, almost indifferent. She gave a little, light, unsteady laugh.
“How reasonable. I was afraid—another man might”
“Have been jealous. Another man might have had the right. I have not. I am your friend. I hope you can consider me as such?”
“Easily.” She laughed again. Her manner had become careless to the point of frivolity. “You are most generous, most kind, most sensible. I am glad we understand each other so well. Good night.”
“Good night.”
He held the door open for her, and then went back to the fireside, his face distorted with suppressed pain.
Twenty minutes later the De Warrens' carriage drew up outside the brightly lit house in a fashionable West End square. Enid slipped out and ran up the crowded steps. Halfway a man caught her by the arm. She stopped with a little scream, which, in the bustle of arrivals, passed unheard. The light pouring down from the open hall door fell on his face.
“Wilfred!” she exclaimed. “How can you be so mad—so—you must let me go”
“Wait! I know I am mad, but I couldn't help it. I had to see you, I knew you would be here to-night, and if it was only for a minute”
“Remember”
“I can remember nothing except that I love you. I used to think I hated you, but since I know that you were loyal I know that it was love gone mad with pain. I can't rest. Even the hope for my work can't help me. I must hear that you still care—from your own lips.”
“Hush! Please, for pity's sake”
“For pity's sake—or for your husband's sake?”
She hesitated, and for an instant her troubled eyes wandered from his face. Then she smiled bitterly, contemptuously.
“Oh, no, I am not thinking of him. He is quite indifferent. I do not think he would care. No, no; it's for myself.”
“Then you love yourself more than anybody, more than me?”
“No, no! It's for both our sakes. We can't be dishonest; we can't cheat people who have kept faith with us, who trust us”
“Enid, you still care? I shall never give you up if”
A new batch of arrivals swept them apart. Otway fell back into the shadow, waiting until she had disappeared. Then he strode away, keeping to the gloomy little by-streets as though instinctively shrinking from the gay movement of the bigger thoroughfares. It was a long way from the fashionable square to the gray misery of his own home, but he walked quickly, scarcely conscious of time or distance.
At the door he paused, taken by surprise. A carriage and pair waited at the curb, and carriages and pairs were about as rare in that region as paid doctor's bills. Otway ran up the dirty stone steps and let himself in. A light burned in his father's room, and he heard the sound of a man's voice which rolled on in unchecked volubility. Otway pushed the door open and entered.
The scene was familiar enough to him. The lamp on the table, the part darkness which mercifully hid all the drab poverty of the furniture, the couch with its motionless, tragic burden—all this he knew as though it were part of himself. But the man standing at the empty fire grate was a stranger to him. As Otway hesitated on the threshold, his eyes, drawn by some invisible power, moved from the visitor's massive figure to his father's face. Nothing outwardly had changed. Old Otway lay there as he had lain there for a year, without sound or movement, dead save for the eyes with their persistent, terrible appeal.
And yet to-night Otway was conscious that a change had none the less taken place. It was in the atmosphere—a tension, a quivering strain, though somewhere an invisible, soundless struggle was being fought out. Otway glanced involuntarily around him, seeking the intangible in the shadows, and once more encountered the stranger's gaze. The man advanced into the circle of light, and there was a flash of a diamond as he held out his hand.
“I'm afraid I must seem an intruder,” he said smoothly. “But for his unfortunate condition, your father would be able to explain well enough. Perhaps you have heard my name—De Warren—Mortimer de Warren.”
Otway touched the extended fingers.
“I know the name,” he said, and it sounded as though each word was being jerked out by force. “My father was your partner at one time.”
“Partner! Well, not that exactly, but a valuable assistant.” De Warren bent down and patted the piteous heap of helplessness on the shoulder. “Eh, Otway? Well, sir, I've just been having a little talk with your father—rather a one-sided affair unfortunately, but I've been airing a few suggestions, and I'm glad you've come to represent your father's opinion. Can you spare me a few minutes?”
“By all means.” Otway indicated a chair, but the visitor declined with a friendly movement.
“No—really—I am a business man, and my few minutes are the genuine article. To be brief, I have come to see if something can't be done for my old friend here—and for you, his son.”
Otway started. The expression that flashed over his face was nameless—a swift indication of some upheaval—anger, or perhaps hope.
“You are very kind, but my father needs nothing, and I”
“You are a young man awaiting his opportunity,” De Warren interrupted cordially. “I have heard about you through my son Peter. You know him?”
“Yes.” The monosyllable sounded like the rasp of steel against steel. De Warren nodded.
“It was he who informed me of your father's condition. I had no idea; otherwise I should have been at hand before now. An old friend—one doesn't desert an old friend like that.” His voice sounded cordial, but in the brief silence that followed there was again that tension, that sense of some appalling human struggle, masked by darkness, “In a word, I want to come to the rescue,” De Warren went on. “No, don't, please don't interrupt. It's not a favor I am offering. When you are a big gun, as I have no doubt you will be, you can pay me back. At present you must be generous enough to accept my offer.” He took out an envelope from his pocket, and laid it on the table. “I am not a medical man, and you must know your own requirements best. At the same time, I suggest a change of quarters. You will find my check large enough to cover all present needs even to a West End house. Later on we will talk together again. You know my address.” He took up his hat. “Do me the kindness to make no protests. I am wealthy enough to afford myself the pleasure of giving ability a helping hand.”
Otway had drawn the check from the cover. He looked up now. His usually tightly closed lips were parted though he were breathing heavily; his forehead was damp with the same nameless conflict of desire and protest. The protest died.
“You do this for—my father's sake?”
“Certainly. For whom else? There is gratitude even in business, eh, old friend?” Again the affable, familiar tap on the powerless hand. “Good night. Next time we see each other let it be in Harley Street.”
He was gone, and Otway did not accompany him. For a brief flash he had seen his father's face, and for a moment as brief it held him in a grip of intangible fear. It was as though he had seen its full horror for the first time. The cavernous features were those of death; expressionless, they yet expressed something—something that Otway could not fathom; they framed the blazing eyes in a ghastly whiteness that was yet terribly, quiveringly alive.
He shut it out, turning away to the mantelpiece, the check held out before him like a vision of a desired future. There was a faded amateur photograph of a woman on the shelf; he pushed it aside with his elbow, and stared from the slip of significant paper to the line of torn and tattered books—the remnants of his student's days, the first steps which he had cut for himself in the great climb upward. He no longer needed them. He crossed the room and unlocked a cupboard, took out a phial, and held the colorless body to the light.
“Who knows, father?” he said. “For money many things can be bought. One test, one experiment, one proof, and then”
He did not finish the sentence. He put the phial back in its place, laughing quietly, and, as though the laugh snapped a paralyzing spell, releasing the contending invisible forces, there was a sudden movement in the silent room, the sound of a body being dragged upward, of a pillow violently flung aside.
Otway started round. The change was now real, absolute. The stricken, awful figure sat upright. Like some ghastly, galvanized image of death, it pointed at him, its shaking, bloodless lips forming words which had as yet no sound. Otway sprang across the intervening space. The outstretched hand gripped and held him. The fleshless fingers drove themselves into his flesh with the strength of despair.
“Father, what is it?”
The opposing forces closed for the last time. There was a last silent bout between soul and body. Then Jacob Otway spoke, his foam-flecked lips molding the words with desperate clearness:
“He has bought you, Wilfred—bought you! He ruined me and you—in cold blood—to please himself—to get you out of his son's way—yes, he told me—Peter was to marry her. I have been trying to tell you for a year; I tried to-night when he was telling his smooth tale, and I prayed God that I might be given the strength—to save you—but he has bought you—and now he laughs—he has won—and you promised”
He fell back. His voice had risen scarcely above a whisper, but each word had been poignantly clear—clear enough. Wilfred Otway rose from his knees. He stood staring down at his father. The resemblance between them at that moment was almost grotesque.
“I promised,” he said. “It didn't need a promise. You don't need to be afraid. I'm not to be bought. I've lost one thing that can't be paid for. but I'm going to win—in my own way.” He bent down. “Just take that to your comfort. An hour ago I couldn't have won. Never mind. I can now. And I'll make him suffer as you suffered—as I suffer.”
He took up the check, which had fallen to the floor, smoothed it out, and placed it back in the envelope. Then, without another glance at the prostrate figure, he went out, closing the door sharply after him.