CHAPTER IX.
The reception was over. With closed, aching eyes, Enid lay back in the corner of her carriage, and gave herself up to the mingled pain and relief of solitude. For the first time since that short, momentous meeting on the steps, she was alone. And yet not altogether alone. “I shall never give you up.” The words made a torturing accompaniment to her thoughts, driving them back to the memory of a white face full of reckless resolution. They wove themselves about her, closing her in, stifling her with a sense of her weakness and their strength.
How strong he was! Her imagination played dangerously with a hundred little incidents of the past when that strength was her pride and her glory. Strength, courage, genius—he had all three—things that she loved, virtues which had drawn her to him at their first meeting, and which now She dared not think. She let down the carriage window, and the cold night air blew against her feverish forehead. Temptation, delirious, conscienceless, raised its lovely serpent's head out of the tumult and took voice:
“Why ruin his life and yours? He wants you; no one else wants you; no one else wants you. Life is so short.” She tried to argue. “One can't cheat those who trust one. Peter trusts me.”
And again and again came the relentless answer: “What is Peter to you? Peter doesn't care.”
The carriage came to a standstill, and with a sigh of relief she passed into the warmth and light of her home. Before the door closed she glanced back over her shoulder. To her excited imagination, there was some one waiting for her out there in the shadow, calling insistently. Instead, it was the emotionless, level voice of the butler that recalled her to herself:
“If you please, ma'am, the master asked 1f you would come into the library a moment. Mr. Ashley and Mr. de Warren are there.”
She nodded. Her father's irregular visits were frequent enough to cause her no surprise, but her father-in-law came seldom, and in some strange way she dreaded him. As she entered the warmly lit room, all three men rose to their feet. Mr. Ashley came with slow, unsteady step toward her, and kissed her. His cheerful, vacant smile stung her with its content, its placid acceptance of a state which was goading her to madness. She scarcely heeded his paternal Old World compliment, but when Peter's father took her hand she started back to full consciousness of the present.
“Surprised to see me so late, eh?” The big, heavy face seemed threateningly near. “I'll warrant you have no idea what I have been doing this evening?”
Enid shook her head. Involuntarily she glanced at Peter. Of the three, he was the only one who had not greeted her, and now he stood with his back half turned, and stared into the fire. His attitude filled her with a new, reasonless irritation against him.
“I have no idea,” she said carelessly. “Looking after Peter, I expect.”
Her husband shifted his position uneasily, and Mr. de Warren laughed.
“Not this time. Can you fancy me as General Benefactor to the Needy and Deserving? I have been distributing my worldly goods, and a friend of yours has come in for a portion. I thought you would be pleased, and came round for my meed of thanks.” He still held her hand, and his eyes never released her. She felt that his words covered a deeper meaning. “I hope you are pleased?” he added slowly.
“Up to the present, I do not even know to what friend you refer,” she retorted.
“What! Have you so many 'deserving' on your list?” He laughed again. “Well, it's the doctor this time. Peter told me about him, and I've just been and set him up in Harley Street. A very fine fellow. I have no doubt he will prove himself worthy of your—interest and my money.”
Mr. Ashley rubbed his delicate, aristocratic hands together.
“You're generosity itself, De Warren,” he said. “Generosity itself.”
Something in the words rang apologetic, almost servile.
Enid released her hand with a movement of pain, and as she looked from one man to the other she understood. She understood that she was bound hand and foot, and by something more than duty. They had loaded her with services and gifts—cunningly, perhaps; at any rate, effectually; and nothing could ever set her free.
“I am very grateful,” she said quietly. “I am sure your generosity will always find its reward.”
She looked him in the face as she spoke, and De Warren nodded as though in acknowledgment of some secret treaty.
“Glad to hear you say so, Enid. It's a pleasure to be able to help any old friend of yours. By the way, I've been talking to Peter about your future plans. Wouldn't you like to be out of England for a bit? I'll be bound you like traveling. What do you say to a few months abroad—Egypt, or farther still? You're both too young to settle down. What do you say?”
She laughed a little. She knew now that this man had been Peter's informant, and that he was bargaining with her—unnecessarily and clumsily, but with a sure business instinct for a good exchange.
“There is nothing I should like better.”
“There, Peter, didn't I tell you?”
His son looked up, white and quiet.
“It's not for my sake, Enid?”
“Oh, no! I wish it.”
She turned away. Now that the pursuing temptation had been bravely outdistanced, she knew how great it had been. She had seen Wilfred for the last time. He would go his way, and she hers—with Peter—Peter, the insignificant. From a long way, she heard De Warren talking. His voice sounded loud and domineering:
“You should get out more, my dear Ashley. You must permit me to lend you my car for a month or two.”
Somewhere downstairs a bell rang. It was no unusual sound, but De Warren, for some reason, left his sentence unfinished, and there was a sudden silence.
“If you please, sir, a gentleman to see Mr. de Warren.”
Mortimer de Warren threw back his head.
“At this time of night?”
“If you please, sir, he said it was urgent.”
“Tell him”
The servant was pushed quietly to one side. Enid, turning, knew whom she would see standing on the threshold. Her instinct had rushed to meet him, and now she waited, wordless, motionless, for what was to come. Neither De Warren nor Peter moved. Otway, closing the door on the astonished servant, came to the table in the center of the room.
“I've brought back your check, Mr. de Warren,” he said.
There was again silence. Enid drew a step nearer, but Otway did not look at her. He was looking at Mortimer de Warren with a merciless directness.
“You seem surprised,” he went on. “It isn't usual to return properly indorsed checks for one thousand pounds. It may interest you to know that my father recovered his speech five minutes after you left the house.”
Mortimer de Warren made an uneasy gesture.
“A matter of congratulation surely,” he began.
“You think so? For a year I have been tracing the circumstances of my father's ruin. Now I know them. You ruined my father—intentionally and deliberately. I stood in your way—in your son's way. I know something of your business methods, and it is easy to understand that you were not to be thwarted by ordinary codes of decency. You ruined Mr. Ashley, too, no doubt, and no doubt bribed him to silence. You ruined my father, and left him stranded when the crash came. You had got what you wanted. I was cleared out of the way; your son had only to go in and offer his price, and take what he wanted.” For the first time he looked at Enid, and from that moment his eyes did not leave her white, stricken face. “There is your check, Mr. de Warren. Take it. You have got what you want. It isn't necessary to bribe your conscience, and my gratitude is not so easily bought. Good night.”
He had spoken so swiftly, so violently that there had been no interruption. From the door he looked at Enid again.
“We can't cheat people who keep faith with us,” he said significantly. “You know now who has kept faith.”
And with that he left them. Enid was the first to break the silence. She came into the middle of the room, standing where Otway had stood.
“Is it true?” she asked.
De Warren heaved up his shoulders.
“It's a ridiculous lie” But his face was colorless, and his eyes wandered to his son with the look of a man seeking quarter. “A lie!” he repeated doggedly.
“Father, at least you will tell me the truth.”
But Mr. Ashley buried his face in his shaking hands, and made no answer.
Enid turned and went slowly to the door. She walked mechanically, scarcely knowing what she did, and it was only when he called her by name that she knew Peter had followed her. She lifted her eyes to his face. Even in that moment she wondered at the violence of her own hatred.
“Peter, the insignificant—Peter, the coward—Peter, the cheat!” she said. And passed out.