The Great Discovery/Chapter 7

Mr. Mortimer de Warren closed the door upon his last visitor with a click that sounded curiously final. It was as though he had set his heel on some noisome insect, and had ground it to death without passion, but with the deliberate intention of clearing an objectionable object from his path. When he went back to his desk and touched the electric bell, his manner expressed a cold, satisfied repose.

“Tell Mr. Peter I am disengaged,” he said to the clerk who answered his summons. “I should be glad if he would see me here.”

The clerk obeyed with the alacrity of fear. Fear was undoubtedly the strongest ingredient in the feelings which Mr. Mortimer de Warren's employees felt for him. They believed him to be without feeling of any sort, and certainly if he had a “weak spot” no one had succeeded in finding it. They stared after “Mr. Peter” as at a man entering upon a known and dangerous adventure.

“Well, my boy, what can I do for you?”

Peter de Warren took his father's outstretched hand and pressed it, then sank down in the leather chair on the opposite side of the table. For a moment he was silent, drawing off his gloves with the careful deliberation of a man who is trying to gain time; and the old financier watched him, his own expression undergoing a subtle, unnamable change. It could not be said to have softened, but undoubtedly something unusual was at work behind the high, deeply lined forehead. His small, deep-set eyes were ironically amused, and when he broke the silence again his voice sounded less rasping:

“You don't often pay me city visits, Peter. Although I feel deeply honored, I have an inkling that trouble of some sort is the cause. That so?”

The younger man looked up from his grave contemplation of the linoleum flooring.

“I want your assistance, sir, though it's not exactly trouble.”

“Money?”

“Yes.”

“How much?” Mortimer de Warren reached for his check book. Nothing in his manner betrayed the slightest annoyance or displeasure; on the contrary, the tight mouth had relaxed into a smile as he sat waiting, pen in hand. “How much?” he repeated.

“That depends on you, sir.

“Is it as bad as that, then?”

“I ought to explain; it's not for myself.”

“For Enid?”

He brought out the name awkwardly, seeming to struggle with some discomfort, and Peter nodded.

“Yes—at least, partly. I wonder, sir, if you remember a man you had in your office some years back—a certain Jacob Otway?”

“Yes, I remember him. He was my chief accountant.”

Mr. de Warren laid down his pen, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. His face had resumed the normal lines of blank imperturbability. “What about him? Is he a friend of yours?”

“No. I have never set eyes on him. But his son—is an old friend of my wife's.”

“Of Enid's? Ah!”

Mr. Mortimer de Warren's tone was gently surprised. It suggested that his brain was only partially engaged in the topic of conversation, and Peter laid a thin, nervous hand on the table with a movement that demanded attention. So much determination was new in him, and the financier glanced at him with an uneasy flicker of the eyelids. “Who is this son?” he asked.

“A doctor—a young fellow—awfully clever. He believes himself on the verge of some discovery or other—'pon my word, I don't know what of—never could understand diseases—but he is handicapped. No money, you know, sir; and it seems poor doctors get pretty well shelved.” His fair, scarcely discernible eyebrows contracted a moment. “Enid and I were both rather interested. We'd like to give him a leg up.”

“Enid is a first-class philanthropist,” Mortimer de Warren observed, with a less pleasant smile.

“Yes, isn't she? She is good—the kindest-hearted woman in the world.” His voice rang with a young enthusiasm not altogether in accordance with his tired, troubled face. “Naturally she wants to help an old friend. Besides, I'm in his debt. He got her out of an ugly business with an East End tough the other day, and I'm immensely grateful. He did what I would have done if I wasn't such a puny sort, and it would do me good to pay back. And it would please Enid.”

Warren got up roughly.

“You're a fool, Peter!”

“Why, sir?”

“Because—good heavens, don't you see” He stopped short, thrusting his hands savagely into his pockets. “It seems to me you're both wasting your generosity,” he went on, with a sudden change of tone. “Old Otway left the office with a good pat of money, as far as I know.”

“He lost it, though. He wanted to invest, and got badly stung for his pains. Some blackguard or other let him in with a rotten mining company, and he went smash just as his son was starting on his career. Hard luck, wasn't it?”

Warren made no answer. He went over to the window, and stood drumming his square fingers against the pane,

“You're pretty free with your 'blackguards,'” he said, with a short laugh. “Who was this particular species?”

“No one knows, sir. Old Otway had a stroke, and hasn't been able to speak or move for a year. I wondered if you knew anything.”

Warren swung round.

“I! Do you think I have anything to do with rotten mining companies?

His tone was violent, and with something more than indignation—a sharp, poignant anxiety. Peter looked at him. He might have seen the strong man's weakness—the passionate hunger for his son's respect—but he got no further than the outward show of indignation, and his own face expressed a quiet admiration.

“No, sir, of course not. I know you've got the cleanest hands in the city. But Ashley went smash at the same ties over the same thing, and you—well, you've had an eye into my father-in-law's business.”

Warren drew a stifled sigh of relief.

“Why don't you ask him yourself?”

“He won't say. He's as mum as the grave.”

“He has his reasons.” Warren came back to his table. “Peter, I don't feel like helping in this particular philanthropical work. If you want me to endow a cats' home, I'll do it; but leave Otway out. And if you take my advice, you'll keep him out—well, out of your home.”

“Why, sir? He is Enid's friend.”

“Yes. Enid's friend—exactly.”

“Sir!” Peter bounded to his feet, his slight, elastic frame drawn taut with a passion that seemed to magnify his height.

“Sir!”

“Enid and this fellow were engaged once,” Warren interrupted incisively. “Didn't you know that?”

Peter said nothing for a minute. He stood rigid, his hand gripping the edge of the heavy table, his face white and haggard.

“Yes, I know,” he said slowly, disjointedly. “Of course I know. Enid told me.”

“Quite sure?”

He met the merciless scrutiny with a new resolution.

“And even if she hadn't—I trust my wife.”

“By all means.” Warren tossed his check book on one side. “But that's no reason why we should help her—former lover.”

A wincing, painful silence.

“Yes, just because of that, I want to help him.”


 * You—are you mad, Peter?”

“No. If she cares—cared—I'm bound to help. It's the only thing I can do—the only decent thing. I've got to make good somehow.”

“Peter!”

Warren saw something that he had seen often enough in that selfsame office—a man breaking down utterly beneath a crushing burden of long-stifled grief. The sight had never moved him. This was different. These bowed, shaking shoulders, these rough-drawn, smothered sobs—these were different. This was his son. And suddenly the man's weak spot revealed itself, the invulnerable armor failed before the weakness of another. He bent over the table; he took the frail hand between his two palms, and held it in a trembling clasp.

“Peter, dear fellow, for God's sake, don't! What's the matter? Haven't you got everything I can give you? Money, the woman you wanted?”

Peter lifted his head. There was a miserable laughter in the red-rimmed eyes.

“You've been awfully good, sir—awfully decent to me. But there are things you couldn't do; you couldn't make people care for me, and that's what matters.”

“You mean that Enid—your wife doesn't”

“Yes, that's it. It can't be helped.”

Warren straightened his heavy shoulders.

“It must be helped! Women are queer. They grow into things without knowing it. She'll get to care in time. You'll knock that Otway out of the running. You must take her away, travel, give her anything she wants. There—if you want money”

“Father, money won't help.” It sounded as though he were speaking through clenched teeth, and his face was twisted. “She has seen me afraid.”

Warren shook his head, utterly nonplused.

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Of a six-foot wall—for my own neck. You don't understand how that sort of thing counts with women like Enid. A crime they'd forgive; but cowardice never.” He got up, instinctively trying to smooth out an imaginary crease on his coat. “We come of different stock, she and I,” he explained simply. “Things come naturally to her which I funk. At first I hoped that it would turn out as you hope, but it isn't possible. I'm a mean, poor thing compared to—to the man she ought to have married, and if I could set her free I would. But I can't. All I can do is to make good.”

He stopped, and looked steadily at his father. Mr. de Warren, who had been pacing about the room, his face red with trouble, broke out into a miserable laugh.

“It seems I've messed things pretty thoroughly for you, Peter,” he said. “I've spent my life getting things that don't matter in order that my son should get the things that do. But I've made a failure of the job. Well, you shall have your way, Peter. I'll set this Otway up in Harley Street. I'll make good. Confound it! If I can't make you happy” He broke off, scowling bitterly, and Peter held out his hand.

“Don't worry about that, sir. You've been the finest father a fellow could have. It's not your fault that you haven't more—more of a man for a son.”

“Hm! I don't know; I fancy I'd funk a six-foot wall myself. 'Sins of the father'—well, you have my promise.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But take care.”

“Of what?”

“Of that Otway—and—you know.”

Peter drew himself up stiffly.

“I have perfect confidence in my wife,” he said.

Mr. Mortimer did not laugh until the door closed on his son, and even then the laugh was not particularly mirthful.