Winged Victory/Chapter 13

That moment during which Delisle had hesitated outside his wife's door had been one of violent crisis. He had been drinking heavily, yet for that instant the fumes were dispersed and his mind became clear, acutely, almost unnaturally alert. He had heard Rogers' voice and the succeeding silence, and the seething jealousy at his heart had turned from its old course and burst into a double channel.

He laughed to himself. Now he understood Rogers' solicitude for his dead friend and his dead friend's son. Behind his back, under cover of a seeming indifference, this outcast had made his way into Eileen's confidence and won her gratitude—perhaps more. With women pity and gratitude are stepping-stones to a higher feeling. Delisle knew that. By such means he almost won—and by the merest had chance lost.

Had he quite lost? The fit of sardonic amusement passed. He ground his teeth together, and, lamp in hand, dragged himself heavily up the broad stairs. An idea that had hidden in the dark places of his mind took definite shape. Rochefort and Rochefort's secret no longer represented something terrible and disastrous. Here was a way out—a way back. Fenton's invention a failure! Given every chance that money and skill could devise—given a fair and public trial—and yet a failure! With one blow his own past judgment would be justified, her conscience freed, and Rogers' championship made ludicrous.

And after that? Then would come the time for patience and persistent, unslacking effort. Perhaps chance, which had played into his hands to-night, would give him an opportunity to prove himself. His overheated brain conjured up a dozen fancies. He pictured his generous devotion to Fenton's son, his patient devotion to her, his absolute self-effacement until such time as she should turn to him of herself. He saw himself saving her child from deadly peril and the remorseful tears that she would weep over his shattered frame. There were tears in his own eyes. When the cause for his envious hatred was gone, he would be himself again. He would be once more Fenton's friend—and hers. The past could be atoned for—perhaps slowly, perhaps in an instant. And the way of atonement should be through the child he had hated.

Slowly, without definite plan, yet involuntarily following his new course, he made his way to the upper nursery where little Fenton slept. Here the steps were narrower. In his bitter jealousy he had seen to it that the child's rooms were situated in the most distant corner of the house. Now all that would be changed. He opened the door softly. A night light burned on the mantelshelf, and by its uncertain light the baby face shone out like some softly illuminated picture.

Delisle drew nearer. He held his lamp higher, driving back the shadows into the distant corners, and, as he did so, the boy stirred and moaned. The sound arrested him. It seemed to his troubled fancy that the wind outside had caught up that note of pain and shrieked it around the housetops. His raised hand shook. Something in that unconscious face filled him with a foreboding that rose swiftly to a definite fear. He tried to steady himself. In self-defense he bent over the cot and laid a burning hand on the folded baby hand.

Instantly the closed eyes opened, and in their transforming look of terror and distrust the man recognized another face. This was not Eileen's son—this was Fenton—Fenton, his friend, staring at him with blank horror; Fenton, grown grotesquely young—or his son grown grotesquely old.

Delisle staggered back, his temporary clearness of vision swamped in a delirious panic. Stumbling blindly, he made his way to the curtained doorway. A gust of wind from the open window blew the hangings into his face. It was as if a hand had touched. him. He cried out and half fell. There was a crash and a moment's absolute darkness—and then a lurid blaze of light, like some mad thing, raced over the floor, up along the walls to the low ceiling, playing with the wind that had risen to a fresh fury.

Delisle reeled back from the blood-red claws of fire that seemed to grasp at him. He was not conscious of any thought, but as a sudden draft forced a passage in the blaze, he broke through, flying like a madman down the narrow wooden stairs, shouting he knew not what. Thought came to him only as he reached the darkness of safety. He saw Eileen come toward him like a white spirit out of the gloom with Rogers behind her—Rogers grown suddenly tall and upright. He heard running footsteps—servants calling to one another—a peremptory word of command.

“Oscar, what is it? What has happened?”

“Fire!” he gasped back. “My lamp broke in the nursery”

“And the child?”

He stared into her white face. And for the first time he understood. There had been his chance, the wonderful, dramatic chance he had dreamed of, thrown by fate straight into his hands—and he had failed. The years of treachery and weakness had sapped the very essence of his manhood. He was a coward—he had become one. He saw the judgment in her eyes, and with a groan turned to retrace his steps. But it was too late. Rogers was already on his way up the stairs. At the bend he seemed to glance back for an instant at the woman beneath, and then the darkness, tinted already with a threatening crimson, engulfed him. Delisle made as if to follow, but her hand lay coldly restraining on his arm.

“It's of no use. He will do what can be done. Go and get help.”

“Eileen—and you?”

“Please go. It's the best you can do now.”

Her hand slipped from his: arm, and in that silent withdrawal there was finality. He turned. The very servants, hurrying to the rescue, seemed to brush him aside as something without significance. He had had his chance—and had failed utterly. He shrank back and waited in dull resignation. Eileen did not move. There followed long moments of suspense. Above them darkness and light alternated fitfully and the darknes [sic] predominated. They heard Rogers' voice calling:

“It's all right—a mere flash in the pan. The child's safe. We're coming, Eileen!”

The name—the voice! Delisle put his hand to his head. And then he began to laugh stupidly. The whole thing was madness. And yet he was afraid again. He saw Eileen's face, even in the half light, transfigured as by a miracle. He shrank from her, and then, without a word, crept away to his own rooms. There was nothing more to be done. The child was safe—Rogers had saved him. There was brandy waiting for him on the table. And at all costs he must drown the phantom voice—the picture of her face.

Meanwhile, Eileen waited. She saw a figure appear at the head of the stairs. A candle held overhead by a frightened servant threw a wavering light on the crying bundle that the man carried—and on the man's face. Eileen Delisle made no sound. Quietly she made way for him and held open the door of her own room. He passed through, and the door closed again. In tense silence they confronted each other. Her hands groped out toward him and touch:d him and then the child.

“Fenton!” she breathed. “Fenton!”

He nodded, but he drew back from her. Without a word he laid the boy on the couch, and then went quietly to the door and locked it. When he turned again, he saw that she was swaying and that the whiteness had crept to her very lips.

“Fenton!” she repeated.

And then he came to her and took her hands.

“You'll be brave, Eileen. We've only a few minutes. And we've got to face this out!”