Winged Victory/Chapter 6

“Eileen, are you ready?”

She did not answer for a moment. She was standing before the mirror, staring at her own radiant reflection, but with unseeing eyes. And then, as the question was repeated, she started as if she had heard it for the first time.

“Yes—in a minute. Wait for me.”

“As long as you like. But the cotillion has begun. I ran up to find you”

She did not listen for the end of the sentence. She crossed the room with quick, nervous steps to the inner door and knocked. In the interval of waiting she leaned back against the wall in an attitude that seemed almost studied. Her head was thrown back, her eyes wide open and steady. But for the faint quivering of the fine nostrils, there would have been nothing to soften the cold insolence of her expression. As the door opened in answer to her appeal, she caught her breath inaudibly, but the man who stood on the threshold saw nothing but her eyes.

“Do you want me?” he asked briefly.

“I—I wanted to know if you were ready. The cotillion has begun.”

“I'm sorry. I can't come with you to-night.”

“Why not?”

“I have an appointment.” His tone was as cold and more measured than her own. He went back into his room and picked up overcoat and hat. “I may be late,” he added. “If any news should come from home, ask Oscar to send it on to me at the address on this card. Good night. I hope you will enjoy yourself.”

“Fenton!”

He had opened the door for her with an icy courtesy, but at the sudden, impulsive exclamation he turned and glanced at her questioningly.

“Well?”

“Fenton—it may be one of our last nights. We—we were to have had the first waltz together”

“Oscar will take my place. Oscar dances excellently, and his step suits yours better than mine. Hadn't you better go? I think he is waiting for you.”

His tone was still hard, but a dull wave of emotion had surged up beneath his unnatural pallor. And suddenly her defiance dropped from her. She came to him, and clung to him with a kind of childish fear.

“Fenton, don't go! I have a strange feeling I'm afraid of something—I don't know what. But if you leave me to-night, I know it will end badly—for us both. Don't think me foolish. I'm afraid”

“Of what?”

“Of losing—you.”

He smiled bitterly.

“Would that matter?”

“Fenton—there is—there has been a barrier between us. Perhaps I have been unjust, distrustful—but I'm your wife. If you told me everything—explained—I would ¢ry to understand We could start again”

“There is nothing you do not know already,” he interrupted quietly. “There is only one thing you do not know, perhaps—that I have done my best.”

Her hands dropped to her sides with a motion of utter weariness. “Then it's no good. After to-night—it will be too late.”

He made no answer, and she passed out in front of him without a glance. He did not follow her. The impulse to take her in his arms and win her back by the sheer force of his love had almost shaken his resolve. But it was not that way that he meant to regain his place. There was a debt to be paid first, an independence to be regained, the freedom to fight with his own unaided strength. And then it would be man against man—clean weapons against the soiled armory of a disloyal friend.

He switched off the light in the room behind him and waited. Hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor, and by the shaded light at the far end, Villiers recognized the newcomer's slight, upright figure. He closed the door and faced him deliberately.

“Is that you, Fenton?”

“Yes.”

“I want to speak to you a moment. Your wife has just given me this card. I want to ask you—do you know the man?”

“Mr. Corodo? I met him last night. Why do you ask?”

“I—I know the name. I felt I ought to warn you”

“Against whom—or what?”

Delisle was silent. The rigid attitude of the man before him seemed to divert his attention, arresting his uneasy excitement and driving it into a new channel.

“Is anything wrong, Fenton?” he demanded sharply.

“Why do you ask?”

“Your manner is peculiar—has been peculiar. I don't know what to make of it. If I were not your friend”

“You are not my friend.”

“Villiers—in Heaven's name—what do you mean?”

“What I shall be glad to say to you—now, before there is fear of worse misunderstanding. We were friends. But it happens that we love the same woman, and that woman is my wife. At that point friendship ceases.”

They confronted each other in the dim light, their faces set in the mask of self-control that men of their race and calling can assume in moments of greatest crisis. There was nothing in their attitude to betray them. Even when Delisle spoke, it was levelly, without apparent emotion.

“You are mistaken. I swear it to you. Have I done anything to suggest disloyalty? I am your friend—I have been Eileen's since her childhood. In your bad hour I stood by you for both your sakes—I am doing so now. What more do you ask of me?”

“I'm not going to ask more of you. I'm going to pay you back, pound for pound, shilling for shilling. And when I've cleared my debt, I'll fight you, Delisle. I'll fight you for my wife's love, and I'll win.”

“You're beside yourself, Fenton! What have I done?”

“You broke faith with me. For Eileen's sake, we made a bargain between us. I sold my independence, my pride, to you. It was foolish—dishonest, if you like—but Heaven knows I would rather have worked with a navvy's pick-ax. It was for Eileen's sake—you know that. She was never to know, and one day—I had still faith in myself—I meant to clear my debt. But the temptation was too much for you. You didn't even give me my chance to clear myself—you betrayed me.”

“How do you know?”

“I spied—if you like. But does that matter? Isn't your question sufficient answer?”

Both were silent again. This was the parting of the ways. The old, tried friendship, with all its boyish memories and later ties of manhood, had snapped, as completely wrecked as a ship cast up with savage force against merciless and treacherous rocks. And for the moment the sheer tragedy of the thing held back the inevitable flood of hatred. Then Delisle drew himself up.

“As you say—that was sufficient answer,” he said. “You can call it betrayal, if you like. I told no more than the truth.”

“You love my wife.”

“Yes.”

“Then there is no more to be said.”

“Is that a declaration of war?”

“Yes.”

“Take care what you are doing, Fenton. You were, at least, my friend. I have not meant to act disloyally. I'm afraid of myself—if you tempt me”

“Are you asking me to defend you against yourself?” was the faintly contemptuous answer.

The momentary thrill of emotion faded from Delisle's voice. He laughed a little.

“No, I can look after myself, thank you. And I accept your challenge. Good night.”

“Good night. By the way, you came to warn me—or was that only your method of finding out if I had really gone?”

The taunt brought no answering sign to Delisle's composed features. He glanced carelessly at the card which he still held.

“I came to warn you that we may be recalled at any moment,” he said.

“I know that. I will leave instructions with the manager. I'll be back in a few hours. In any case—Eileen and I return to England to-morrow.”

He passed on, and Delisle made no effort to detain him. He was still twisting the narrow visiting card between his fingers when he rejoined Eileen Villiers in the hotel ballroom. He met her eager, silent query with a gravity that frightened her.

“He has gone,” he said. “I did my best, but he wouldn't listen to me. It was an engagement that couldn't be put off—that was what he said.”

“With whom? He has no friends here—or I should have known.”

He handed her the card silently. She read it, and slowly, as if hypnotized, her eyes lifted and met his.

“Jabez Corodo,” she said under her breath. “Who is the man? Do you know him?”

“I know of him.”

“Oscar—what do you know?”

He looked at her steadily, pityingly, with a great tenderness.

“Sooner or later you will have to know, too,” he said. “Jabez Corodo helped to ruin your father, Eileen.”

He watched her keenly. She swayed a little and then laughed suddenly, and, as the band broke into a swinging waltz, almost flung herself into his arms,

“Let's dance, Oscar!” she gasped. “Let's dance—dance all night. I don't want to think. Promise me Don't let me think, Oscar!”

“I promise you!” he whispered back to her.