Ainslee's Magazine/The Great Discovery/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Mortimer de Warren was known in the city as the Dark Horse. Three days out of the week he spent at his country seat, Blenheim House; from Monday to Friday he was to be found in his office in a side street off the Strand. At his country seat he played the beneficent landowner. What he did at his office no one exactly knew. Beyond his name on the doorplate there was no indication as to what transactions were carried on behind the glass doors, and all that the most scandalously inclined had ever found out was that Mortimer de Warren had never had a hand in a losing game. Successful ventures always bore his name on the list of the committee; failures were left without even that adornment to console confiding shareholders. But how this appearing and disappearing feat was accomplished not even the best informed had been able to explain. For the rest, he appeared to have no weakness, no emotions; he went his way, and the wise ones took care not to cross it.
On a certain afternoon at the close of his weekly visit to the office, Mr. de Warren was disturbed from his perusal of the day's post by the entry of his secretary. His secretary, like himself, an unknown quality, a man who spoke little and went about his employer's business—whatever that might be—with a machinelike punctuality, handed Mr. de Warren a visiting card, making no comment, but with his small, short-sighted eyes on the door.
“Say I am out,” De Warren said.
He tossed the card on one side as though dismissing the matter, but the secretary held his ground.
“I'm afraid it's no good, sir. He saw you come into the office, and he says he means to wait. He seems pretty desperate. I'm sorry, sir, but I couldn't keep him out.”
Mr. de Warren drummed impatiently with his fingers on the handsome mahogany table.
“Very well. By the way, have you heard anything from Samuels?”
The secretary considered his nails.
“Mr. Samuels phoned that he had prepared the ground very nicely.”
“Good! Now you can show old Otway in. I suppose we shall have to see him sooner or later.”
The secretary bowed, and held open the glass door.
“Mr. Otway, please step this way,” he said, and then quietly and discreetly evaporated.
Mr. de Warren threw himself back into his office chair. The movement seemed to bring the whole of the ponderous energy of his personality into play; or it might have been that the man who entered, by force of contrast, made him appear larger and more powerful than he was. The visitor, his soft hat crushed between his hands, his wan, deeply lined face expressing mingled fear and resolve, lingered on the thresh- old, seemingly all too conscious of the disparity between himself and these surroundings. Mr. de Warren motioned him to be seated, and the impatience on his bulldog face relaxed into a contemptuous good nature.
“Glad to see you, Otway. Take a seat, won't you? You're looking ill. What can I do for you?”
The old man drew nearer with dragging footsteps, but he did not venture to take the proffered chair. He stood by the table, running a nervous, shaking finger over the polished surface.
“It's about those shares, Mr. Warren,” he began unsteadily. “Heaven knows I don't want to worry you; but I heard rumors. I got frightened. I wanted to ask you—if it is all right. It would be a terrible thing for me if”
He stopped. His pale eyes were wide open and fixed ahead with a kind of frantic, wordless fear. Mr. de Warren took up his pencil, and began to scribble figures on the sheet before him.
“Are you talking about the Trefelds Gold Exploration?” he asked.
The pale eyes swept round on him.
“Yes. You know, Mr. Warren, you advised me”
“Good heavens, man, you haven't come here to tell me I am responsible for the failure of every upstart company, have you?”
“Then it's true?”
A violent, galvanizing shock seemed to pass through the bowed, broken figure, forcing it to a momentary uprightness, and bringing a cold, ugly glare into the pale-blue eves. Mr. de Warren shrugged his shoulders.
“It's true that Trefelds are to be wound up,” he said coolly.
“My God!” This brief flare of energy died out; old Otway stretched out a trembling, beseeching hand. “Warren, you don't know what it means. You're so rich—you don't realize. Or perhaps you do. I told you. I explained it to you, and you swore it was a safe thing. You gave me your word that”
“I said it was a speculation,” De Warren interrupted.
“Yes—a speculation that would make me a rich man.”
“People who expect to get rich in a night must take risks.”
“Did you take risks?”
Mr. de Warren met the challenge with unshaken calm.
“I never take risks,” he said. “I don't expect to get rich like that. In fact, I don't expect miracles.”
There was a moment's silence. Mr. Mortimer de Warren stared at the paper before him with the forced patience of a man who has no more to say and awaits his opponent's departure. But Jacob Otway did not move. He seemed to be recovering slowly from a blow which had bereft him of his reason, and a faint color crept into his yellow cheeks.
“Forgive me, Warren,' he said at last. “I was hasty. The whole thing came as a shock. When you think, you will understand. Remember the years I worked for you. You couldn't have had a more faithful servant. You said so yourself.”
“I say so now,” Mortimer de Warren assented. “You were well paid.”
“Yes, yes. You were liberal. There were, perhaps, transactions which required liberality. Out of what you gave me I saved—I saved rigorously—for my son. You remember? I told you I wanted to help him to his chosen career. I believed great things of him—and I was justified.”
“Ah!” said Mortimer de Warren politely.
“He has obtained his doctor's degree. Those under whom he has worked prophesy he will go far—very far. They say he has genius. But he cannot go on unaided. He must have a beginning. It was for that I speculated—to buy him a good practice. Now I am ruined, and he with me.”
“Very regrettable,” Mortimer de Warren sympathized.
The cold, indifferent tones seemed to goad the old man to a sudden passion.
“Warren, don't talk like that—as though it were nothing to you. Remember your promise. If things went wrong with Trefelds, you would help me. That was the bargain—not a charity. Think of the Havelock business”
De Warren brought his heavy fist down on the table.
“Are you trying blackmail now?” he asked fiercely.
“No, no, of course not. You know I couldn't if I would. I have no proofs. It's one good turn against another—a case of gratitude. Besides, if you help me now you will be no loser—I swear it, Warren. You shall be paid back with interest.”
“Out of a young genius' earnings?” Mortimer de Warren interrupted, with good-natured banter.
Old Otway saw the change, and caught at it. A smile of weak triumph crept over his face.
“Wilfred is going to marry,” he said significantly. “A rich wife.”
“Ah?”
“Enid Ashley—old Thomas Ashley's daughter.”
This time Mortimer de Warren made no answer. He got up and went over to the window, as though something had attracted his attention, and when he turned again his face was expressionless.
“Mr. Ashley shared your weakness for Trefelds,” he said almost gently. “Mr. Ashley is ruined.” He waited for a moment, watching the effect of his words, and then added, in the same subdued, significant tone: “My son Peter wishes to marry Enid Ashley—and I have given my consent.”
This time the silence seemed interminable. Old Otway had ceased to run his finger over the smooth surface of the table. He stood staring at Mortimer de Warren with the wide-open stare of a trapped animal.
“Then you won't keep your word?”
“I excuse myself from upsetting my own plans. Later on I shall be pleased to help you.”
Jacob Otway picked up his soft hat, and crushed it between his hands.
“Ashley and me,” he said thickly. “Ashley and me—you've let us both in—you've let us both in like you've done hundreds. God's curse on you!”
Mr. Mortimer de Warren held open the door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Otway,” he said.
Jacob Otway passed out of the office without answering the secretary's greeting. Without faltering or hesitation, he made his way along the crowded streets to the station, and there took his place in a third-class carriage, with the method of long custom. No one noticed him, or observed anything peculiar in his bearing. He sat quietly in the corner, staring out of the window with blank, apparently unseeing eyes; but as the train drew up at the quiet country station, he got out with the same mechanical precision. Half an hour later he entered the house lying on the outskirts of the sleepy country town. The door of the library stood ajar, and he pushed it open. Wilfred Otway, who sat at the well-worn table, bent over some book, turned his head a little with an absent-minded greeting. Then, as he saw his father's face, he sprang to his feet.
“Father! What is it?”
Jacob Otway held himself upright, but he was swaying slightly like a reed in the teeth of the wind.
“Ashley is ruined,” he said slowly, distinctly. “I am ruined. 1 cannot help you any more. I want to tell you who ruined us. You are clever. I want you to revenge”
He broke off. His jaw dropped. His eyes grew glassy, and he turned slowly on his heel, as though seeking something.
Wilfred caught him, and let him sink gently onto the sofa.
“Father!” he said imperatively. “Father!”
Jacob Otway's lips moved. He was struggling terribly—a convulsive conflict between the soul and body.
“Father, who was it? Tell me—try—who was it?”
There was a last effort, a feeble lifting of the head, then Jacob Otway lay still, stiff and rigid. Only the eyes remained alive with fierce, unquenchable fire of appeal and merciless desire.