Ainslee's Magazine/The Great Discovery/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V.
The chairman of the committee for the Society of Helpers had risen and be geed to give out a notice.
“Doctor Otway,” he said, “has sent round a special appeal for a woman dying of consumption. She lives in a wretched neighborhood, and is afflicted with a brutal husband. Twenty pounds would be a godsend. He invites inquiry, and would be glad to answer all questions at his surgery, number ten Johns Street, E.C.”
At that moment Mrs. Peter de Warren, at whom the chairman had cast a hopeful eye, had risen from her seat and gone out. The progress of the swiftly drawn victoria had seemed intolerably slow, and now, as she stood in the great, empty drawing-room, she felt as though there were fever in her blood, giving her no rest. She went over to her desk, and took out her bank book. Her account was already overdrawn, and yet that twenty pounds—insignificant sum, in view of all the surrounding luxury—had to be found at once, for she could not wait.
And it was at that moment that her husband's absence came to her in the light of a grievance. Peter had kept his part of the contract. He avoided her; he left her to live her own life. And now for the first time she wanted him, and he was not there. She knew that he went every afternoon to his club, but even in that moment of impatient need the idea of seeking him there never crossed her mind. For that he was too much a stranger to her.
She looked about her frowningly. Twenty pounds! She knew that there were greater sums than that in the cash box in his library; and she knew, too, where the duplicate keys were hidden. There would be no harm in taking the money now. She could tell him afterward. He would not mind. For the stranger had a quality not usual in strangers—he was generous. Without hesitation, she slipped out of the drawing-room and down the passage leading to his room. The door was closed, but she was too sure of herself, too eager, to pause in a moment's doubt. She entered, and saw too late that her husband was seated at his writing desk. He rose instantly, and she stood on the threshold, her face flushed with embarrassment and anger.
“I beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I thought you were at the club. I did not know you were here.”
“Does that mean that you would not have come if you had known?” he asked, smiling.
“I would not have disturbed you.”
“You are not disturbing me. Besides, I am here every afternoon.”
“I thought” She hesitated, torn between a sudden curiosity and the habitual reserve. “I had no idea,” she finished lamely.
“Yet if you had asked one of the servants they would have told you. I told them if you wanted—anything” It was his turn to hesitate, and she looked at him with increasing trouble.
“Do you stay in”
“In case you should happen to want me.” The same timid, apologetic smile quivered at the corners of his mouth. “I'm afraid it was rather a useless precaution, but still I should have hated you to have come in vain.”
He drew up a chair for her, but she refused the offer with a quick, impatient gesture. A new emotion was rising above her impatience, but she would not recognize it as shame.
“Thank you. I came to see—that is—I wanted some money, and I find my banking account has been overdrawn.”
She lifted her head, and looked at him with a sudden defiance.
“I am sorry. It was that new hospital. I did not want to refuse. It shall not happen again.”
“I hope there will never be any necessity,” he replied quietly. “If you look, you will find that the account is in order. I paid in five hundred pounds for you this morning.”
She caught her breath, and her defiance became an ugly, feeble thing.
“You are very good—Peter.”
He shook his head.
“I have not been half good enough; I never shall be.” She thought his voice shook, but the next instant he went on in a steady, matter-of-fact tone: “How much do you want?”
“Nothing; that is” She tried to laugh. “Now that the banking account is in order, I don't need to trouble you.”
“You may not want to be bothered with checks. I have gold enough here.”
He went over to the safe by the window, and swung open the massive door. As he stood counting out the money, she watched him with a new interest. She acknowledged unwillingly that he had changed. He no longer wore the overexact clothes of the old days. He was still very spruce, but the indefinable something which makes for bad taste was gone. And yet—in spite of it all—how puny he looked, how insignificant! The thought had no sooner flashed through her brain than he turned round.
“There!” he said cheerfully. “I have made it twenty-five. One never knows. Sometimes one wants more than one thinks.”
“Thank you.” She took the money, and the sense of shame became all too cruelly definite. “Thank you; you are very good.”
She went to the door, and he held it open for her.
“You are going out again?” he asked with the old apologetic timidity.
“Yes. I am going down eastward. There is a poor woman I want to help—with your money.”
His eyes seemed to hold her waiting against her will. They were full of an inexpressible trouble.
“Do you like that sort of thing?” he asked.
“I like to try and help make other people—less unhappy.”
“Does it make you happy?”
An ironical answer trembled on her lips. She held it back.
“It helps,” she said gently.
“Then I am glad. I should be glad of anything that helps.”
He stood aside, and she went out. The carriage was still waiting for her, and she gave the order for Westminster. From thence she made use of a motor omnibus, going her way with the quiet certainty of long custom. She was unaware that at a carefully measured distance she was being followed. The man who followed her seemed, indeed, too accustomed to his task to be easily caught. In the crowded thoroughfares he kept close to her, his cap drawn over his eyes, his coat collar over his ears; and when she turned into a quiet by-street he dropped behind, walking with a light, noiseless step, and keeping to the shadow of the houses. At the end of the street she stopped and looked up at the house, which hung like a last shred of respectability on the edge of a noisome, dirty back alley. A brass plate bearing the name of Doctor Otway caught her attention. She went up the flight of uneven stone steps, and rang the bell. She turned as she did so, and looked back the way she had come; but she saw nothing but the figure of a loafer, his back toward her, his shoulders hunched in the familiar attitude of sullen discontent.
“Yes, miss?”
She turned again, startled by the sudden opening of the door, and found herself confronted by a dirty, slatternly little maid, who was staring at her with open-eyed wonderment.
“Is Doctor Otway at home?” Enid stammered.
“No, miss; he's just gone out.”
Still Enid did not move, and the little maid of all work felt an increasing interest. Evidently the lady was in trouble, and the little servant had a good heart beating beneath the none too immaculate apron.
“Was you very anxious to see the doctor, miss?”
“Yes, yes—very anxious. I have come all the way—a long way to see him. Do you know when he will be back?”
“No; I know where he's gone, though, but I don't rightly know as I ought to tell you. It ain't a nice place for ladies. There's a lot of rough, nasty people.”
“Where is it?” Enid asked eagerly.
The girl glanced doubtfully at the half crown which had been thrust into her grimy palm,
“It's three streets off, m'lady—Purple Alley, number ten, first floor. You're sure to find 'm there. 'E goes there every day to 'ave a look at a poor woman wots got a drunken 'usband and a rotten lung”
“Thank you—thank you.”
She left her informant standing open-mouthed on the doorstep, and hurried along the street indicated. She was not afraid, yet as she stood at last at the entrance of Purple Alley she hesitated. Dirt, squalor, misery she had seen, but nothing so utterly wretched as this narrow, sunless backwater. The tops of the dingy houses seemed almost to touch each other, and the air was as fetid and stagnant as the untended gutters,
Enid went on. A few dirty children stared at her, and a woman seated on the steps of a gin shop called out a shrill, insulting epithet; but she reached No. 10 without further interference.
The door stood ajar, and she entered. From somewhere above the narrow, ill-lit stairs, she could hear men's voices and an occasional burst of rough, discordant laughter. She did not turn back. She was ashamed of the sudden fear which crept over her, and she began the ascent of the rickety stairs with beating heart and firmly compressed lips. The sound of the voices guided her, and at the closed door on the first landing she stopped and knocked. There was a moment's silence. Then a chair was pushed back. She could hear the sound of heavy, unsteady steps, and then, before her increasing fear could gain the mastery over her, the door was pulled wide open.
“Well, wot d'yer want?”
Against the pale, uncertain background of light, she saw a heavy, slouching figure, an ugly, bloated face which scowled down at her in suspicious question. The actuality of her danger gave her a momentary self-possession,
“| beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “I came to see if I could find Doctor Otway. I understood that he was here.”
The man stood aside.
“You come along in!” he said curtly.
There was no choice now but to obey. She entered. The low room was clouded by the fumes of vile tobacco, but the first glance showed her that the second man seated by the table was not the man she sought. She turned, mastered by a panic which was rising fast to the surface of her apparent calm.
“Doctor Otway is not here?” she said.
“No, 'e ain't 'ere; but 'e's 'ere often enough, curse 'im! Wot d'yer want with 'im?”
The man seated at the table rose and walked negligently toward the door. Enid saw the movement, and realized that she was cut off, but it was too late. Her only hope lay in her own courage.
“I came here because I understood Doctor Otway is attending a poor woman with consumption,” she said steadily. “I meant to try and be of some assistance. As he is not here, I will come again.”
“No, you don't! You can be of lots of assistance without your precious doctor. I'm the poor woman's husband. You 'and over wot you've brought. I'll take care of it.”
She evaded his brutal, outstretched hand.
“Let me pass. I shall do nothing of the sort.”
“All right, my fine lady. Bill, you go and keep the way clear. Now, then, 'and over—and if you squeal, by Gregory, I'll”
A moment later the man in the overcoat who stood at the corner of Purple Alley heard a sound which aroused him instantly and completely from his apparent lethargy. Almost before the inhabitants realized has presence, he had reached the door of No. 10 and had dashed it open. There on the threshold he stopped short, as though the breath had suddenly been knocked out of him. The man guarding the foot of the stairs laughed.
“Now, then, jackanapes, wot are ye doing in other people's houses?”
“My wife is here,” was the panting answer. “I have reason to believe that she is in danger. Out of my way!”
The laugh was repeated. Warren put up his hands in a wild attempt at self-defense, and the next instant he was flung headlong through the open door into the street, crashing onto the pavement with a violence which left him stunned and bleeding. The door was banged roughly to, and a little crowd of bystanders burst into a guffaw. Possibly Peter heard the sound; possibly his subconscious self, working through the darkness, roused him. He struggled to his knees, calling for help in a thin, cracked voice which produced a fresh outbreak of mockery from the crowd. Then abruptly the little, jeering circle was burst asunder. A man from whom the roughest loafer seemed to shrink with sullen respect bent over Peter, and dragged him to his feet.
“What has happened? Who are you?”
Peter lifted his head, and for a second the two men stared at each other.
“Never mind who I am; for God's sake, help me! My wife is in that house.”
Wilfred Otway made no answer. He let go his hold of the reeling man, and flung himself against the locked door. It yielded almost instantly, the worm-eaten wood rending and splitting to right and left; and before the sentinel on the other side could clear himself from the débris he had received a blow on the jaw which sent him full length along the narrow, ill-lit passage. Otway sprang up the stairs three steps at a time, and Warren followed slowly, clinging to the banisters.
At the top he found that that which he had tried to do was already accomplished. The assailant, whoever he was, was lying with his head in the fender, groaning feebly; and in the center of the room stood Otway, with one arm laid supportingly about Enid's shoulders. For a moment Peter de Warren stood silent on the threshold. There was a bruise on his cheek, which had already begun to discolor, and he looked curiously, pitifully inadequate. When he spoke, his voice shook.
“Is she safe? Is she hurt?” he asked.
“No, no; only frightened. Enid—Mrs. de Warren—your husband is here.”
She looked up like a woman awakening from a dream, and in the same moment Otway drew back from her with a formal politeness.
“Peter?” she said. “You here?”
“Yes. I followed you.” A dull flush mounted his white face. “I usually follow you. I felt it was not safe for you to go alone. But it seems my protection has been farcical—all along. This—this gentleman saved you.”
Otway bowed slightly, his face hard and expressionless.
“Saved is rather a glorification of fact,” he commented. “It's no hard task to settle a couple of these cowardly ruffians. Still, I am glad to have been of service. This region is not safe for ladies.”
“I came here to find you—because I heard you needed help,” Enid interrupted quickly.
“Ah? I am grateful. But I am afraid my work is beyond your help, Mrs. de Warren.”
She uttered a little, gasping sound, as though he had struck her, and he turned quietly to her husband.
“I think you had better get away quickly, Mr. de Warren,” he went on. “The people have a nasty temper, and when the two scoundrels are on their feet again there will be trouble. Your wife is quite well enough to move.”
Peter looked at him with an increasing, troubled interest.
“Have we not met before?” he asked.
“Possibly. My name—Otway—may be familiar to' you.”
“Ah, yes, I remember,” he winced. “It was at the hunt.”
“Exactly—at the hunt.”
Peter de Warren drew himself up, squaring his narrow shoulders.
“I am immensely grateful to you,” he said. “You have been a true friend in need to my wife. I can't thank you properly now, but I hope you will give me an opportunity when you come to see us. My wife will be glad to see an old friend”
Otway made a slight, deprecating gesture.
“I can scarcely lay claim to such a title. And, in any case, I never come westward.”
“You will make an exception for us?”
“I am afraid it is not possible. And now may I suggest that you should make your departure? My friend there in the fender is coming round and will need my assistance.”
“Is it safe for you to remain?”
A slow, ironical smile played round Otway's thin lips.
“It is scarcely ever safe in these parts. I am not afraid, if that is what you mean. Will you not go on ahead and clear the way?”
Warren held out his hand, but the other seemed to overlook the offer, and he went out onto the landing. Enid lingered for an instant. The color was coming back slowly to her cheeks, but her eyes were desperate.
“Come!” she begged. “There is our address—for my sake!”
He waved the card aside.
“I know your address. For your sake—I shall not come.”
“Wilfred”
“Mrs. de Warren, your husband is waiting.”
She met his ironical self-possession with regained dignity.
“I have waited a year for the opportunity to speak to you,” she said. “I must speak to you—I must! I have the right to ask as much of you.”
He looked at her without the slightest change of expression.
“In that case, Mrs. de Warren, since you have the right, I will come.”
He held the door open, and bowed her out onto the landing.